5. The Last Normal Day
Familiar bronze peals rolled across Ashford Cross, coaxing Fern from a restless, broken sleep.
Sprout was curled against the small of her back, paws twitching as he burrowed deeper beneath the blanket. Fern almost let herself sink back into the warmth beside him.
Then yesterday returned, crashing over her. She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut as she remembered.
The white smoke.
The crowd’s terror.
Her parents’ silence.
Elise’s whispered warnings in the thicket.
A cold knot formed beneath her ribs. What does it mean?
Sprout yawned in protest as Fern rolled onto her back. He climbed up and settled on her stomach, where she absently combed her fingers through his soft fur.
The house was unusually quiet. On any other morning, there would be laughter and the familiar clatter of dishes as her parents readied for the day—sounds she’d never realized she cherished until that moment. But today was anything but ordinary.
Only hushed voices carried through the walls, taut and trembling with tension.
Fern’s pulse fluttered. Her parents hadn’t slept any better than she had; she could feel it in the air, thick and waiting.
The draught hadn’t worked. They knew it.
She knew it. All of Ashford Cross knew it.
And by now, half of Thornvale would too.
Whatever faint hope they’d carried into the Count had shattered the moment the smoke turned white.
She sighed and scratched Sprout’s head. “Ready for breakfast, little love?”
He popped one eye open and promptly shut it, lifting his chin in the air.
Laughter bubbled up from her chest. Such a sassy little thing. “Come now. How about some elderberries?”
The mosswing’s eyes snapped open, his tufted ears perking high.
“A treat for the sweetest little mosswing. What do you say?”
He took flight at once, circling above her before nudging her elbow, not-so-subtly urging her from the bed.
She grinned. “That’s what I thought. Let me get dressed, and I’ll meet you downstairs.”
As soon as Fern opened the door to let him out, he bolted down the hall, wings fluttering with excitement.
She changed into a simple white dress and headed down.
As she rounded the corner to the kitchen, her mother and father were bent close together, whispering in tight, urgent tones. Sprout was already on his perch, gobbling his berries as if he had never eaten a day in his life.
When her parents finally heard her footsteps, they tried to compose themselves, but the worry lines around their eyes gave them away.
Fear tightened their features. Her father’s usually neat copper hair was rumpled and thinning at the crown, his hazel eyes bloodshot.
Her mother looked just as shaken—her pale blonde braid half-fallen, grey eyes swollen from crying.
I hate this.
“Morning,” Fern said flatly.
Her mother slid a plate toward her—bread, butter, sliced apples. Her hands trembled. “Kettle’s almost ready.”
“Do we have any honey cakes?” Fern asked. Her voice wavered. “I… could use something sweet.”
Her father’s throat bobbed. “Yes. We—of course. We’ll bring some out.”
“I’ll see what I can find.” Her mother moved toward the cupboard, but her motions were too careful, as if each gesture risked shattering.
“Please,” Fern murmured, “if this is too much—”
“Nonsense,” her father cut in. “We deserve something sweet today.”
“Your father is right.” She gave Fern two cakes and placed the rest on the table. “I should have considered it might have been nice to have them today.”
“Hear, hear,” her father chimed in, but his heart wasn’t in it.
Fern shook her head, taking a bite that tasted like ash. “Why are we pretending like yesterday didn’t happen?”
The kettle’s rising whistle drowned the silence that followed. Her mother worried an apple slice to pieces while her father went for the kettle. Fern scooped tea into her cup and waited.
“Well?” Fern pressed, watching her father’s hands shake as he poured. He set the kettle down too hard, liquid sloshing over the rim.
Her throat tightened. She’d danced around it long enough.
“Just tell me,” Fern whispered. “Is today the day they come for me?”
Her mother’s breath hitched. Her father finally looked at her, really looked at her, eyes red-rimmed and hollow.
“We don’t know when,” he said quietly. “Only that… they will.” His gaze drifted to the window, to the unseen tiers above. “After what happened at the Count, High Blackwell won’t delay.”
Fern had figured as much and was surprised they hadn’t taken her yesterday, right after the Count.
Sprout left his perch and curled protectively in Fern’s lap. She scratched the back of his neck.
Fern swallowed. They’re terrified.
No one spoke. The stagnant air was broken only by the clink of her father’s spoon against his cup. Finally, her mother stood, pushing in her chair a little too forcefully. Her rough, garden-worn hands twisted in the fabric of her apron, making the blonde wisps around her face tremble.
