4. What Cannot Be Spoken
They didn’t walk home—they ran.
Rootfolk old and young crowded them, demanding Fern’s attention. Everyone wanted to know what the white smoke meant, how it felt to stand before it. Some whispered that she’d been touched by the Mother herself. Fern doubted it—but she couldn’t be certain. She was as lost as they were.
By the time they closed the front door behind them, Fern’s lungs burned.
The cushioned bench sighed as her parents sat. Her mother picked stray threads on her veil while her father caught his breath. Fern couldn’t stay still. Sprout zipped down the stairs and perched on the volute, wide-eyed and bewildered.
Fern paced around the low table, heat building in her chest. Neither of her parents said a word.
“Well?” she asked finally. “Are one of you going to tell me what the white smoke means?”
Silence.
“I’ve never known either one of you to be rude. But ignoring me now?” Her voice cracked with disbelief.
Her father cleared his throat. “We couldn’t possibly—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence!” Fern snapped. “You couldn’t know? Truly?” She scoffed. “Please, you knew enough to force me to drink some Highblood brew. All to hide who I am. Don’t you dare tell me you don’t know what’s happening.”
“That’s no way to speak to your father,” her mother chided. “I assure you, neither one of us knows why the smoke was white. Perhaps it was some defect within the thurible that caused it.”
“You know what Mother? I don’t believe you.”
Her mother rose then, something simmering within her grey eyes.
“Well, you should.” Her fists clenched at her sides.
“Your father and I are far from perfect, but how would it be helpful to lie to you now when you already know about your blood? Fern, we’ve never seen smoke like that, and we’ve participated in four Counts. ”
“Right, of course.” Fern inched closer to her mother. “I’m sure you also know nothing about what people are whispering about.”
“Of course we don’t, Fern.”
“Liar!”
“Fern!” Her father hissed. “There are certain things that bring attention. People have been put to the gallows for less.”
Fern froze. The gallows? Hangings came once or twice a season—usually for crimes against Stembloods or Highbloods. She hated them. But Keepers and their families were required to witness every sentence carried out.
“Father, I’ve seen many of our own die to the rope and every time their crimes are read. The things being whispered of now are never mentioned.”
“Stop talking about it!” Her mother gripped the armrest.
Her father ran a hand down his face. “Your mother is right. There are offenses so forbidden that even speaking them aloud is punishable. That is the Highblood way.”
“How would you know of their wrongdoing?” Fern asked. Sprout chirped as if in agreement. “You forget yourself, Father—you’re also Rootfolk. Not a Stemblood, certainly not a Highblood. Why would they tell you anything?”
Her mother gasped. “Fern!”
“It’s alright, Mira.” He rested his forearms against his legs, head hanging between them. “They wouldn’t tell me anything, Fern. But their families? They tell me everything. I’m a Keeper. Who would you trust, if not the person closest to the Mother?”
“They get to know and I don’t?” Fern paced again. “But of course they get to know. You’ve both done nothing except keep me shrouded. Your daughter—your only daughter. I have every right to know how Thornvale truly works. Yet here I am, living my life blind.”
“By the Mother, Fern—they only know because they lived it!” Her mother jumped to her feet, breathing heavily, eyes limned with tears.
“Being a Keeper’s daughter doesn’t mean you deserve to know their stories.
They confide in your father, seek solace.
That is one of his roles, amongst his other duties.
Blood ties don’t entitle you to their secrets, their sorrows. ”
Fern narrowed her eyes. “And being a Keeper’s Bonded does? Funny how that works.”
“To your room,” her mother snapped. “Before you wrinkle that dress with this behavior.”
Hollow laughter slipped past Fern’s lips. “Yes. Concern about the dress instead of telling your daughter anything that apparently regards her. How lovely.”
“Do as your mother says, Fern.”
Fern didn’t spare them another glance before she stormed up the stairs to her room, Sprout following behind her.
“Frustrating,” she mumbled under her breath as the door closed behind her.
“This whole situation is frustrating, Sprout.” She hung up her dress before rummaging through her wardrobe to find something new to wear.
“I don’t understand why they’re like this.
Why not just tell me? I understand their fear, but I do deserve to know, don’t I? ”
Sprout mewled softly and pressed his paws over the edge of a drawer, nose buried in the fabric.
“This one?” Fern pulled the thick beige dress free—her mother had sewn it last White Season. “Fine. It’ll do.” She shoved her feet into her worn hide ankle boots and sat on her bed. “What now?”
