7. Under Blackwell Protection
Blackwell Keep’s imposing double doors towered over Fern, carved from dark wood and smothered in twisting roses—thorns so sharp she nearly feared touching them. At their center, framed by fallen petals, were the words: Power Preserved, Order Maintained.
She committed the phrase to memory. Never forget who they are. Never forget the iron fist they rule with.
The guard approached a hand-shaped receptacle on the left, similar to the one inside the blood carriage. He pressed his palm against it. A hiss answered, followed by the clank of gears and a slow exhale of steam. Fern marveled. She’d never seen anything like it.
The guard stepped back.
Then slowly—so slowly—the doors opened.
“Miss Silverbell,” he said, stepping to the side, extending his hand toward the widening gap. “After you.”
Sprout shifted anxiously on her shoulder, claws tightening against the fabric of her dress. Fern drew a careful breath.
“I know,” she whispered to Sprout, offering him a comforting scratch under his chin.
And then she stepped inside.
The entry hall was on fire.
Floors of black and white checkered marble reflected amber light from dozens of wardcandles that were meticulously affixed to the walls.
Black marble columns rose two stories, and between them hung portraits of the Oldblood family; stern-faced with pale hair, cobalt eyes, their gazes sharp enough to gut her.
From the second-floor balustrade, trailing ivy spilled downward, reaching for columns and brushing the polished floor.
She didn’t have the faintest idea how they grew without soil.
“May I assist you?” a woman called from atop the grand staircase.
Fern looked up. There stood a stern woman wearing an elegant black dress. Her greying red hair was pulled back so tightly it dragged her eyebrows upward. Severe in every possible way.
“Mrs. Cordelia, a pleasure.” The guard bowed at the waist and handed her a scroll of parchment. “I’m to deliver Miss Silverbell.”
Mrs. Cordelia’s pale eyes skimmed the document before lifting to appraise Fern. Then she spotted Sprout and narrowed her gaze. Fern stepped back, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“You may take your leave, Harmen,” she said to the guard who bowed once more before exiting through the open doors. She cleared her throat. “According to this, you are to be staying with us for the foreseeable future.”
She clapped her hands, and not more than a minute later, three servants stood behind her clad in Blackwell blue uniforms. They followed her down the stairs.
“This is an honor—one you should be grateful for.” Her voice cooled. “However…” She flicked her fingers, summoning one of the servants forward. “That creature will need to be dealt with immediately. We cannot have wild animals roaming the Keep.”
“He’s not a wild animal,” Fern spat, feeling her face grow hot. “He’s my familiar.”
“Familiar or not, pets belong in the stables.” Mrs. Cordelia jerked her head toward the servant closing in. “Thomas, get the beast. There is a small cage in the East Wing storage closet.”
“A cage?” Not while I draw breath. Fern moved her hand protectively toward Sprout. “Absolutely not.”
The servants exchanged glances. Mrs. Cordelia’s mouth pursed into a thin line.
“Miss Silverbell,” she seethed, “you may have been elevated, but you are still new to proper society. Familiars are working animals, not pets to be coddled. They belong with the other livestock.”
Sprout hissed, his tiny wings flaring as he sensed the threat. The sound echoed off the marble walls, and the servants took a collective step backward.
“He stays with me,” Fern said firmly, her heart pounding. “I don’t care what your protocols are.”
“Cedric? Contain the creature.”
Cedric rushed toward Fern, grabbing Sprout with wide hands to contain his wings. Sprout screeched, struggling to free himself. Fern lunged for Sprout, but Thomas blocked her.
A voice cracked through the hall like a whip.
“Cordelia.”
Everything froze.
Mrs. Cordelia went rigid. The servants stilled. Even Sprout fell silent.
High Blackwell stood at the top of the staircase. His son, Cassius Blackwell, stood one step behind him, shoulders straight, face carved from stone.
The hall seemed to drop ten degrees.
Mrs. Cordelia turned slowly, color draining from her face.
“High Blackwell,” she whispered.
High Blackwell descended the stairs at an unhurried pace, each footfall soft, controlled. More frightening than any shout.
“Remind me,” he murmured, stopping beside her. “How long you’ve served this household.”
“Th-thirty six years, High Blackwell.”
“A commendable tenure.” His piercing eyes slid toward Fern—assessing, dissecting—before returning to Cordelia. “In that time, has my father ever brought an elevated individual into this Keep? Have I?”
