Page 50 of The Thirteenth Count

“Not much,” he grunted, stuffing the chips into his pocket. “But it’ll buy a pint.”

“Life and death,” Fern said. She handed him the letter. “Please. It has to go today.”

The driver took the letter, turning it over in his thick fingers. “No seal?”

“Just deliver it,” Fern pleaded. “Please.”

The driver shrugged, tucking the letter into his coat pocket. “Consider it done, little lady. Wagon leaves in ten⁠—”

“Give it to me.”

The command cut through the courtyard chatter.

Fern stopped breathing.

Cassius Blackwell stood at the stable doors. He wasn’t wearing his usual coat; he was in shirt sleeves and a vest, as if he had run all the way down. His chest was heaving, his face tight with fury.

The driver jumped, the pipe falling from his mouth. “My lord! I… I was just…”

“The letter,” Cassius demanded, holding out a hand. “Now.”

The driver didn’t hesitate. He scrambled to pull the parchment from his pocket, practically throwing it at Cassius. “I didn’t know, my lord! She said it was for the Grovekeeper! I thought…”

“Go,” Cassius snarled. “Get out of my sight. If I see you on Blackwell land again, I’ll have you thrown from the Serpent’s Coil myself.”

The driver climbed up onto his wagon, shouting at the horses. The cart lurched forward, rattling toward the open gate and the perilous descent beyond as if the shadows of the Keep were snapping at its wheels.

Fern’s frantic plea died in her throat. The sounds of the courtyard—the stamping horses, the murmurs of men—dropped away. She wanted to run, to snatch the letter back, but her feet were nailed to the cobbles. Her world narrowed to the parchment in Cassius’ hand. No. No, please don’t look.

Cassius inspected the letter, grimacing as he read the address.

He looked at Fern, and there was nothing in his face at all. “Follow me.”

He turned and walked back into the Keep.

Fern didn’t argue. She couldn’t. Her legs dragged, nausea climbing her throat with every step. She followed him, up the stairs, past the servants who scattered at the sight of his face, all the way to his private study.

He threw the doors open, ushered her inside, and slammed them shut, sliding the heavy bolt home. Then, he marched to the fireplace.

“Please,” Fern whispered, finding her voice. “Don’t read it.”

“I don’t need to read it.”

He tossed the letter into the fire.

Fern cried out, lunging forward, but he caught her wrist. She watched, helpless, as the parchment curled, blackened, and burst into flame. Her words—her warning, her plea—turned to ash in seconds. They need to know.

“You bastard!” she screamed, tearing her arm free. She swung blind, putting her whole body into the blow. Her palm cracked against his cheek, the sting of it shooting up her arm.

Cassius didn’t even flinch. He just stood there, the red mark blooming on his pale skin, staring at her with those dead eyes. Fern stumbled back, her hand throbbing as if she’d struck stone. She hadn’t meant to do it—it had been a spasm of pure, blind fear—and now the reality of it crashed down on her, leaving her cold.

“Do you have any idea,” he said, very softly, “what you almost did?”

“I tried to save them!” Fern shouted, tears hot on her face. “I tried to tell them what you are! What this place is!”

“You tried to kill them,” Cassius corrected.

He stepped closer, backing her against the heavy oak table. “Did you think that wagon simply leaves? Did you think the outgoing post isn’t checked? My father has wards on every gate, Miss Silverbell. Nothing leaves this Keep without his seal.”