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Chapter seventeen

The Thief

The figure appeared frombehind a pillar, and Fern’s mouth fell open.

Léo Lautric was crossing the atrium in the direction of the Mage Tower. His back was to her, but she immediately recognised him by his height, his crop of silken black hair, his singular gait, loose and long and relaxed.

Though his gait was familiar, it seemed almost weighed down, accompanied by a clinking sound, like rustling metal plates or chain mail.

Fern stared at him. He wore a heavy backpack, and slung through it was a long cylindrical object wrapped in dark cloth. He reached the other end of the atrium, passing only a few feet away from Fern’s hiding place. As he did, the smells from before grew stronger.

Mud and frost. A sharp, herbaceous smell, almost chemical. Metal, too, and something sweeter, like brown sugar or marzipan.

Lautric disappeared into the corridor in the direction of the Mage Tower. The smells lingered, then drifted away, leaving Fern alone in the pillar’s shadow. She wasexhausted from the day’s work and yet her mind was crystal clear, pierced with a volley of questions.

Where the devil was Lautric coming from? What was he doing? What was in his backpack?

Fern’s first guess was books: the most precious things he could steal from Carthane. But the smells seemed to indicate Lautric had been outside. Where had he gone? Had he left the grounds? Not possible. It would take a spell of exceptional strength and complexity to pass the gate from which they had come, a spell so destructive and powerful it would be felt for miles.

Did Lautric know of another way out? His family probably had enough power and influence at its fingertips to find a way.

But even if Lautric was leaving Carthane, where was he going? And to what purpose?

The risk of being caught leaving the grounds could surely not be justified by whatever he was getting out of it. Unless his aim had never been to succeed in his candidacy. After all, the Lautrics had always coveted the knowledge amassed in Carthane: despite their house words, their interest was in power, not academia.

And what about the books Lautric had borrowed from Vittoria? First the borrowed books, then the attack. Baudet certainly had placed the blame at Lautric’s feet. Could it all be connected?

What if Lautric had not been sent here as a real candidate but as a thief?

What was Fern to do? Her mentor had not yet returned. Who could she turn to for advice? Should such a thing be reported to Housemistress Sarlet or even theGrand Archivists themselves? After all, she had no proof to support her suspicions.

It was too late in the night, and Fern was exhausted. With only two days left to prepare, her upcoming assignment should be foremost in her mind.

Protecting Carthane, for now, was the purview of the Sentinels, the archivists and Grand Archivists. Fern loved Carthane too much to let its sanctity be violated by the Lautric House, but she could do nothing as a mere candidate. As things stood, she was little more than a glorified guest in Carthane.

Fern reached the Mage Tower and paused.

The two Sentinels stood in their alcoves, unmoving. Did they ever sleep? It was a question Fern had never found an answer to. They seemed to have no response or reaction to Fern’s presence. Had they been the same towards Lautric? Did they know—or care—where he had been?

Suppressing a cold shudder, she pushed open the heavy door and made her way hastily back to the safety of her room.

Sleep was long tocome that night. Fern lay in bed, watching Inkwell as he slept, spying the tiny inkblot body for the telltale movement of his heartbeat. At least he was with her; at least she wasn’t completely alone. It was that thought alone which allowed her to fall asleep at last.

The next day, she awoke feeling restless and disoriented. She turned in her bed, sliding her legs against the warm sheets, wishing she could stay a little longer; the other candidates would not be wasting time, though. Some were already far more knowledgeable in Alchemy than she was. Going back to sleep was not a luxury she could afford.

She got up with much reluctance and resentment, and dressed drably in a plain shirt and black corduroy trousers. Capturing her hair in the teeth of a tortoiseshell claw, she secured it at the sides with her customary pins, then glanced at her mirror.

She grimaced. Her late nights and the stress of her assignment were making her look pale and haggard, the area beneath her eyes taking on a bluish hue where the skin stretched over networks of veins. If she wasn’t careful, she would soon begin to look like Lautric.

The dining room was thankfully empty that morning. After a quick coffee and a slice of toast, Fern made her way to the Alchemy Wing. She strode in, only to falter in her steps. The other candidates gathered in a sort of semi-circle near one of the furthest desks, where Josefa had been working for the past few days.

Except that Josefa wasn’t sitting down: she was standing in the middle of the circle, facing Edmund Ferrow as he spoke.

Though Fern could not quite hear what he said, his tone was low and spiteful, and Josefa’s narrow face was flushed with barely contained fury.

Fern hastened towards the group.

“If not you, then who?” Josefa was saying.