“N-no, High Blackwell.”
“And yet here she stands.” He spread his arms out, gesturing toward Fern. “Which means she is here by my invitation.”
Cordelia trembled. “Yes, High Blackwell.”
“In that case,” he said, “you may consider her afforded certain… allowances.” For one brief moment he looked at Fern; she held her breath. “For now.”
He lifted a single finger toward Cedric. The servant released Sprout instantly, stumbling back. The other two followed, retreating like vermin.
“You are all dismissed,” High Blackwell said to the servants who scrambled toward the door.
Mrs. Cordelia remained frozen in place, her face deathly pale.
“That includes you, Cordelia.” His voice was calm, almost like he was speaking with a small child, which somehow made it worse. “We’ll discuss your… enthusiasm… later.”
She curtsied stiffly and fled with as much dignity as she could manage. Fern almost felt bad for her. Almost.
High Blackwell finally faced Fern.
“Miss Silverbell,” he said, inclining his head just enough to mock the gesture, “welcome to Blackwell Keep.”
“High Blackwell.” Fern attempted to bow as the servants had, only to dip too shallow and nearly lose her balance. “Thank you… for allowing Sprout to stay.”
“I am not known to be a generous man, nor a good one.” He adjusted his cufflink as though the matter bored him. “But considering the circumstances, compromise appears necessary. I trust you will prove worth the—” He glanced at Sprout, “indulgence.”
Fern looked between High Blackwell and Cassius, who now stood beside his father on the marble floor, silent and unreadable.
Her muscles itched to move. She didn’t belong here—she belonged down in Ashford Cross, picking flowers, gathering herbs, helping her father with his services. But there was nowhere to run.
“I—uh, about that…” She twisted her hands together, grasping for words. “W-why am I here?”
High Blackwell did not answer. He merely clasped his hands behind his back and regarded her in silence.
Fern swallowed hard. He wasn’t tall, not truly—but his presence pressed in from all sides, crowding the air from her lungs, leaving her to drown on dry land beneath the weight of his attention.
“What a curious question,” he said at last. “Why do you think you’re here, Miss Silverbell?”
“I… I’m sure I couldn’t possibly know,” she said. “All I know is that I was to be elevated. I thought I’d be on the second tier with the other Stembloods… not here. Not in the Keep.”
“Mm. ‘Couldn’t possibly know.’” His tone sharpened.
“Just as I ‘couldn’t possibly know’ whether you’ll ever learn to address your superiors with appropriate decorum.
” He waved the matter away. “In any case—your Count was unusual. Exceptionally so. No one yet understands why you presented the way you did. I would very much like answers… but lacking them, I must act in accordance with my duty to Thornvale.”
He stepped closer—one slow step at a time—and touched a single finger to the base of her throat.
Cold. His finger was so cold.
“Including,” he said softly, “you.”
“H-High Blackwell,” she stammered. “Couldn’t you watch over me from the second tier? With the others who were elevated?”
He smiled without warmth. “Of course I could.”
“I don’t… I don’t under—”
“What can I say, Miss Silverbell?” He smoothed a silk pocket square between his fingers. “You’ve become a curiosity. One I intend to keep close.”
He turned and ascended halfway up the grand staircase before looking back over his shoulder.
“While you reside here, you will make yourself useful. Cassius will oversee your instruction. Magical studies, court etiquette—these are essential for any Stemblood wishing to survive above the tier they were born to.” A faint smile touched his mouth.
“As much as I would enjoy managing your education personally, I have other demands I must attend to. But do expect my… attention.”
He looked to Cassius. “A word.”
Cassius followed his father up to the landing. The two men angled slightly away from her—just enough to make it clear the conversation wasn’t meant for her, but not enough to hide the weight of it.
High Blackwell’s voice dropped. Fern couldn’t make out more than a few fragments—“…presentation… unbecoming… elevate the appearance… our name…”
Cassius’ reply was quieter still, a smooth murmur she couldn’t decipher.
High Blackwell turned, looking down at Fern. A ring on his index finger glinted in the wardlight. She squinted her eyes to get a better look, but all she could make out was a splotch of dark red.
“Miss Silverbell,” High Blackwell gripped his son’s shoulder, “I must take my leave now, but I leave you in Cassius’ capable hands.”
And that was that. The most powerful man in Thornvale turned on his heel, leaving Fern alone with the second most powerful. The entry hall felt entirely too large for just the two of them. Quiet. Unnerving.