Page 69 of The Thirteenth Count

Cassius rose, adjusting his lapels. “Someone has to.”

Fern stared at him, then grabbed another piece of bread from the tray and took an unnecessarily large bite.

Cassius waited.

She chewed.

He continued waiting.

“Oh, for Mother’s sake.” She snatched her coat from the chair and shoved one arm through the sleeve, still holding the bread in the other hand. Sprout abandoned his post on the armchair and fluttered up, landing against her shoulder with a disgruntled chirp as the coat bunched beneath him.

“You are allowed to finish swallowing before we leave,” Cassius said.

“How generous.”

He opened the door.

Fern took one last look at the breakfast spread and followed him out with the remaining bread still in hand because he had said she’d eaten enough, and that alone made her determined to finish it.

The corridor was quiet. Quieter than it had been, though perhaps that was only because she’d expected Lina to appear from somewhere with an explanation and an apology and a handful of pins tucked between her lips. No one came. No one hurried past with linens or trays. Even the usual distant clatter from the kitchens seemed to have been swallowed by the walls.

Cassius walked ahead without checking whether she followed.

Naturally.

Fern caught up to him near the bend, still buttoning her coat with one hand. “Are we going to the courtyard?”

“No.”

“Lady Blackwell?”

“No.”

“Are you planning to answer in more than one syllable?”

“When necessary.”

She bit into the bread again rather than respond.

They passed the main stair instead of taking it and pushed through a door on the right. That was when Fern’s steps slowed despite herself. Cassius didn’t look back, but she knew he’d noticed. He noticed everything when it irritated her most.

The passage he chose was narrower than the main hall, less polished, with wardcandles set farther apart. Cold air slipped under her collar, thin and sharp. Sprout tucked closer to her neck, his wings folding tight against his body.

Fern swallowed the last of the bread.

At the end of the corridor stood a pair of dark doors she’d never seen before. Black roses climbed the frame in carved, thorned vines. Wind worried at the seam between them, soft at first, then a dull roar sounded, making the latch tremble.

Cassius put his hand on the door.

Fern’s stomach tightened.

Wind shoved the breath from Fern’s lungs before she could complain. It cut beneath her collar, snapped loose curls against her cheek, and sent Sprout burrowing hard against her coat with an indignant chirp.

Fern caught the doorframe with one hand.

Beyond Cassius, the terrace jutted out from the Keep like a slab of black stone pushed into empty air. No garden. No benches. No pretty table set beneath an awning to pretend this was anything other than what it was. Just open space, a low parapet, and the long drop down Ashford Peak waiting beyond it.

Her stomach turned.