16. Into the Spider’s Web
The timing bell shuddered through the mountain’s foundation, barely a tremor against the polished stone floor of the blue suite, but enough to rattle the delicate porcelain vases lining the mantel.
Fern didn’t gasp. She didn’t jolt awake.
Her eyes opened to the same cold ceiling they had opened to every morning for weeks now, already bracing for the distant thrum of the underground pumps that bled through the walls and into the heavy iron legs of the bed.
She knew that sound now. The hiss of steam in the pipes.
The faint mechanical pulse beneath the floor.
The whole mountain breathing around her.
That was the part she hated most.
The Keep was no longer unreal or temporary.
The velvet drapes, the wardcandle’s amber glow, the polished floor beneath her feet, the bruised twilight pressing at the window—all of it had settled into a routine her body understood before her mind could fight it.
Familiarity had not made the place gentler. It had only organized her captivity.
Ashford Cross had never been further away.
Below her, the veins carried on with their sinister work. The Keep’s elegance rested on the backs of those deemed lesser, and every polished surface reminded her of it.
Sprout stirred against her shoulder and blinked up at her with large, nocturnal yellow eyes. He was curled into a tight ball of black fur, ears swiveling toward the door. He hated the vibration of the pumps.
“I know, little love,” Fern whispered, stroking his velvet-soft head. “The mountain is growling again.”
Sprout let out a chitter of agreement and burrowed deeper into the silk pillows.
Fern swung her legs out of bed, and the chill of the floor climbed straight through her bare feet into her bones. The latch clicked, and her shoulders tightened before she could stop them.
On the bed, Sprout lifted his head just as Lina slipped through with a copper pitcher in her hands, steam curling from its spout. The young maid moved so silently she might have materialized from the shadows of the corridor.
“Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you both.
I oiled the hinges,” Lina said. “High Blackwell does not appreciate squeaking metal. He says it disturbs the concentration.” She crossed to the basin and poured the water in.
Steam rose in soft white ribbons. “Come. The water will not stay hot for long.”
Fern walked to the basin. Lina dipped a cloth into the hot water, wrung it out, and began scrubbing Fern’s face, neck, and arms. When she reached for Fern’s hands, she worked at the callus on her thumb with a rag slicked in fat.
“You’ll need gloves until this softens,” Lina said.
Fern frowned. “For a callus?”
“For what it says,” Lina glanced up. “Hands like these draw notice, and not the right kind.”
“I held a rather tricky vine yesterday in the solarium,” Fern muttered, trying not to remember standing terrified before High Blackwell.
“That wasn’t labor. That was a lesson.” Lina patted Fern dry. “Here, they’d rather see gloves than rough skin.”
Lina crossed to the wardrobe, drawing out a dress of heavy emerald fabric. Severe, high-necked, long-sleeved, with gold buttons. Then she pulled free a pair of black silk gloves.
“Why not my usual grey?” Fern asked, touching the delicate fabric. “This isn’t… me.”
Lina didn’t look up as she unbuttoned the dress. “Willem passed me in the hall. You’ll be meeting with Lady Blackwell today for lessons.”
“Does it matter what I wear?”
Lina stopped. Her careful servant’s blankness slipped.
“Everything matters,” she whispered. “Lady Blackwell is especially fond of a polished appearance.”
She helped Fern into the dress. “Use your silence, Miss. She breaks things that fight.”
Lina dressed Fern and set to work taming the mess of her curls.
“Lina… I’ve been wondering something. Where does the door in the grand staircase lead?” Fern asked before she could stop herself. “There are always guards coming in and out of it.”
Lina’s hands froze just as she was pinning a curl back.
“Don’t ask about below,” she said quietly.
Fern turned her head. “Why?”
Lina wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Because there are places in this house servants do not discuss, and wise girls do not wonder about aloud.” She finished pinning Fern’s hair back, her fingers suddenly too quick. “Especially not before breakfast.”
That was all she would say.
Heat from the enormous hearth turned the Drawing Room’s air thick enough to chew. Heavy curtains were drawn tight against the day, filtering the valley’s perpetual twilight into a dim haze that made the whole room feel stale and close.
Lady Blackwell sat in a high-backed chair by the fireplace in a gown of deep blue silk, the high collar framing her throat so sharply it looked almost like armor. Jet beading darkened the cuffs, and not a single fold of the skirt had fallen out of place.
She didn’t look up as Fern stepped closer. She was working at an embroidery frame, her needle flashing in the firelight.
In. Out. Pull.
Fern had embroidered beside her mother often enough to know how hard it was to keep a hand that steady. Lady Blackwell’s stitches were perfect.
