8. First Night #2
Fern twisted her fork against her plate. “I should tell you…”
“Hm?” Willem leaned in. “Go on.”
“I—I’m not to work here. That… isn’t the reason I’m here.”
In an instant Willem’s demeanor shifted. He folded his hands in his lap and leaned back in his chair. Gone were the jovial grins, replaced with a stoicism Fern thought only a statue could portray. Or Cassius Blackwell. Had she said something wrong? She’d only been trying to be friendly.
“I know who you are, Miss Silverbell.”
Fern’s hand moved toward the knife on the table, but Willem didn’t move at all. He only looked at her the way her father looked at families come to him with bad news.
“The girl from the Count,” he continued. “The white smoke. Lord Blackwell—Cassius—he’s been preparing for your arrival.” He glanced toward the door. “I’m his valet. And his friend, if I’m being honest.”
Fern relaxed, though only slightly. “Why are you telling me this?”
Willem leaned forward. “Because you need to understand what you’re being forced into. Everyone in this Keep knows who you are.”
Fern glanced at the door.
“Yes,” Willem said, “even Silas. They’re watching, waiting to see what High Blackwell will do with you.” His voice softened. “I’ve served Cassius since we were both boys. He’s… he’s not like his father. But he’s…” He shook his head. “If you’re going to survive here, you need allies.”
“And you’re offering to be one?” Fern asked. “What would possess you to risk yourself for me?”
“Don’t misconstrue my sentiment,” Willem said.
“I’m offering to help where I can, but I’ll do little to jeopardize my position.
And in return, I ask you not to judge Cassius too harshly.
Lord Blackwell is constantly being watched.
But me?” He shrugged. “I’m just a servant.
I can move through the Keep freely.” He stood, adjusting his vest, and slid his untouched plate across the table to her.
“Eat, Miss Silverbell. Keep your strength up. And if you need anything—anything at all—find me in the servants’ quarters or send word through Lina. I’ll see what I can do.”
Fern stared at the two plates for so long she didn’t notice Willem slip out. Her appetite was gone, but his words remained. Keep your strength up. So she forced herself to eat, chewing and swallowing, tasting nothing.
When she couldn’t stomach another bite, Fern stood. A servant would collect the plates. That’s what servants did in the Keep. The thought made her uncomfortable; she’d always cleaned up after herself at home.
Home.
She pressed her thumbnail into the pad of her finger and made herself walk.
She found her way back to the entrance hall easily enough. The blue suite was just across the way—first door on the left in the West Wing. Simple.
But when she stepped into the vast space, Fern stopped.
The heavy oak door built into the curve of the grand staircase. No guards. No servants. Everyone was likely finishing their evening duties or already retired for the night.
Don’t concern yourself with it, Cassius had said. Keep moving.
She crossed the marble floor. The door loomed before her—ancient wood, iron hinges, a heavy lock. Cold iron bit into her palm as she gripped the handle and pulled.
It didn’t budge. Locked.
Fern pressed her ear against the wood and held her breath. Silence.
She stepped back, memorizing every detail. The lock. The hinges. The thick wood.
Later. I’ll find out later.
“Miss Silverbell?”
Fern spun around.
A guard stood at the far end of the hall, watching her. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
“I—” Think, Fern. “I was just… I got turned around. Looking for my quarters.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. He took a step closer.
“The blue suite,” Fern added quickly. “In the West Wing. Lord Blackwell showed me earlier, but I… I’m not used to the Keep yet.”
The guard studied her. Then he jerked his head toward the western corridor. “That way. Don’t wander.”
“Thank you.” Fern hurried past him, forcing herself not to run, not to look back at the door.
She could feel his eyes on her until she turned the corner.
Fern locked the door behind her and leaned against it, catching her breath.
Lina looked up from folding linens. “Miss Silverbell? Are you alright? You look pale.”
Sprout chirped from the mantel before returning to a berry. Lina must have gotten a bowl for him. How kind.
“I’m fine,” Fern lied, moving to scratch Sprout. “Just… it’s a lot. The Keep. Everything.”
Lina nodded. “I know this place seems frightening. But you checked your wine for poison in front of a stranger and told her so to her face. You’ll manage.”
Fern looked at her—really looked at her. Lina was young, maybe only a few years older than Fern herself. Kind eyes, but they went to the door before she spoke. Every time.
“How long have you worked here?” Fern asked.
“Three years.” Lina smoothed the thin blanket resting on the back of the sofa. “It gets easier. You learn the rules, learn who to avoid, learn how to… disappear when you need to.”
“And if I don’t want to disappear?” Fern’s tone was sharp. “If I want to fight?”
Lina’s eyes widened. She glanced at the door. “Then you’ll need to be very, very careful. The walls have ears here, Miss Silverbell. Remember that.”
She adjusted the floral arrangement and moved toward the door. “I’ve laid out a sleeping gown on the bed for you. Try to get some rest.”
After Lina left, Fern changed. The gown was impossibly soft, the fabric sliding against her skin like water. She hated how good it felt.
She climbed into the bed—large enough for three people, with pillows so plush they could have been clouds. Sprout nestled against her shoulder.
But sleep wouldn’t come.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the locked door.
I’ll find out what’s behind it. Preferably without dying for it.
The Keep settled around her, creaks and groans working through stone that had stood longer than anyone living in it. Fern stared at the ceiling and listened until the last footsteps in the corridor faded, until the building went completely silent. Even then, her dreams were of home.