Page 54 of The Thirteenth Count

Up close, the High looked even more like Cassius—the same sharp jaw, the same pale skin. But where Cassius was like ice, sharp and brittle, the High was like the stone beneath the mountain. Ancient. Immovable. Crushing.

“My son tells me you’re adjusting well,” the High said, examining a petal. “He said you are… quiet. Obedient.”

“I… I try to be, High Blackwell.”

“Do you?” He looked up, his gaze pinning her in place. “Because I hear other things. I hear of a woman who asks questions. Who explores where she shouldn’t. Who has a mind that races like a frightened hare.”

He knows.

“Curiosity is a natural trait,” the High continued, turning back to his work. “But in a Stemblood, it is a flaw. Leave the thinking to us, Miss Silverbell. We need you to be.” He reached for a particularly thick, thorny vine. “Hold this for me, would you?”

It wasn’t a request.

Fern stepped forward, reaching out. She grasped the vine where he indicated. The thorns were long and sharp, pressing against the tender skin of her palm.

“Steady now,” the High murmured. He brought the shears to the base of the vine. “This species is leeching. It requires a specific… touch. If you shake, the thorns will release a toxin. Quite painful, I’m told. Causes paralysis.”

Fern held her breath. The thorn dug into her skin. And she could feel it—a single drop of blood welling up, ruby red against the green.

Don’t let him see you bleed.

“Cassius!” the High called out, not looking away from the plant.

Fern flinched, the movement driving the thorn deeper. She stifled a gasp.

Cassius stepped out from the shadows of a large tree in the corner. He had been there the whole time. He was dressed in all black, his face impassive, but his eyes were locked on Fern’s hand.

“Father,” Cassius said.

“Our guest is nervous.” The High positioned the shears. “Help her.”

Cassius moved to Fern’s side. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t speak. But she felt his resonance. It washed over her like a bucket of cold water, shocking and sudden. It didn’t take away the fear; it pressed down on her lungs until her heart slowed and her panic dulled to grey.

The trembling in her hand stopped.

“Better,” said High Blackwell.

Snip.

The vine fell away. The High caught it perfectly between thorns, placing it gently in a basket.

“You see?” He wiped the shears on a cloth, turning to face them. “Control. It’s all that separates us from the savages in the valley. You have raw power, Miss Silverbell. We all saw your Count.” He chuckled. “But power without control is just a wildfire waiting to burn itself out.”

He stepped closer, invading her space. He smelled like vellum and blood.

“I’m going to make you great, Fern Silverbell. You will be refined into something useful. But first…” He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead with cold fingers, “…we must prune the wild parts.”

Fern stood paralyzed, trapped in Cassius’ artificial calm, unable to flinch, unable to scream.

“Take her back, Cassius,” the High said, turning away. “She begins the next phase tomorrow.”

He paused, glancing at the shadowy alcove at the far end of the Solarium.

“My wife is eager to meet you, Miss Silverbell. She has been waiting a long time for a new student.”

Fern froze, her gaze drifting past High Blackwell. In the shadows of the alcove stood a figure, tall, pale, and draped in white lace that looked like cobwebs. Her honey-brown eyes found Fern’s across the greenery and held. She did not smile. She did not move at all. She simply watched, the way a needle watches cloth.

The timing bell shuddered through the mountain’s foundation, barely a tremor against the polished stone floor of the blue suite, but enough to rattle the delicate porcelain vases lining the mantel.