Sprout curled into himself on her lap as she took in her room—one place that was truly hers. Bundles of drying herbs hung above her vanity, their scent sweetening the air. Across from her stood the old wardrobe that had once been her parents, its carved doors scratched but lovely still.
But the right wall was her favorite. The dark beams framed a panel of pale plaster, softened with age.
She’d spent months washing that plaster with color—thin layers of nettle green brushed on again and again until it held a muted, mossy glow.
When it finally looked the way she wanted, she painted roses across it in madder and soot, using the coarse rabbit-fur brushes she’d tied to willow twigs.
The strokes were uneven, the pigments imperfect, but Fern loved them. It wasn’t Stemblood work. It was hers.
And soon, it wouldn’t be.
Fern swallowed the lump forming in her throat.
Would her parents keep her room the way it was now when she left for the second tier?
Or would it become another place for storage?
She scrubbed a tear away, furious she’d let herself cry.
She was still so mad at her parents, but reality was there, staring her in the face: she would be leaving.
And the weight of that sadness was more than she wanted to bear.
“I thought this would always be home,” she whispered as she rested her head against her pillow. “Thought my parents would always be near.” Sprout’s fur was soft beneath her palm. “How am I supposed to leave everything behind?”
Muffled voices sounded beneath her. A door opening, more talking, a door closing. Fern sat up and moved the curtain to peer outside. Elise was walking toward the gate.
Fern rushed down the stairs and pivoted toward the sitting room. Her mother was organizing documents. She had no idea where her father had gone off to.
“Why didn’t you tell me Elise was at the door?” Fern asked breathlessly.
“Is now really the time to go wandering off?”
Fern glared at her. “Yes. Now especially, knowing that I may never be able to see her again.”
Her mother waved her away. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Fern didn’t deign a response and made for the door.
“Where are you going?” Her mother called after her. “We’ll be having supper soon!”
“Eat without me!”
“Fern!”
A rush of Red Autumn air cut across her as the front door swung shut behind her. Sprout clung to her shoulder as she jogged down the path toward the gate. If I hurry…
“Elise!” Fern called out to her friend whose auburn locks danced in the wind. “Wait for me!”
Elise turned around, cheeks pink from the cold, brown eyes widening in surprise. “Didn’t think I’d see you. Your mother said you were unwell.”
“She’s overbearing. Even worse after the Count.”
Elise looked down, nudging fallen leaves with her boot. “That’s why I came. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
Fern bit her bottom lip. No one had asked how she felt—not really. Everything was happening so fast, all at once, and none of it made sense. It wasn’t until Elise said those words that Fern realized how much she needed to hear them.
“Fern… come here.” Elise reached for her and hugged her tight.
“I… I just…” Fern sniffled, looking past Elise’s shoulder. Rootfolk were hovering near the gate. “Could we go to our thicket?” she lowered her voice to a whisper. “People are starting to gather.”
Elise hummed. “Should be fine. I have until the seventh bell.” She lowered her arms. “Out the back gate? Oh.” She scratched Sprout under his chin. “Hello to you, too.”
“He likes you.” Fern managed a grin. “Let’s go.”
They moved through brambles that were starting to shed, leaving their branches sparse.
The backyard was larger than most Rootfolk were afforded.
Back by the gate, there was a small grove of birch trees her family tapped for phloem to make rope, twine, and fabrics.
Her mother was a skilled seamstress, among other things, and made clothing for quite a few families in Ashford Cross.
The rest of the backyard was overrun by herbs and flowers—all used in her mother’s remedies or sold to herbalists.
“Let me get a lantern,” Fern said as she opened the door to the small storage shed. “Most of the leaves have likely fallen by now, but you never know.”
“Your mother is in the kitchen.” Elise leaned into the shed. “Are we… sneaking out? Fern. She’s looking at us. I think she’s going to come out here.”
Fern popped her head out and scowled at her mother who went back to tending to supper.
“No sneaking. She won’t follow.”
With the creak of the gate, they were off. Fortunately, the path behind Fern’s house was quiet; most Rootfolk would be inside for the evening. Those still lingering outside must have visited the tavern early, warm with drink. At last, the old wall surrounding Ashford Cross came into view.
“You go first,” Fern said, eyeing the hole in the stone. It seemed smaller than she remembered. “You’re smaller than me.”
“Blame your figure, not me!” Elise laughed as she dropped to her knees and started crawling. “Don’t worry. I’ll drag you through if I must.”
