9. Lessons Begin
The prickle started at the base of Fern’s neck, pulling her up out of a sweet dream she wished she could remember. Someone was in the room. She rolled over, blinking against the grit in her eyes, and the air in her lungs seized.
Cassius Blackwell stood beside her bed, picking imaginary lint from his shoulder.
She jolted upright, a jagged gasp tearing from her throat. “What—”
“You overslept.”
His voice was a splash of cold water. He stood perfectly still, dressed in immaculate black and silver, his hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting a regiment rather than waking a girl his family had kidnapped.
Not a hair on his head was out of place, and it looked as though he’d been awake for hours.
Meanwhile, Fern felt like she’d been dragged backward through a hedge and left to dry on a tanning rack.
“I…” Fern rubbed her face. “What time is it?”
“The eighth bell tolled about thirty minutes ago.” Cassius pulled something that glinted silver from his pocket. He clicked it open, checked it, then snapped it shut. “Lessons begin at the eighth bell.”
Fern stared at him, the fog of sleep slowly clearing. “I didn’t hear a bell.”
“Hard to hear the bell while you’re drooling.” He regarded her with an expression that wasn’t quite disdain, but it certainly wasn’t patience. It was the look one gave a tool that had rusted. I think he’d like the tool a bit more.
“Here’s a bit of information for you: the Keep’s bells are not for your convenience,” he continued.
“They mark the guard changes. Luckily for you, the guard shift changes when lessons start. However, you are expected to manage your own time. If you require a timepiece, one can be provided. But do not expect the world to wake you.” His gaze moved to the door and back.
“And a lesson you may have for free: your door was unbolted. I walked in. The next person who does may not be a tutor.” He turned on his heel and added, “Five minutes. Dress and present yourself in the sitting room. If you’re late, you forfeit your morning meal. ”
The door clicked softly behind him.
Fern sat there for a heartbeat, her hands gripping the silk sheets until her knuckles turned grey.
Manage your own time. She scoffed. As if she hadn’t spent her entire life waking before all of Ashford Cross could even say ‘fatback bacon’ to tend a garden that helped put food on the table.
As if she were some lazy Highblood who slept till midday because the wine and company were too good the night before.
She threw off the covers, startling Sprout. The mosswing let out a disgruntled squeak and fluttered to the top of the headboard.
“Sorry, little love,” Fern muttered, feet hitting the cold stone. “Five minutes. He’s serious. He’s actually serious. What a twit.”
She tore open the wardrobe. Rows of dresses stared back at her—silks, velvets, stiff brocades in shades of blue and silver and emerald and sapphire; garments that belonged to a stranger.
Or a doll. A very fancy doll. She grabbed the simplest one, a grey wool that looked stifling but serviceable.
She cursed under her breath as her fingers fumbled with the buttons.
Why were there so many buttons? And why were they so small? Fern ground out a snarl. It’s like the dress itself doesn’t want to be worn!
She didn’t dare look in the looking glass, twisting her riotous curls into a braid she was sure was more frizz than plait, splashed shockingly cold water on her face from the basin, and practically ran into the sitting room.
Cassius was standing by the window, calm, poised, perfect, staring into the crimson fog beyond the glass.
“Four minutes and forty-two seconds,” he said, still looking out the window. “I suppose that’ll do.”
Finally, he turned. His blue eyes swept over her, taking in the grey wool, the messy braid, the flushed cheeks. He paused at her hair, his gaze lingering on a loose curl that had already escaped.
He said nothing. Why would he? She knew what she looked like, how a Highblood would see her.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the small round table near the hearth where the fire had burned low.
A tray sat waiting. Crusty bread, hard cheese, a bowl of something that looked like porridge, and a pot of tea. It was simple. Stark, even. Not the feast she’d expect inside the Keep.
Fern took her seat as her stomach gave a treacherous growl.
Cassius settled himself across from her and opened a leather-bound folio. He smoothed the parchment inside, his long fingers pressing out creases that Fern couldn’t even see.
“Your schedule,” he announced. “Morning meal, followed by three hours of history and lineage study. Brief respite for midday meal, which you will take alone in your quarters. Then four hours of etiquette and protocol. Evening meal may be taken in your quarters or in the kitchens, though if you choose the latter, you are restricted to servants’ hours—after the seventh bell.
You are not to disturb the main staff during service. ”
“And after that?”
“Two hours of independent study.”
Fern paused with a piece of bread halfway to her mouth. “That’s… that’s the whole day. Every day?”
“It is necessary.”
“Right.” Fern shifted uncomfortably. “And what of my parents? When can I see them?”
Cassius didn’t look up. “That is not part of your schedule.”
“But Cassius—”
“Lord Blackwell,” he corrected, his voice sharp. “Or ‘my lord.’ You are in the Keep now, Miss Silverbell. Proper address is not optional.”
Fern clamped her mouth shut. She chewed on the inside of her cheek. Lord Blackwell. High and mighty. “And when can I see my parents… my lord?”
“Your parents are in Ashford Cross,” Cassius said. “They are under strict surveillance, per the High’s directives. You cannot help them. You cannot see them.”
“Why are they under surveillance? They didn’t do anything!”
“That isn’t your concern. Your focus is here.”
“My focus?” Fern dropped the bread onto her plate. It clattered. “My focus is on the fact that I was dragged away from my home because of…” She gestured to the room, to the Keep, to herself, “this. Because of whatever I am.”
Cassius looked up then. His eyes were cold chips of cobalt.
“Precisely. Because of what you are. Which is currently an untrained, unstable variable that threatens the stability of this entire valley. If you want to help your parents, Miss Silverbell, you will learn to control yourself. Until then, you are a liability.”
Liability.
