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His expression shifted ever so slightly, eyelids drooping over tired eyes as he took another drag of his cigarette. He didn’t answer her question directly, but instead asked, “Were you waylaid at East Hemwick?”

“Yes. Were you?”

A nod confirmed it. “Yes. Did you see the ostary? I’ve never seen one before.”

“Then you’ve been fortunate. Do you know wh—”

Before she could finish her question, the screech of metal interrupted her. She turned her head to find that the gate had opened. Fern straightened her back, her chest lifting on a sharp intake of breath. At her side, the young man tossed the remainder of his cigarette to the floor, crushing the glowing red stub beneath his heel.

He followed Fern as she stepped in front of the open gate. A pale figure stood there: it was the shape of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, and dressed in a plain back robe. But this was no man: the head, bald and pale, was featureless, as though the skin had been draped over the skull with no other ornament.

This was a Sentinel of Carthane, a man-made arcane creature of wax tasked with protecting and keeping its archives and halls.

Fern’s heartbeat quickened. Her childhood memories of Carthane were shadowed by fear of the Sentinels. Back then, her parents had done everything they couldto keep her away from them. Servants were not permitted to have children while working on the grounds—because of the Gateways, nobody who worked and lived in Carthane could remain if they had children. It wasn’t just forbidden by the Reformed Vatican’s Sumbral Laws—it was common sense.

Even the archivists who had been married in their old lives were forced to live apart from their families and see them only occasionally. The Grand Archivists themselves were all famously childless.

Fern’s parents had broken the rules and kept her at their side when they should have sent her away to a boarding school. She had known even from a young age that her presence in Carthane would have cost her parents their jobs, and all the servants who kept the secret of her existence had made sure to remind her if she ever forgot. They had inculcated within Fern a deep fear of the Sentinels.

Now, though, there was no need to fear the silent creatures. In many ways, Fern was their future colleague.

Still, a cold shudder crawled through her when the creature’s head turned towards her. She stood quite still, waiting. The Sentinel’s head moved from her to the young man.

It stepped aside, allowing them both through.

Fern preceded the young man through the gate; as she passed him, he brushed his hand against her elbow in a fleeting, oddly courteous movement. An odd warmth spread through her; had he just used magic?

She glanced at him. His hand had already fallen away, his eyes were fixed on the Sentinel, and his mouth wasclosed. If he had spoken an incantation, she would have heard him, she was sure of it.

The Sentinel shut the gate with a rasping creak, and a sonorous click echoed through the air—the unmistakable sound of a hermetic spell. A powerful one, too. One would need to break down the colossal walls before they could ever hope to get through that gate, regardless of whether they wished to enter or exit.

Fern was suddenly reminded of Oscar’s voice reading her letter.

Once you accept and arrive at Carthane, you will not be able to withdraw your candidacy.

There had been ample opportunity to turn back. Fern had stayed the course, and now she was here. What else to do but succeed?

Chapter eight

The Threat

Carthane was a sprawlingestate, its central and oldest building surrounded by labyrinths of gardens, hedges and trees. A semi-circle of towers rose around the central building, connected to it by skyways. Even then, Carthane itself dwarfed everything around it, towers and colossal pines alike.

Standing at the feet of its entrance, Fern looked up.

The dark rock of the building, with its Gothic ornaments and crouching gargoyles, rose so high it blocked out the sky, windows blazing gold with light. Fern had remembered Carthane to be an enormous place—it was still far larger than she remembered.

The Sentinel led Fern and her weary companion through the entrance and into a cavernous atrium.

Chandeliers lined the ceiling, hanging on thick chains, each link larger than a fist. The broad flagstones were of polished marble, perfectly reflecting the flickering glow of every single candle so that the ground seemed strewn with stars. The hall was supported with pillars, andinterspersed between those were carved stone benches and the busts of saints and scholars.

“Welcome.”

In the very centre of the hall stood the woman who had spoken.

Her back was straight, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers linked. Her jet-black hair, streaked grey at the temples, was pulled back in a chignon; her face was lined; her green eyes were needle sharp. She wore plain clothing: a high-necked blouse and long black skirt. A grey sash crossed her chest, and a ring of keys was looped around her leather belt.

“I am Housemistress Sarlet. I oversee house matters and guests here at Carthane.” Her voice was dry and deep, her tone sharp and austere. “Should you have any problems during your time here, you may find me in my office here in the Keystone—our central building. If you cannot find me, simply send a Sentinel to fetch me. My duty is to ensure the safety of Carthane. Follow me, please.”