Page 7 of The Thirteenth Count

A frantic hand on her shoulder shook her. Sprout pawed her cheek. With a groan, she rolled over, cracking open her eyes. Her mother and father stood over her, faces pale.

“What’s going on?” Fern asked with a croak.

“Are you ill?” Her mother pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “You slept past the tenth bell.”

Fern scrubbed her face and pushed herself up from the bed, her feet hitting the floor. “I got a little sick last night,” she said, trying to ignore the lingering queasiness. “Don’t worry. I feel fine now. I’m sorry for sleeping in.”

Her father tipped the wicker basket, frowning. “How long ago did you vomit?”

Fern tried to remember through the haze of exhaustion. “I don’t know… maybe fifteen minutes after I went to bed? Thirty minutes? Why? Is that… bad?”

Her parents exchanged a look of pure dread. Fern forced down the lump in her throat. Please just tell me this time.

“That’s… that’s not long enough,” her father said quietly.

“Long enough for what?” Fern demanded, but her mother was already moving toward her armoire.

“We must get dressed. Now.” Her mother’s hands shook as she ran long fingers along the seam of a black dress before closing the door. “The Count begins soon, and we… we need to go.”

“No!” Fern cried. “I will miss the Count, I swear it! They will put me to death, and you both will end up imprisoned. I love you both dearly, but that is a chance I’m willing to take. I will not leave this spot unless you tell me what’s going on!”

Her father’s face fell. “You can’t mean that⁠—”

“I’ve never been so sure in my life.” Fern balled her hands into fists. “This is my life. My life. I deserve to know!”

A labored sigh slipped past her father’s lips. “When you were young, we suspected there was more magic in your blood than Rootfolk typically have.”

Her mother shot him a sharp look. “Corvus⁠—”

“She’s right, Mira. She deserves to know something,” he breathed. “The draught dampens the magic’s potency. We just wanted to keep you here. We wanted what was best for you.”

More magic? That’s what this is about? Fern scoffed. “What’s best for me? How could a Stemblood elevation possibly hurt our family?” She crossed her arms. “If anything, that would help us!”

The room was quiet. Her parents looked at one another, then at Fern. Sprout meowed loudly before resting his head on Fern’s lap. She was breathing hard, furious. How could they do something like this to me? To our family?

Her father opened his mouth to speak, but her mother cut him off before he was able. “You’re right, Fern. Our actions were uncalled for and selfish. We… should have been honest with you from the start.” She turned to her Bonded, taking his hand in hers. “We always knew this was a possibility, Corvus.”

Corvus looked as if he had aged ten years in a matter of minutes. “But it’s too soon.”

With a sad smile and a slight shake of her head, her mother said, “It’s not. Fern’s no longer a child.”

Fern’s fury melted away, leaving behind something she’d longed for but never expected to feel this way. Finally, they saw her as she was—though she wished it hadn’t taken lying to her to get there.

“Come, Corvus.” Her mother led her father across the room. “Let Fern get ready. We leave at the twelfth bell.” She paused before opening the door. “Wear the black dress, dear. You look lovely wearing it.”

“Wait!” Fern stood, hand outstretched. “Please, I still have more questions!”

Mira shook her head. “Honestly, Fern. There is no time for this.” Her father gave her one last look, and the door closed behind them.

Fern sank back down, pouting. Yeah, I’m an adult alright. Just not old enough to know what’s really going on.

In the blink of an eye, the life she’d known had been destroyed. Between dragging a Deadwood through the woods, to drinking a forbidden draught, to learning the magic in her blood might sing—she no longer knew who she was.

Fern ran her fingers down Sprout’s spine, being mindful of his wings, and opened her wardrobe. The black dress was extravagant, a garment passed down from her mother. A gift from Fern’s father, her mother had told her. Though it was far finer than anything a Keeper should have. He must have saved at least twenty crowns to pay for it.

She fingered the skirt. The dress was made of heavy silk that seemed to absorb light, with long sleeves that tapered to points on the back of her hand, fitted with a loop that went around her middle finger to keep them in place. The bodice was fitted, laced with dark ribbon.

She pulled on the dress, letting it fall into careful pleats at her ankles. Then she caught sight of the black vines that had crept down past her ribs to her left knee. She was lucky the blight wasn’t worse.