The word struck her. Not a person. Not a girl who missed her mother’s tea or her father’s reading voice. A problem. A till that wasn’t balancing.
“Eat,” Cassius said, returning to his document. “We begin in ten minutes.”
Fern forced down the food. The bread tasted like sawdust, the cheese like wax. But she chewed and swallowed. She fueled the fire in her gut, because if she was going to be a liability, she was going to be a dangerous one.
The library was a cavern.
That was Fern’s first thought as Cassius led her through the double doors.
She finally had enough time to really take in the room.
It was a massive, two-story space lined with towering shelves of dark wood that seemed to breathe with the scent of old parchment and leather.
Thousands of tomes and scrolls and books rested there, their spines gleaming with gold leaf and silver script.
Brass ladders on rails stretched toward the ceiling, and dozens of wardcandles cast a steady, honey-colored light against the pervasive gloom outside.
Cassius led her past rows of tables to a secluded corner near the high, narrow windows. A stack of books awaited them, piled so high it looked ready to topple and crush her.
“Sit,” Cassius commanded.
Fern sank into the high-backed chair, glaring at him. It was upholstered in blue velvet—Blackwell blue—stiff and uncomfortable. Cassius remained standing, looking down his nose at her.
“We begin with control,” he said. “Show me your resonance crystal.”
Fern hesitated. The memory of the Count, the smoke, the screaming, was still fresh, a raw wound in her mind.
This was how it started then, too. A simple ask.
Just a bit of blood. She reached into her pocket for the crystal Cassius had pressed into her hand on the walk over.
It was warm to the touch, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic beat that matched her own heart. Thump. Thump.
She held it out on her flat palm.
Cassius slid a small, silver pin across the table toward her. “Go on.”
Fern picked up the pin. Her hand trembled. Just a little. She pressed the tip into the pad of her thumb, wincing as a bead of bright red welled up. She pressed her bleeding thumb against the faceted surface. Oathblight crept from the wound, down her thumb toward her wrist.
The reaction within the gem was instant.
It sizzled. Then, it flared blindingly bright, like the sun she’d only heard about in stories, searing and white. The air filled with the sharp scent of struck flint and pine.
“Too much,” Cassius said, shielding his eyes. “Dampen it.”
“I don’t—” Fern squinted against the glare. “I don’t know how!”
“It is an extension of your will. Pull it back. Visualize a door closing. A fire dying.”
Fern tried. She imagined a heavy wooden door slamming shut. She imagined throwing a blanket over a fire.
The light flickered, then surged brighter, accompanied by a high-pitched whine that rattled her teeth.
“Stop.” Cassius’ hand shot out, gripping her wrist. His fingers were cool and dry. “Release the connection. Now.”
With his other hand, he peeled her thumb from the stone.
The light vanished. The whine cut out.
Cassius released her immediately, stepping back as if he’d been burned. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands.
“Unstable,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Wildly inefficient.”
Fern cradled her hand. The crystal was hot against her skin. “I told you I didn’t know how.”
“That’s the defect we’re here to correct.” He gestured to the stack of books. “You project power without direction. Like a river flooding its banks. It destroys everything in its path because it has nowhere else to go. You must build the banks, Miss Silverbell. You must create the channel.”
He tapped the top book. Fern tilted her head, reading the spine. The Architecture of Blood.
“Read the first three chapters. Take notes on the structural theories of Sanguine Mechanics. I expect a summary of the relationship between emotional volatility and output variance by this afternoon.”
Fern stared at the book. “That’s… I don’t even know what those words mean.”
“Then use the glossary.” Cassius sat in the chair opposite her and opened his own book, instantly dismissing her. “Begin.”
The next three hours were a lesson in frustration.
The text was dense, written in an archaic dialect that made Fern’s head spin. Sentences ran on for paragraphs, looping back on themselves. Terms like “sanguine resonance” and “etheric viscosity” were thrown around without explanation. The so-called glossary was no help.
Fern read the same sentence four times: The resonant frequency of the blood-bound focus is inversely proportional to the chaotic potential of the practitioner’s emotional state.
“What does that even mean?” she whispered to herself.
Cassius glanced at her book. “It means if you panic, your ability to control your magic is nonexistent. Silence, please.”
Fern grabbed a quill and dipped it in the inkwell, scratching out notes that felt useless.
I’m the practitioner? Chaotic potential… is that my temper? Inversely proportional means the madder I get, the more out of control it gets?
She looked at Cassius. He was reading with focused intensity, his eyes moving rapidly across the page. He looked completely at ease, perfectly in control. The perfect heir.
He probably never exploded. He probably never panicked. He probably came out of the womb reciting blood theory and adjusting his own cravat.
“Stop staring,” he said without looking up. “It disturbs the air.”
Fern scowled and went back to her book.
When the midday bell finally tolled deep in the Keep’s belly, shaking the floorboards, Cassius closed his book with a snap.
“Time. We will pause for the midday meal.”
Fern slumped in her chair, rubbing her aching temples. “Did I… was that okay?”
Cassius stood, gathering his things. “You read for three hours without setting anything on fire. It was adequate.”
He looked at her notes—the scribbled questions, the angry doodles in the margins.
“Your handwriting is atrocious,” he said. “We will add penmanship to your etiquette lessons.”
“My handwriting gets the job done,” Fern snapped, defensive. “Not everything has to be pretty.”
“In this court,” Cassius said, meeting her eyes before letting his gaze drift to her hair, “everything must be pretty. Especially the things that are dangerous.”
He turned and walked away. “Go to your room. Your meal will be brought to you. Be ready at the second bell.”
Fern sat in the silence he left behind. Adequate. Atrocious. Dangerous.
She looked at her hand, where the ink had stained her fingers, mingling with her blight. She rubbed at it, but it didn’t smear. It just sat there, dark and permanent.