Page 6 of The Thirteenth Count

The draught slid down her throat much as she thought it would. Thick sludge, viscous and sharp, made her cough and sputter. Her father held her shoulders while her mother clamped a hand over her mouth and tilted her chin up to force it down. She’s pressing so hard. Fern’s eyes stung, her tongue numb, esophagus sore as she swallowed the rest.

Her vision blurred at the edges. The room felt distant, like she was looking at it through thick glass, but she could make out Sprout’s frantic flapping and harried squeaks. Her thoughts moved slowly, questions dissolving before she could fully form them. And the nausea… the nausea was nearly unbearable. I can’t believe she forced me to drink it.

With a gentle hand, Mira guided her to a wooden chair at the dining table in the kitchen. Her father sat beside her as her mother placed plates in front of them—crusty rye bread, goat cheese, elderberries, and pickled turnips. But Fern couldn’t care less. She sat listless, watching as her father piled his plate high, then added food to hers.

“I know it’s late, but you both must eat.”

Dazed, Fern simply nodded, which seemed to satisfy her mother, who left to clean up the brewing station.

Fern pushed the food around on her plate. There was no way she’d be able to eat a thing without it all coming back up. This was a feeling she didn’t enjoy. Did the Highbloods use the crimson draught often? What illicit activities are they partaking in that would demand such an extreme?

She glanced at her father’s Oathblight. A branch as dark as onyx ran up his neck, its fingers barely grazing his jaw, and was already fading. Meanwhile, her own now spread beneath her shift, vines creeping down her torso, covering her left knee.

“Father?” she rasped.

“Hm?” He met her gaze, popping his last bit of bread into his mouth.

“Why didn’t you have to drink the draught, too? You’re far older, wouldn’t your body also benefit from its effects?”

He slowed his chewing and swallowed hard. “You’re right. I am far older.” A chuckle rumbled from his chest. “But you’ve never been through a Count before, and we were supposed to have two years until the next. We thought we had more time to prepare you for how taxing it can be.” He scratched his chin. “The draught helps your body handle the strain. Your mother and I, well, we’ve been through quite a few Counts. We know what to expect.”

“But…” Fern pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to get her mind to focus on something other than her roiling guts, “…but, I know I was too young for the Count last time, but I’m healthy now. You said the draught helps my body handle the strain, but why do I need protection when other first-timers don’t? What makes me different?”

Her father was quiet for a long moment, then sighed heavily. “Every Count is different, Fern. This time the circumstances are… they’re unprecedented. We couldn’t risk—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “You need to rest.”

“Couldn’t risk what?” Fern burped and slapped her palm over her mouth, fighting down bile. “Please… tell me.”

“Look at you, Fern. You’re exhausted. Sleep. We can talk later.” He groaned as he pushed up from his seat, mumbling under his breath, “Curse these weary bones.” He cleared the table, save for the basket of bread, which he nodded to. “Could you try eating a bit more before heading up?”

“I can try.”

A smile stretched across his face, crooked teeth showing. “Thank you, dear.” He kissed her cheek and headed for the stairs. “Goodnight, sweet girl.”

“Goodnight, Father.”

Fern sat in the empty dining room, suddenly aware of how heavy her limbs felt. They’re still hiding something from me. Even after everything. She forced herself to take a bite of bread, working through the motions. It took only a second for her stomach to turn. She tore off the piece she bit, tossed it in the trash, and put the rest back. No sense in wasting good food.

Sprout hopped up onto the table and nudged her arm. He nudged her again, more insistently this time. Past your bedtime, huh, little buddy?

With what little strength remained, she walked up the stairs. Each step felt like she was carrying a boulder on her back, her hand clutching the banister for support. Her stomach churned with each movement. By the time she made it to the top of the landing, her eyelids drooped.

Pausing outside her parents’ room, she listened to her mother’s soft snores before heading down the hall. She eased open her door and Sprout bolted inside, curling in a tight ball on her pillow, tiny wings tucked against his black fur. She couldn’t fight the smile.

As she sat on her bed, Sprout yawned, cracking open his little yellow eyes.

“You need your rest, too,” she cooed, scratching the red spot of fur beneath his chin. “I know it’s late.”

Sprout nuzzled her arm before kneading her woven blanket, but before he could settle, Fern’s stomach lurched violently. She lunged for the wicker basket by her side table, retching into it as her body rejected the crimson draught. Sprout chirped in distress, fluttering around her head as she heaved.

Between waves of nausea, she gasped, “It’s alright, little love. Need… need a moment.”

When the worst had passed, she slumped back onto her bed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. That was… awful. Sprout landed gently on her shoulder, nuzzling her cheek with worried little sounds.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, though she felt anything but. Her body ached, her throat burned, and exhaustion pulled at her like a tide.

Sprout curled up against her neck, his warm purrs finally lulling her to sleep.

Urgent whispers and creaking floorboards roused Fern from her slumber. She pulled her pillow over her face. Not ready to wake. A little longer, please.