19. Find the Flaw #2
“I wouldn’t call thirty minutes a hurry.” He moved past her and gestured to the vanity in her room. “Sit.”
Fern turned, staring at him. “No way.”
“Must I repeat myself?” he asked, already moving into her quarters.
Muttering darkly beneath her breath, Fern followed and dropped onto the stool.
Cassius reached for the pins first. His fingers brushed briefly against the side of her head as he removed the ones hanging on by sheer determination alone and set them carefully beside the looking glass.
Fern watched him through the reflection, unsettled by how easily he handled the task.
There was no hesitation to the movements.
No awkwardness. Only calm, practiced movements.
“You’ve done this before,” she said before she could stop herself.
One corner of his mouth shifted faintly. “I grew up in court, Miss Silverbell. Complex clothing ceases to be impressive after a certain point.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“No,” he agreed, selecting another pin. “It doesn’t.”
Fern frowned at his reflection while he gathered her hair more carefully this time, twisting the loose curls back into place. He was surprisingly gentle for someone who spent most of his time speaking as though every conversation were an inconvenience.
Which, somehow, only made Fern more suspicious.
“You’re laughing at me again, aren’t you?”
“Only a little.”
“I really do hate you, you know.”
He chuckled. “Don’t lie. We both know you’re embarrassed.”
“I am not embarrassed.”
“Mm.”
Fern narrowed her eyes at the looking glass while he secured the final pin near the nape of her neck.
“And we’re done,” he said at last, stepping back. “Now you look presentable.”
She rose slowly, smoothing a hand over the front of her tunic before glancing toward the reflection again.
It did look better.
That, unfortunately, irritated her almost as much as the laughter had.
Cassius, of course, appeared entirely unaffected by the fact that he had just laughed at her, touched her waist, and fixed her hair as if any of that were a perfectly normal start to the morning. He only adjusted one cuff, turned away from the looking glass, and returned to the sitting room.
“Eat,” he said.
Fern followed him, still smoothing the front of her tunic even though there was nothing wrong with it. “Do you ever ask?”
“When necessary.”
“So, no.”
“Rarely.”
The breakfast Willem had brought sat arranged on the low table: dark bread still warm enough to steam faintly where it had been cut, soft cheese, sliced apples, boiled eggs, and a pot of tea.
Her stomach tightened at the sight of it.
Traitorous thing. She had no interest in proving Cassius right by eating immediately, but she also had no interest in facing whatever he had planned on an empty stomach.
She took the chair across from him and reached for the bread.
Sprout fluttered about the room before landing on the arm of her chair, his attention fixed on the apples.
“No,” Fern whispered.
Cassius poured another cup of tea without looking up. Then, with the same grave concentration he gave blood theory, he nudged one thin apple slice toward the edge of his plate.
Fern paused.
Sprout chirped.
Cassius shrugged. “What? He was staring.”
Fern looked down before he could see her mouth betray her.
It was easier when he was only cold. Easier when every word from him came barbed, when every order reminded her exactly what he was and whose blood ran in his veins.
This was worse. The laugh he hadn’t meant to give.
The careful way he’d fixed what she’d ruined.
The apple slice nudged toward Sprout as if kindness became less dangerous when no one named it.
Fern didn’t care for it.
Cruelty she could deal with. But this? Well, she was still learning what to do with this.
She took a bite of bread before the thought could settle too deeply.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” she asked.
“Outside.”
Fern paused with the bread halfway to her mouth. “Outside where?”
“You’ll know shortly.”
“You’re averse to direct answers.”
“Only when the question is premature.”
She took another bite, mostly to keep from arguing. Across from her, Cassius had gone still again, all trace of the laugh gone from his mouth, his hands quiet around the teacup. Lady Blackwell would be proud. Whatever had happened in her room had already been folded and tucked away neatly.
Fern hated that too.
He checked his timepiece. “Coat.”
“I’m eating,” she said, gesturing to the food in front of them.
“You’ve eaten enough.”
“That is a terrible habit of yours.”
Cassius cocked his head ever so slightly. “What is?”
“Deciding things.”
Cassius rose, adjusting his lapels. “Someone has to.”
Fern stared at him, then grabbed another piece of bread from the tray and took an unnecessarily large bite.
Cassius waited.
She chewed.
He continued waiting.
“Oh, for Mother’s sake.” She snatched her coat from the chair and shoved one arm through the sleeve, still holding the bread in the other hand. Sprout abandoned his post on the armchair and fluttered up, landing against her shoulder with a disgruntled chirp as the coat bunched beneath him.
“You are allowed to finish swallowing before we leave,” Cassius said.
“How generous.”
He opened the door.
Fern took one last look at the breakfast spread and followed him out with the remaining bread still in hand because he had said she’d eaten enough, and that alone made her determined to finish it.
The corridor was quiet. Quieter than it had been, though perhaps that was only because she’d expected Lina to appear from somewhere with an explanation and an apology and a handful of pins tucked between her lips.
No one came. No one hurried past with linens or trays.
Even the usual distant clatter from the kitchens seemed to have been swallowed by the walls.
Cassius walked ahead without checking whether she followed.
Naturally.
Fern caught up to him near the bend, still buttoning her coat with one hand. “Are we going to the courtyard?”
“No.”
“Lady Blackwell?”
“No.”
“Are you planning to answer in more than one syllable?”
“When necessary.”
She bit into the bread again rather than respond.
They passed the main stair instead of taking it and pushed through a door on the right. That was when Fern’s steps slowed despite herself. Cassius didn’t look back, but she knew he’d noticed. He noticed everything when it irritated her most.
The passage he chose was narrower than the main hall, less polished, with wardcandles set farther apart. Cold air slipped under her collar, thin and sharp. Sprout tucked closer to her neck, his wings folding tight against his body.
Fern swallowed the last of the bread.
At the end of the corridor stood a pair of dark doors she’d never seen before. Black roses climbed the frame in carved, thorned vines. Wind worried at the seam between them, soft at first, then a dull roar sounded, making the latch tremble.
Cassius put his hand on the door.
Fern’s stomach tightened.