Page 53 of The Thirteenth Count

Fern’s breath hitched. Willem was the one who showed her the door to the servant’s passages. He had given her the key. Had he known what lay in the dark? Had he guided her to it? Was this simply wishful thinking? False hope in a place that shattered it before it could fully form?

And Lysander… he knew too. Had he betrayed her? Or was his circle of trust wider than she realized?

“How…” She forced the words past the lump in her throat. “How could you possibly know about that?”

“I make it my business to know,” Willem said softly. “Just as I know what burned in the fireplace days ago.”

Fern stilled. She searched his eyes for the servant she knew, but found only the unflinching composure of a man playing a dangerous game. “The letter,” she whispered. “What did he tell you?”

“He told me enough.” Willem’s gaze flicked to the door, then back to her. “If the High knew, it wouldn’t be me standing here. It would be Sturgis with a pair of iron cuffs.” He adjusted his sleeves, a nervous, jerky motion. “This isn’t about the letter. It’s about the assessment. He wants to see your progress.”

“My progress?” Fern laughed, a brittle, hysterical sound. “I haven’t made any progress. All I’ve been doing is reading history books and trying not to scream.”

“Then you’d better fake it,” Willem said sharply. He crossed the room, lowering his voice. “Listen to me, Fern. High Blackwell is not Cassius. He does not have… patience, regardless of how well he may portray that he does. He does not show mercy. When you walk into that room, you are not a person to him. You’re a thing. A tool meant to consolidate power. Do you understand?”

Fern hated that she had to bite back tears. “I understand.”

“Good.” Willem reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass phial. It was empty, but it smelled faintly of lavender. “Cassius sent this. He said to tell you control isn’t suppression. It’s direction.”

Fern took it, turning it over against the wardlight. “Where is he?”

“He’s with the High,” Willem said. “He’ll be there, but he can’t help you, Fern. Not today. If he intervenes, if he shows weakness…” He trailed off, his eyes dark. “Just be careful. And for the Mother’s sake, don’t let him see you bleed.”

Fern nodded, fingers curling around the glass. “I’m ready.”

Willem’s servant façade slipped, and sadness crossed his face. “No one is ever ready for the High.” He gestured to the door.

The Solarium was a cage of glass and gilded iron, perched like a blister on the southern face of the Keep.

Fern had expected a dungeon, or perhaps the cold, echoing expanse of High Seat. She hadn’t expected this—a lush, suffocating forest of greenery that smelled of damp soil and rot. Exotic ferns with leaves the size of carriage wheels pressed against the glass. Vines choked the support pillars, their flowers vivid, bruising purples and blood-reds. The air was thick, humid, sticking to Fern’s skin the moment Willem opened the door.

“Wait here,” he murmured, stepping back into the corridor. “He will call for you.”

The door clicked shut, leaving Fern alone in the sweltering heat.

She wiped her damp palms on her dress, desperately wanting to calm the anxious buzzing beneath her skin. Control isn’t suppression. It’s direction. She tried to breathe, to push the panic down, but the air was too heavy, too sweet.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The voice came from the center of the room, obscured by a wall of hanging moss.

Fern jumped, spinning around.

High Blackwell emerged from the greenery. He was dressed in a simple, tailored suit of charcoal grey, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that were surprisingly muscular for a man of his age. In one hand, he held a pair of silver shears.

“Amorphophallus titanum,” he said, gesturing to the massive, bulbous flower that rose from a bed of black soil. It smelled faintly of carrion. “It blooms only once every seven years. We’re quite lucky.”

His smile was perfectly polite, creating crinkles around his cobalt eyes, but completely devoid of warmth.

“Lord—no—High Blackwell,” Fern stammered, dropping into a shaky curtsy.

“None of that,” he said dismissively, the shears glinting in the diffused wardlight. “We are family now, are we not? In a manner of speaking.”

He turned back to the plant, snipping a withered leaf.

“Come closer, child. Let me look at you.”

Fern forced her legs to move. She walked toward him, conscious of every step, every breath. She stopped a few feet away, keeping the massive flower between them.