Page 58 of The Thirteenth Count

“Pour me a cup, Root,” Marcus ordered.

Fern stilled.

Root.

From her chair, Lady Blackwell’s voice remained cool and level. “Do not cross the rug. Reach. Do not crowd him.”

Fern stepped forward carefully. The silver pot was massive, engraved with thornwork that dug into her palm, and she had to grip it with both hands just to lift it. Heat from the handle burned through the fabric of her gloves to her skin. Across from her, Marcus watched everything—the sweat gathering at her temple, the tremor working through her wrist, the strain she couldn’t quite hide.

“Careful,” he whispered. “Don’t spill.”

He nudged the table leg with his boot.

It was barely a touch, but Fern’s arm was already at its limit. The pot wavered. Tea sloshed over the rim, dark and steaming, splattering the saucer, the tabletop, and the leather of Marcus’ boot.

“Oops,” Marcus said.

“Incompetent,” Lady Blackwell sighed. “Clean it up. And start the service again.”

Fern set the pot down. The heavy silver base hit the tray with a dull, final clank.

Heat swarmed her. Stale air, velvet, fire, and Marcus’ laughter pressed in until her vision sharpened at the edges. She could grab the pot. She could throw boiling tea straight into his face. She could burn that smile off him.

Control.

Cassius’ voice surfaced in her mind so suddenly it cut through the panic.

She did not drag in a ragged breath. She stopped breathing altogether.

The violent urge to claw, scream, and ruin collapsed inward and hardened beneath her ribs. Heat pressed against her skin. The silver handle burned through her gloves. Marcus watched her with drunken eyes and that wet smile. But her panic thinned into information. Noise outside her.

Fern bent, lifted the linen napkin, and wiped the spill from the saucer, the polished wood of the table, the leather of Marcus’ boot. Then she straightened her spine and took up the pot again.

This time her hand did not shake.

The tea fell in a clean, unbroken ribbon, filling the porcelain cup without a splash. Fern set the pot back on the tray with the measured care Lady Blackwell desired.

“Your tea, Lord Marcus,” Fern said, her voice void of inflection.

Marcus stared at her a moment too long. Whatever he had hoped to pull from her—tears, temper, humiliation—was gone, and its loss unsettled him more than if she had thrown the tea in his face. He snatched up the cup by its handle, but the tic in his jaw gave him away.

By the hearth, Lady Blackwell had gone still. Her needle hovered halfway through a stitch as she studied Fern with a keen eye.

“Better,” she murmured at last.

The silver scissors flashed in the dim light, snipping cleanly through another thread.

“We will be hosting a banquet in three weeks,” Lady Blackwell said. “The Ravencrofts will be in attendance. It is imperative that you act as if you belong, Miss Silverbell.”

She selected a new silk skein from her basket, deep red, the color of blood.

“You will not crack. You will not falter. Your job is to represent the Blackwell name.” Her attention returned to the frame in her lap. “Aurelius brought you into our home, and the Keep houses only those who know how to be flawless.”

Fern said nothing. What could she say?

“Refill our cups,” Lady Blackwell said. “Then you may return to your quarters.”

“I understand, my lady.”