Page 5 of The Thirteenth Count

The vines kept going and going until the right side of her face was completely covered, turning her right eye as black as the Deadwood she and her father buried.

Fern placed a hand over her mouth. “Mother… this is⁠—”

“Enough.” Her mother pointed to the washroom. “I am no longer asking. Go. And don’t take long. You need to drink this after, and it must be consumed warm.”

“What needs to be consumed warm?”

Her mother looked at her, expressionless. “The crimson draught.”

Fern’s stomach dropped. “You want me to drink that? After what it just did to you?”

“Now please, no more questions.” She returned to brewing. “Get cleaned up.”

For a moment longer, Fern watched her mother. Half her face was now entirely consumed by Oathblight. This is very, very wrong. But her mother’s tone brooked no argument, so she reluctantly took a seat on the wooden stool in front of the washbasin.

Cold seeped through the soles of her feet as she set her boots to the side and undressed. Tipping her head back, she breathed deeply before pulling the leather cord free. Her dark hair tumbled down in loose spirals, feeling so good on her scalp to have them set free. Twigs and bits of leaves were tangled throughout, and she began picking them out methodically. Through the looking glass, the warm brown of her skin showed every scratch and smudge from their night’s work. Evidence that would need washing away before The Thirteenth Count began.

But no amount of washing could clean away her questions.

Fern dressed in a simple white cotton shift that was left for her and padded from the room.

“Mother?” She rounded the corner and found her ladling the crimson draught into a stone bowl. She swallowed hard. “You expect me to drink that?”

“You will drink this.” She beckoned Fern to the hearth and handed her the concoction. “There’s no other way.”

Shouldn’t I have a say?

Inky crimson sloshed up the sides as Fern took the bowl. The mixture looked forbidden. Its consistency was a combination of tar and velvet, death and luxury. She could imagine how terrible it would feel sliding down her throat. How it would settle in her stomach like bog water—more silt than liquid.

Bringing the mixture closer, she grimaced. “It smells foul. What does it even do?”

Her father rested his hand on her shoulder. She startled at his touch, nearly dropping the bowl. Her mother sucked in sharply, watching the brew like a hawk.

“The draught speeds up the body’s recovery.” He took the bowl from her and set it on the mantel before taking her face in his hands. “The Thirteenth Count is taxing. Far more taxing than the blood tithe, more taxing than our adventure across the valley. I love you, Fern. Your mother loves you. Tomorrow will not be the day you succumb to eternal slumber.”

Eternal slumber? She glanced at her mother’s blackened eye, then back at the draught. Is that what this is really about? Am I in actual danger?

She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “But where did the bloodleaf come from? Forbidden rites… forbidden ingredients…” With watery eyes she met her father’s gaze. “I feel like I don’t know my parents.”

“Oh, dear girl.” Her father wrapped his arms around her, smoothing her hair as he had when she was small. “The less you know, the better.”

She shook him off, wild brown curls bouncing free. “I’m no longer a child! Whatever is going on, I can handle it, I swear it to the Mother.”

“Young you may no longer be,” her mother placed a gentle hand upon Fern’s cheek, “but a child of mine you’ll remain.” She kissed her forehead before setting the bowl back in her hands. “We would not ask you to do this if it wasn’t important. All we do is to keep you safe. Believe that, sweet one. When your father says it’s best you do not know, trust him. Trust us.” She nodded toward the draught. “Now drink.”

“What if an Oathblight that bad happens to me, too?” Fern stared at the bowl, her hands trembling. “Your eye… that—that may never go away.”

“It won’t,” her mother said firmly. “You’re different.”

“Different how?”

Her parents exchanged a look that made her insides curdle. Stop looking at each other like that. Just tell me the truth!

“Please, Fern,” her father said, lifting her hands toward her lips. “Drink.”

The bowl was still warm against her palms. What more could she say? It wasn’t as though she could convince them to trust her. That she could keep their secrets, helping them bear their weight.

She drank.