“There’s quite a bit to do today,” she said, voice too brisk. “Herbs need tending; we could gather birch phloem for parchment—we’re running low. Socks need darning. I could use your help, Fern.”
Fern laughed once, hollow. “Right. We’ll keep busy and pretend my blood didn’t turn the whole square upside down.” She downed her tea and got up from the table. “Suddenly I’m not so hungry.”
Before exiting the kitchen, she looked over her shoulder at her mother. “I’ll gather things for the garden. Don’t worry. I know what to do.”
When Fern returned from the shed with her supplies, she found her father slumped over service notes.
She tied a gardening apron around her waist, craning her neck to see what he was doing.
He flipped through page after page, scribbling here and there with furrowed brows.
He’s given this service a million times. Why is he concentrating so hard?
Fern sighed and gathered her tools. Whatever was troubling her parents, they clearly wouldn’t share it with her. At least outside, she could think without feeling their worries bearing down upon her.
The morning air was crisp as she stepped into their small yard, where three birch trees grew near the garden plot. Sprout flitted overhead, chasing Red Autumn leaves that drifted down. She’d barely started working when she noticed the first passerby slow their pace.
Then another.
By the time she’d peeled her first phloem strip, a small cluster of neighbors had found reasons to walk past their modest home. Her grip tightened on the bark knife. I’m nothing more than an attraction to them.
Fern deliberately pricked her finger, trying to ignore their stares.
Blood flowed through the carved markings on the handle until it glowed red and Oathblight stained her fingertips.
This is worth the price, she thought as she easily peeled back sheets of phloem.
Without blood tools, this would take hours of tedious work.
The bark knife’s glow was already fading when Mrs. Tanner called her name from the other side of the wrought iron fence.
“Oh, hi Mrs. Tanner!” Fern brushed her hands on her apron and walked over to the older woman. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Will you be at today’s service?”
Her wrinkled mouth curved into a grin. “After yesterday’s Count, I wouldn’t miss it.” She reached for Fern’s hand, squeezing gently. “I know you’ve heard the whispers…”
“Hard not to.” Fern looked at the ground. “They’re calling it a sign.”
Her parents wouldn’t tell her. Elise only had scraps. If no one would speak plainly, she’d have to force the words out herself.
She sucked in a sharp breath before meeting Mrs. Tanner head on. May as well just ask. “Do you know what they’re talking about?”
“I don’t rightly know, but people love their legends when something unusual happens.” She looked up as if she could see through the red fog. “My grandmother used to say nothing good comes of blood that draws too much attention.”
Elise’s voice flickered through Fern’s mind—something happened before Aurelius, the current High, took over from his father.
“Way back when, there was another founding family,” the old woman murmured. “Strong magic. Too much attention.”
Fern’s blood went cold. “What happened?”
Mrs. Tanner glanced up and down the lane, then lowered her voice.
“One season they were here. Next season… gone. No trials. No notices. Folks just stopped saying their name.” She wet her lips.
“Some say the Blackwells had a hand in it. Some say worse. But talk like that doesn’t end well for Rootfolk. ”
She squeezed Fern’s fingers. “I don’t know the details—wasn’t something decent folk spoke of, if you catch my meaning.
But I do know this: being special in Thornvale is dangerous, child.
Especially when it makes the powerful feel uneasy.
” She took a step back. “Give my regards to your parents. And be careful, dear.” Her wrinkled face held both pride and worry. “Not every elevation ends well.”
Fern watched Mrs. Tanner hobble away, her mind spinning with fragments of stories and muttered warnings about “old blood.” Did any of it actually mean something, or were they just the ramblings of frightened, hopeful people?
She turned back to her work, but the relatively peaceful morning was gone. Seven more people stopped to congratulate her, and that was all she could take. She gathered her things and stomped back to her home.
She burst through the door, Sprout fluttering anxiously behind her.
“Mother, I’m sorry, but this is all I could gather,” she said, placing the basket only half full of phloem on the table with more force than necessary.
“They won’t stop congratulating me. And Mother…
the staring. If they stared any harder, I might go up in flames! ”
Her mother nodded. “It’s awful. We had to close the curtains! But it’s almost time for the service, so never mind them. Why don’t you go put on something nice and I’ll do your hair.”
“Of course. I’ll be down soon.”