“You are breathing too loudly,” Lady Blackwell said.
Fern froze. “My Lady?”
“Breathing,” Lady Blackwell repeated, still not looking up. “A lady does not pant like a hound. She breathes in the spaces between thoughts.”
Only then did she lift her head. Her face was perfect, pale, and absolutely without softness.
“Sit.” Lady Blackwell lifted one hand and pointed to the high-backed chair opposite her. “Not like that.”
Fern paused, half-seated.
Lady Blackwell set her frame on her lap. “A lady does not collapse into a chair as though her bones have given out. Stand.”
Heat climbed up Fern’s neck, but she rose.
“Again.”
Fern sat more carefully this time, spine straighter, hands uncertain in her lap.
Lady Blackwell’s gaze moved over her shoulders, her chin, the angle of her knees. “Better. Ankles together. Hands still. Shoulders down.” She returned her attention to the hoop in her lap. “If you must look frightened, Miss Silverbell, at least do it with grace.”
On the table between them lay a fresh embroidery frame. White silk stretched tight as skin. A silver needle threaded with crimson silk rested beside it.
“Pick it up,” Lady Blackwell said.
Fern reached for the frame. Her fingers brushed the silk too roughly.
“Not like that either.” Lady Blackwell set her own hoop aside with exquisite care. “You handle everything as if you expect it to resist you.”
Fern swallowed and tried again, lifting the frame more carefully this time.
“Your eyes keep straying to the door,” Lady Blackwell said.
Fern’s grip tightened on the hoop.
“You may stop looking at it. If Aurelius meant to lock you in a cell, Miss Silverbell, you would already be in one.”
She smoothed one hand over the silk in her lap. “Instead, you are here. So sit properly, hold the frame as though it belongs in your hands, and pick up the needle. Do try not to make yourself tiresome while he decides what you are.”
Fern picked up the needle in one hand and thread in the other. She aimed carefully for the eye. Missed. Tried again. Missed again.
“Your hands are shaking,” Lady Blackwell observed. “Nerves are a luxury for those who can afford mistakes. You cannot.”
Fern pressed her lips together until they hurt. On the third try, she forced the thread through.
“Begin,” Lady Blackwell said. “Chain stitch first. Roses come after.”
Fern lowered the needle into the taut silk. The fabric resisted more than she expected, smooth and tight beneath her fingers, nothing like the cotton she had stitched at home. She pulled the thread through and made the first loop, already seeing the line tilt wrong.
Lady Blackwell examined it in silence. She only reached across the space between them, set one finger against the stitch, and traced its crooked line.
“Sloppy,” she murmured. “The tension is uneven. You’re pulling the thread as though you mean to strangle it.”
“I am not used to silk. This isn’t what we used in Ashford Cross,” Fern said, anger sparking before she could stop it.
“Ashford Cross is no longer your home.” Lady Blackwell looked up. “You would do well to remember that.”
Fern wished, stupidly, that she could take the words back.
“Do not make excuses, Miss Silverbell,” Lady Blackwell continued. “Excuses are the tools of the incompetent.”
She picked up the silver scissors and, without breaking Fern’s gaze, slid one blade beneath the stitch and snipped it free.
Fern watched as the thread gave way with a soft snap and curled loose against the white silk.
“Again,” she said calmly. “And this time, do try not to handle the silk like a plowline.”
Fern started over.
Then again. And again. The hours bled together into a dull cycle of silk, blood, and correction: Fern stitched, Lady Blackwell cut the thread away, and Fern began again.
By the third hour, her fingers were bleeding.
The needle had pricked her thumb often enough to leave tiny crescent stings along the pad, and every time the silk took on the faintest smear of red, Lady Blackwell sighed as though Fern had offended her.
Heat from the hearth baked the fabric against Fern’s aching thighs.
Across from her, Lady Blackwell’s own stitching remained immaculate.
Fern hated her for it.
“Tea,” Lady Blackwell said at last, her voice as crisp as ever.
Fern hated her for that, too.
A maid hurried in, eyes downcast, and set a silver tray on the low table before retreating at once, as if Lady Blackwell might punish her for lingering. She probably would.
“Pour,” Lady Blackwell ordered. “Use the silver pot. The heavy one.”
Fern set down her hoop. Her hand had cramped so badly her fingers had nearly curled into a claw by the time she reached for the handle.
Before she could lift it, the door banged open hard enough to rattle the latch. A gust of colder air swept into the room along with the sour reek of Highblood spirits.
“Mother!” a voice bellowed. “Where is my—oh.”