Page 52 of The Thirteenth Count

“Is… is everything alright, Miss?” Lina whispered on the second evening, lingering by the door. “The guards… they say Lord Cassius ran one of the drivers off the mountain. They say he looked murderous.”

“I’m fine, Lina,” Fern lied.

Lina hesitated, then nodded, slipping back into the hall. “Be careful, Miss. Please.”

The anticipation was a torture all its own.

Fern spent hours pacing the length of her room, Sprout fluttering anxiously from the bedpost to the wardrobe. She tried to read The Structura Sanguis, but the words blurred into meaningless ink. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant toll of the bells, made her jump.

He saved me, she reminded herself, touching the spot on her wrist where Cassius had grabbed her. He burned the letter to save me.

But why?

That was the question that gnawed at her. Cassius Blackwell—the heir, the monster, the valley’s future Thornwarden—had protected a traitor. He had lied to his father’s guards. And when she’d thrown his own prescription back at him—a silent, compliant piece. Like you?—he had said yes, with a bitterness that still rang in her ears.

Like me.

The memory of his face wouldn’t leave her. The white of his knuckles on the mantle. The way yes had come out of him like a root dragged from hard soil. It chipped away at the image she had built of him, the perfect, unfeeling lordling of the Keep. It made him dangerous in a new way. A monster she could fight. A man who was trapped… a man who was harder to hate.

On the morning of the third day, the summons finally came.

Fern sat by the window, picking at the skin around her fingernail until it bled. Outside, the crimson fog swirled around the spires, pressing against the glass.

When the knock finally came, it didn’t startle her. It just made the nausea that had been sitting low in her gut rise to her throat.

Sprout hissed, his fur puffing up as he backed toward the safety of the dark.

Fern reached down, scratching him under the chin—his favorite spot—though her own fingers were trembling. “It’s alright, little love,” she whispered. “Stay hidden. Stay safe.”

He leaned into her touch for a fleeting second before scrambling under the bed with a scratch of claws on stone.

Fern stood. Her knees were little more than water, but she forced them to lock. She smoothed the skirts of her grey dress, her palms damp. “Come in.”

The latch clicked, and Fern braced herself for the heavy tread of boots, expecting the Blackwell blue of the High’s guard. Instead, the door swung open to reveal a familiar, stooped silhouette.

Willem.

The valet looked thinner than usual, his face pale and drawn. Deep shadows pooled beneath his green eyes, and the faint lines around his mouth cut deeper than before. He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. He didn’t bow.

“Willem?” The name left her lips in a breathless rush. The ice in her veins melted so fast it left her dizzy. It wasn’t a guard. Not the executioner. Just Willem.

She took a hesitant step forward, letting out a shaky breath. “What… what are you doing here?”

He didn’t offer his usual, reassuring smile. He remained rigid, his features locked in a severity that chilled her more than the cold air of the corridor. “The High has requested your presence. Or rather, he has demanded it.”

The floor tilted beneath Fern. Willem’s arrival broke every protocol she’d learned since coming to the Keep. The High didn’t send servants to collect prisoners; he sent soldiers. He sent shackles. Sending Willem was intimate. Informal. And terrifyingly wrong.

“Why didn’t he send the guard?” she whispered, the question slipping out before she could stop it. “Why did he send you?” A colder dread settled in her stomach. The High didn’t send him. “Is Cassius avoiding me?”

Willem’s brow rose, a flicker of surprise cracking his grim façade. “Cassius?”

Fern’s cheeks heated. She looked away, stammering. “It… it just sounds better than Lord Blackwell. That’s so stuffy.”

“Right, then.” Willem let the informality slide. “Cassius is busy keeping your head attached to your shoulders, so he sent me.” He stepped closer, his voice barely a breath. “Would you have preferred the guard? Guards don’t knock, Fern. And they certainly don’t wait for you to smooth your skirts.”

“But surely…” Fern’s voice trembled. “Surely he wouldn’t send guards for a simple audience?”

Willem’s gaze held hers. “We both know your situation is anything but simple. Not after what you saw in the dark. The vats.”