Page 56 of The Thirteenth Count

That was all she would say.

Heat from the enormous hearth turned the Drawing Room’s air thick enough to chew. Heavy curtains were drawn tight against the day, filtering the valley’s perpetual twilight into a dim haze that made the whole room feel stale and close.

Lady Blackwell sat in a high-backed chair by the fireplace in a gown of deep blue silk, the high collar framing her throat so sharply it looked almost like armor. Jet beading darkened the cuffs, and not a single fold of the skirt had fallen out of place.

She didn’t look up as Fern stepped closer. She was working at an embroidery frame, her needle flashing in the firelight.

In. Out. Pull.

Fern had embroidered beside her mother often enough to know how hard it was to keep a hand that steady. Lady Blackwell’s stitches were perfect.

“You are breathing too loudly,” Lady Blackwell said.

Fern froze. “My Lady?”

“Breathing,” Lady Blackwell repeated, still not looking up. “A lady does not pant like a hound. She breathes in the spaces between thoughts.”

Only then did she lift her head. Her face was perfect, pale, and absolutely without softness.

“Sit.” Lady Blackwell lifted one hand and pointed to the high-backed chair opposite her. “Not like that.”

Fern paused, half-seated.

Lady Blackwell set her frame on her lap. “A lady does not collapse into a chair as though her bones have given out. Stand.”

Heat climbed up Fern’s neck, but she rose.

“Again.”

Fern sat more carefully this time, spine straighter, hands uncertain in her lap.

Lady Blackwell’s gaze moved over her shoulders, her chin, the angle of her knees. “Better. Ankles together. Hands still. Shoulders down.” She returned her attention to the hoop in her lap. “If you must look frightened, Miss Silverbell, at least do it with grace.”

On the table between them lay a fresh embroidery frame. White silk stretched tight as skin. A silver needle threaded with crimson silk rested beside it.

“Pick it up,” Lady Blackwell said.

Fern reached for the frame. Her fingers brushed the silk too roughly.

“Not like that either.” Lady Blackwell set her own hoop aside with exquisite care. “You handle everything as if you expect it to resist you.”

Fern swallowed and tried again, lifting the frame more carefully this time.

“Your eyes keep straying to the door,” Lady Blackwell said.

Fern’s grip tightened on the hoop.

“You may stop looking at it. If Aurelius meant to lock you in a cell, Miss Silverbell, you would already be in one.”

She smoothed one hand over the silk in her lap. “Instead, you are here. So sit properly, hold the frame as though it belongs in your hands, and pick up the needle. Do try not to make yourself tiresome while he decides what you are.”

Fern picked up the needle in one hand and thread in the other. She aimed carefully for the eye. Missed. Tried again. Missed again.

“Your hands are shaking,” Lady Blackwell observed. “Nerves are a luxury for those who can afford mistakes. You cannot.”

Fern pressed her lips together until they hurt. On the third try, she forced the thread through.

“Begin,” Lady Blackwell said. “Chain stitch first. Roses come after.”