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“Do not underestimate yourself, General,” said the doctor in a warm tone. “Wild Magic almost always kills its users, and pyromantic injuries are the worst we come across. Most of the time, surgery means nothing: the soul leaves the body because it simply cannot withstand the pain. You must have shown formidable strength on that operating table; I think it was probablyyou, in the end, who fought the gods themselves while the surgeons worked.”

Dr Essouadi’s words rang with sincerity, a stark contrast to the simpering of the handsome Ferrow siblings.

They were showering Lautric with questions about the ‘great’ and ‘noble’ work his family had done to advance the position of the arcane population in the eyes of society across the world.

Fern pinched her lips and narrowed her eyes.

The Lautric House was one of the oldest arcane families in the world: generations upon generations born with powers. A near-miraculous rarity—a geneticimprobability. But if the Lautrics ever fought for the rights of the arcane population, it was only ever to serve their own interests.

The Lautrics would do anything for power—they had proven that many times over. They had orchestrated political coups, funded wars and made deals with crime syndicates and dictatorships alike. There were few political conflicts the Lautrics were not somehow involved in.

“Is it true the National Arcane Museum in Paris has a wing dedicated to the Lautric family?”

The beautiful Emmeline laughed airily in the face of the pale Lautric, her red hair catching the light so that it gleamed like flames.

Did she truly admire the Lautric House, or was she simply setting the pieces of her chessboard? She was an alchemist from the Poison Tower of Santa Velia—she would be no stranger to politics and social gameplay.

Would she use Lautric as a rook or a knight to her queen, to keep her safe and maintain her power? Or was she seeing him for what he was: the king on the opposite side of her board, whom she must trap into a checkmate?

“It is true; I have never visited it myself.”

Fern’s gaze slid from Emmeline to Lautric, who had just made his passionless reply.

She watched his eyes, light brown, almost limpid, the shape delicate and angular. The deep shadows beneath them. The pale skin, scattered with fawn freckles. The rosebud lips, almost feminine and disarmingly sensual.

A picture of contradictions: youthfulness belied by weariness, beauty hiding a peculiar inner tension.

He turned his head almost imperceptibly, meeting Fern’s gaze. Her chest constricted uncomfortably, but it was too late to look away. She held his gaze; his expression was curious, searching—not unfriendly.

Surprisingly open, in fact, given his family had made more than one attempt on Fern’s life in the past. He held a glass of wine in his hand; he raised it in the air, tipping it in her direction—a toast, or a promise, or a threat. And then he brought the glass to his lips and drank, eyes locked on Fern.

After the formal dinner,the candidates had the opportunity to mingle with the staff of archivists, but it was the Grand Archivists themselves Fern wished to converse with, and they largely kept to themselves, no doubt discussing their observations.

The archivists, in their blue sashes, were a quiet, courteous lot. They answered questions politely without showing much passion, and Fern could only wonder if this was a symptom of being desensitised to their own jobs or an affectation designed to keep the candidates at arm’s length.

The evening was, by and large, underwhelming; it drew to a close a little before midnight. Despite the late hour and the abundance of alcohol served at the banquet, the mood was subdued. None of the candidates had overindulged. Like Fern, they had probably all worked far too hard to get here to make fools of themselves on their first night in Carthane.

Housemistress Sarlet arrived five minutes before midnight to escort the candidates back to the Mage Tower. Fern lingered near the end of the file of candidates, making her closing observations for the night.

Josefa Novak, the historian, walked alone, as did the long-haired Vasili Drei. Vittoria Orsini, her cream satin gown trailing behind her across the marble flooring, was gallantly escorted by Baudet, who handed her his elbow with a curving smile beneath his blond moustache.

The Ferrow twins walked arm in arm, whispering to one another. Lautric walked a little ahead of them, hands in his pockets. Though he looked weary, his eyes moved sharply as they made their way to the Mage Tower, taking in his surroundings. Out of all the candidates, he seemed the most interested in the library.

Finally, General Srivastav and Dr Essouadi brought up the rear, walking right behind Fern, engrossed in their conversation, which seemed to revolve around their children—both of them had daughters.

The group had just passed the atrium when Vasili Drei stopped in his tracks, startling everybody else. He looked sharply up, the dark circles of his glasses catching the light of the candelabras above.

“What’s that?” he asked.

He had an accent Fern could not quite place, almost imperceptible but for a sharpness to the plosives, each ‘t’ pronounced.

Sarlet had paused and turned, and the candidates, as if by instinct, had spread out ever so slightly, clearing the invisible path between Vasili Drei and the housemistress of Carthane.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said.

Drei looked away from the ceiling. His gaze fell first upon Sarlet and then sank past her. Fern followed the direction of his eyes: he was staring straight at one of the Sentinels standing guard between two pillars.

“Forgive me,” he said abruptly. “I’ve had a little too much to drink.”