Fern grunted as Elise tugged her through the narrow opening, the cold stone scraping her sleeves. Sprout fluttered off her shoulder only to perch again once she was free.
On the other side of the wall, the world was quieter, dimmer, the air cooler beneath the twisting canopy.
A small thicket of gnarled oaks rose around them like silent watchers for the Mother, their branches near bare and clawing at the red fog above.
Moss coated the roots in thick green patches, soft underfoot.
The wind died here; even the sounds of Ashford Cross faded to a muffled hum.
Elise brushed dirt from her knees and stood, her breath fogging in the chill. “Mother hates when I come out here,” she murmured. “Says it’s too wild. Too close to the edge.”
“That’s why it’s perfect.”
For a long moment, neither girl spoke.
Only the rustle of dry leaves answered them.
Finally, Elise whispered as she sat on an oversized root, “Fern… people are talking.”
Fern stared straight ahead, heart thudding. “I know.”
“Since the Count… everyone’s on edge,” Elise continued softly, glancing over her shoulder as if the trees themselves might listen. “They’re terrified—at least the people I’ve heard from. They’ve never seen anything like it.”
Fern’s throat tightened again. Of course they hadn’t.
“I wish I knew for sure what it means,” Elise added, “but from what I’ve gathered, it’s something old. Something they won’t talk about anymore—can’t talk about anymore.”
With a sigh, Fern sat beside her. “And it’s everyone?”
Elise shook her head. “Only the older Rootfolk. I think… something happened.” She picked at her cuticles, lowering her voice. “Before Aurelius Blackwell took over for his father, Tiberius Blackwell.”
“You shouldn’t speak their names,” Fern whispered. “But how do you know this?”
“My mother. She and Father were talking quietly to each other, and—” She gave Fern a small, guilty grin. “—naturally I listened in.”
“Go on,” Fern urged, even Sprout leaned in as if to listen.
“After what happened back then, Tiberius died, sudden-like.” Elise drew a shaky breath. “No one talks about why, and the seat was left open for… High Blackwell.”
“That is odd…” Fern thought for a moment. “Nothing about Th—”
“Don’t.” Elise’s voice cut through the cold air like a blade.
Fern’s lips snapped shut. Heat flooded her cheeks. She hadn’t even meant to say the word—just the beginning of it—and already her heart thudded against her chest like she’d done something unforgivable.
“My parents warned me that any mention of… that… would mean death,” Elise whispered.
“Ugh.” Fern scrubbed her face. “This is all so frustrating.”
“I’m sorry, Fern. I wish I had more to offer. Truly I just wanted to see how you’re holding up. Stemblood… how exciting.”
“It’s hard to feel excited, considering everything,” Fern mumbled then looked at her friend. “I am glad you came, though. I needed this.” She gripped Elise’s hand. “But enough about me. Tell me about you. It’s been too long since we were able to meet up like this. Are you still seeing Heinrik?”
Elise turned a brilliant shade of scarlet. “He… he asked for a Bonding.”
Fern’s eyes widened, her breath catching. “Elise… that’s—by the Mother, that’s wonderful.” She squeezed her friend’s hand harder, a smile breaking through her worries. “Truly. I’m so happy for you.”
Elise looked down, flustered. “You really think so?”
“Of course I do.” Fern nudged her shoulder. “Heinrik adores you. And you’ve been pining over him since the Harvest Festival two years ago.” She clapped her hands together. “I can’t believe it. No more Elise Fletcher. I hope you’ve brushed up on your baking skills.”
“I may become a Baker by name, but you’ll not see these hands in any dough!”
Elise laughed—soft, real.
It eased something in Fern’s chest.
When the laughter settled, her smile dimmed a little. “I wish I could be there for it,” Fern whispered. “For all of it.”
Elise’s expression softened. “You will be,” she insisted quickly. “Stemblood or not—Fern, we’ll still find time. We’ll still find a way.”
Fern nodded, though she wasn’t sure she believed it.
But pretending it might be possible was enough, for now.
“I should head back before the bells.” Elise rose to her feet. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
Fern stood with her, brushing moss from her dress. “I… I think they may come for me tomorrow. To take me to the second tier.”
Elise sniffled, hugging Fern tightly. Neither wanted to be the first to let go.
When Elise finally stepped away, she offered a trembling smile. “Goodnight, Fern. And good luck.”
Fern watched her slip back through the trees until the fog swallowed her shape.
Only then did she exhale.