Page 59 of The Thirteenth Count

Even to her own ears, her voice sounded empty.

She lifted the silver monstrosity without trembling and refilled the cups without spilling a drop. By the time she crossed the corridor outside, her spine was still rigid, her footsteps soundless against the polished floor, the cold inside her holding everything in place.

It held all the way to her room.

It held through the turn of the brass knob, through the soft click of the latch closing behind her, through the first step into the velvet quiet.

Then her knees gave out.

Fern slumped against the heavy timber of the door and slid to the floor, burned and bleeding fingers curling into useless fists against the cold polished floor as air tore back into her lungs. Only there, with no one to see it but Sprout, did the weight of the Keep come down hard enough to crush.

After the silver teapot, Lady Blackwell shifted tactics. There was no more baiting, no more Marcus lounging within kicking distance of the table. Instead, there was a relentless, grinding pressure, like the slow turn of a millstone.

Fern learned to walk with a book balanced on her head—The History of Thornvale, heavy and leather-bound—until her neck screamed. She learned to speak without inflection. She learned to sit still through hunger. She learned that a raised eyebrow meant disapproval, a tapped finger meant impatience, and a smile meant danger.

But even stone erodes.

After one particularly grueling lesson, Fern stumbled back to her room, her legs trembling from six hours of posture drills in the freezing Drawing Room. The fire was already dying in the grate, casting long, skeletal shadows across the velvet furniture. The room should have offered relief. Instead, it was used up and empty.

Lina was already by the hearth, mending a tear in one of Fern’s petticoats. She looked up as Fern entered.

“You look done in, Miss,” Lina said, setting aside her needle. “Did she keep you standing the whole time?”

Fern groaned as she sank onto the vanity stool, too exhausted to unpin her hair. “She said my spine was too flexible. Too… willow-like. She made me stand against the wall until I forgot how to slouch.”

In the corner, Sprout chirped from his makeshift nest of silk scarves. He fluttered over, landing lightly on Fern’s shoulder, nuzzling her ear with his soft nose.

“At least someone is happy to see me,” Fern murmured, leaning her cheek against his warm fur.

Lina made a sympathetic noise in her throat and moved behind Fern, pulling silver pins from her hair. Her fingers were cool but gentle, working through the tangled curls.

“The Lady believes the spine is the anchor of the soul,” Lina murmured. “If it bends, so does the spirit.”

“My spirit feels bent,” Fern whispered. She watched her reflection in the looking glass—brown skin gone ashen with fatigue, her eyes gone hollow, lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t recognize the girl staring back. “I feel like I’m disappearing, Lina. Like she’s carving away pieces of me until there’s nothing left but a doll that knows which fork to use.”

Lina paused, her hands resting on Fern’s shoulders.

“You’re not disappearing,” she said firmly. “You’re learning how to live through this place. That isn’t the same thing.”

Fern leaned back into the touch and closed her eyes. “Feels a lot like surrender.”

Lina picked up the brush again. “Surrender is when you stop. You haven’t stopped. You’ve just learned to keep going quietly.”

Fern opened her eyes. “Why do you stay?”

Lina didn’t stop brushing, but the rhythm skipped once. “Miss?”

“You’re a Stemblood,” Fern said, turning on the stool to face her. “You have magic. Not as much as a Highblood, maybe, but enough to be… useful somewhere else. Why stay here? In this miserable place where you walk on eggshells and scrub up after people who barely look at you?”

Lina’s expression closed off. In an instant, she looked every inch the servant again.

“It’s a good position,” she said stiffly. “The pay is reliable. I’m fed.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Fern said softly. “Please. Not you.”

Lina looked at the brush in her hand. She traced the silver handle with her thumb.

“My brother,” she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. “Jonas. He serves in the East Wing guard.”