Page 60 of The Thirteenth Count

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“The Keep conscripts based on ability,” Lina said, her eyes dark. “Jonas has the strength of an ox, but his mind is slow. He’s gentle. If he were sent to the mines, or to the outer patrols, he wouldn’t survive a week. He doesn’t understand cruelty.”

She looked up, deep brown eyes shimmering with unshed tears that made Fern’s heart ache.

“As long as I serve the Blackwells well,” Lina whispered, “as long as I am invisible and perfect… Jonas stays in the warm corridors. He stays safe. That’s my price, Miss Silverbell. That’s why I wash feet and mend tears and swallow my pride.”

Fern reached out and took Lina’s hand. It was rougher than her own now—chapped from lye soap and cold water.

“We both have our reasons,” Fern said.

“Yes,” Lina agreed, squeezing Fern’s hand. “You’re holding on for your family. So am I.”

She pulled her hand away gently and picked up the brush again.

“Now turn around, Miss. If we don’t get these tangles out, you will look like a wild thing tomorrow.”

By the time Fern reached the library, the storm had broken in earnest. Snow battered the high windows hard enough to rattle the panes, sealing the Keep off from the valley beyond. Inside, the cold clung to the stone and books alike, and Cassius was already waiting at their usual table, tucked away in a dusty alcove.

He rested his chin against his fist as he looked out the window, watching the snow come down. His book lay open at his elbow. Fern slowed a little as she took him in. His profile stood dark against the blinding white, and for a moment, he looked less like the heir and more like a statue forgotten in a garden.

“You’re late,” he said without turning around.

Fern bit back a grimace as she crossed to the table. He always knew she was there.

Cassius turned then, and up close he looked wrong. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and the top button of his high collar hung undone, as if he’d stopped caring halfway through fixing himself. Not a statue forgotten in a garden after all. Left too long to wind and rain.

“Your mother kept me.” Fern dropped into the chair across from him in a way that would have made Lady Blackwell pull her hair out. “I’ve been informed that my posture is an affront to the natural order.”

Fern winced. The words were clipped and polished, and she hated hearing them in her own mouth. She sounded like the Keep. Like Lady Blackwell.

A faint smile touched Cassius’ lips. Brief, but real. “A devastating flaw.”

Fern left the pile of books untouched. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at him properly. There was a slight sag in his shoulders, and his smile was already fading. He looked worse once it did.

Cassius shifted. “What could you possibly be looking at?”

Fern held his gaze. “You.”

“How illuminating,” he said flatly.

“You look terrible,” she said.

Cassius stiffened. “My physical condition is not part of your curriculum, Miss Silverbell.”

The name scraped at her. She looked down at her hands, still folded too neatly in her lap. Folded in a way that absolutely was Miss Silverbell, proper Stemblood.

“Don’t call me that,” she whispered.

Snow ticked against the glass, filling the library as they stared at one another in silence.

When he spoke again, his voice lost some of its edge. “Fern.”

Her throat tightened so fast it hurt. Hearing her name from him like that was too much.

“I hate it.” The words forced themselves past her lips and then kept coming. “I hate hearing it. I hate that they took Grovekeeper from me and made me choose a new name—a better name. A name fit for a Stemblood.” She let out a breath that shook on the way out. “They expected me to be grateful.” She swatted at a rogue tear that worked its way down her cheek. “I hate that I know how to sit now, as if the way I sat before was wrong. I hate that I think before I speak, as if feelings are shameful. I hate that I can hear this place in my own voice.”

She looked away, blinking too hard. “Your mother watches me like she’s waiting for me to slip. She keeps at me until my back aches and my head aches and I don’t even sound like me anymore.” Her laugh was ugly. “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe if she keeps chipping the Rootfolk out of me, there won’t be much left to object.”