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Fern’s heartbeat quickened. She knew where that side of the chamber led, should she plunge into its darkness. It would lead further down into the underground levels of Carthane, far into the ancient undercroft and towards the sewage systems. She could not venture there.

But the noise reached her again, high with despair, and this time, she was listening properly. A voice.

Someone or something was in the undercroft, calling.

Fern’s dagger was still at her waist. Her trembling, aching fingers sought the cold touch of the pommel. Even if it hadn’t been a voice, how could she turn away?Someone might need help. Fern wanted desperately to succeed in her candidacy, but not so desperately that she would do so with someone else’s blood on her hands. Not after everything that had happened.

For a second, Fern hesitated, thinking of Oscar’s warning about facing the devil alone. Oscar would have told her to turn back, to go find Sarlet, the Grand Archivists, the other candidates even. Oscar would have told her to go and get help. Reason told her so too.

But the thought of turning back was unbearable to Fern. Whoever was out there needed her helpnow. She had taken too long to get to the Arboretum that night when she’d stopped to help Lautric—her own enemy. She had made so many mistakes, she could not help but think turning back would be just another mistake.

So she lifted a torch from one of the sconces along the passageway halls, turned back towards the chamber, and plunged into its darkness.

The chamber stretched outfor what felt like an age, growing colder the further in she went. At the end, the ground came to an abrupt stop, giving way to a yawning chasm, and Fern took several hasty steps back.

She held her torch low, following along the edge of the stone floor until she spotted some steps leading down. Steep and narrow, the stone staircase went further than she could see by torchlight, disappearing into the darkness.

Then the voice came again, more distinct this time.

A long, howling scream, desperate and heart-wrenching. A female voice. Fern’s stomach clenched, and her mind flew, of its own volition, to Josefa.

There was no turning back now. Torch held high, Fern descended the steps as quickly as she dared. By the time her foot touched the flat, solid surface of the next level down, the voice had stopped, and silence reigned, broken only by the low roar of a current of icy wind.

Fern looked around, raising her torch high.

She was at the end of a long corridor. Here, the air was so cold that her breath rose like ghosts from her lips. The stone walls were slimy with lichen, water dripping from the thick, glossy black pipes that crowded the ceiling. They gleamed obscenely in the torchlight, like the dark entrails of some colossal beast.

The voice had stopped, but Fern continued, following the corridor as it sloped slowly down. As she went, the sound of rushing water mingled with the low rasp of the wind. She was drawing close to the sewers.

“Hello?” Fern called out. “Can you hear me?”

Her voice echoed down the corridor, throwing her own words back at her as she kept walking.

Far ahead, she could see the end of the corridor, and from that entrance, the pungent stench of decay and filth emanated, confirming Fern’s suspicion. She had almost reached the sewer.

“Help me!”

The scream was so close that Fern started. She broke into a run, plunging into the darkness, the stench, the sound of the rushing wind. At the end of the corridor, an archway dripping with algae and moss gave way to a cavernous chamber.

She entered cautiously, slowing down, and called out, “Are you here?”

“I’m here!” The voice was high, strained with despair, broken as though the person was screaming through damaged vocal cords. “Help me, please, help me!”

Fern stepped cautiously into the chamber. Further along, the floor gave way to a massive depression. Standing on the edge, Fern raised her torch. Dozens of pipes jutted out of the walls of what resembled an enormous pool. There, black water gathered, churned out ceaselessly by the pipes.

And in that black water, holding on desperately to the rusted metal of a pipe, was a pale figure. Her face was turned upwards, long red hair coiled to her neck.

Emmeline Ferrow.

Panic seized Fern. She leaned down, waving her torch. “I’m here, I’m here!”

“Help me!” screamed Emmeline, terror tearing the beauty out of her voice. She sounded younger and more vulnerable than Fern had ever imagined her to be. “Get me out of here, please!”

“I will! I just have to find a way down! I—”

Fern’s torch went out, the flame extinguished in an instant. Utter darkness swallowed her. The sound of footsteps rushed towards her.

She whipped around, hand flying to her waist.