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“Oh, Miss Sullivan. You’re still here.”

“Please. Call me Fern.”

Though Fern spoke in her calmest, most polite tone, the implied friendliness in her words must have been plain enough for Josefa to sense her sympathy. The young woman slumped into her seat, dropping her head in her hands.

“What am I going to do?” she whispered, as if to herself.

Fern drew a seat from a nearby desk.

“I’m sorry this happened. If there is anything I can do to help, name it. I will do what I can.”

“Thank you, but—” Josefa paused, her voice strangled by emotion. “Most of my notes are gone. I know most of it, of course, but my arguments, my script, my evidence. A week’s worth of research—no,severalweeks’ worth of research, condensed. How can it all be gone?”

Fern was silent for a moment. Ought she tell Josefa of her suspicions? It would mean revealing what she saw and giving up precious information about Lautric. Given that she had no definite proof, would the risk be worth it? And could she guarantee the repercussions would not harmher?

No, she must keep her thoughts to herself. Her suspicions would neither comfort Josefa nor help her recover her work. It was help the young woman needed, not conjecture.

“Is there any possibility you might have taken them somewhere and not remembered?” Fern asked.

Josefa shook her head. “I always leave my work here. It never occurred to me it might go missing. This is Carthane! But of course, thisisCarthane. Most candidates here would do anything it took to become Grand Archivist, why would they not? I’ve been a fool, an utter fool.”

“You’re not a fool,” Fern said. “Why strive to become Grand Archivist on the merit of someone else’s work?”

“Be that as it may,” Josefa said, looking up at Fern with her dark eyes glimmering with tears, “have you ever leftyourresearch here overnight?”

Fern said nothing.

“I should never have left Moscow.”

The words were spoken so low and soft that Fern almost missed them.

She frowned. “Don’t say that. You are as worthy a candidate as any of us, worthier than many, I think, since somebody was threatened enough by you to steal your work. Now your work is gone, but your knowledge is not.”

“The assignment is tomorrow,” Josefa said, softer now, almost defeated. “There’s simply not enough time.”

Fern hesitated. Josefa was correct; there simply wasn’t enough time. She did not deserve to be disqualified because of the interference of others. If she should fail her candidacy, it should befairly, on equal footing with all the others.

“If you’d like,” Fern heard herself say before she’d even finished thinking her decision through, “I can show you my notes. I’m sure my list will differ from yours on many points, but I should think many of the symbols I chose would have been on your own list. If you would like to use any of my research, you might be able to save time on researching whichever symbols you chose and I did not.”

Josefa’s eyes widened. “You really would share your work with me?”

Fern hesitated. She had taken the first step on a path she had hoped to avoid without quite meaning to. But now the first step was taken, and she did not regret it, whether or not it was a mistake.

“Well, not all of it, of course,” she hastened to clarify. “My writing and arguments will remain private—I’msure you understand. But as for the rest… I will gladly share my notes and research with you, Miss Novak.”

“I’d like that,” Josefa said. “Please, call me Josefa.”

She gave Fern her hand, and Fern took it in her fingers, squeezing firmly. The two women shook hands, sharing a smile. In a way, this was the closest thing Fern had to an ally in Carthane.

It was strange, and probably wholly reckless, and not at all unpleasant.

Chapter nineteen

The Symbols

The Grand Study Hall was a cavernous chamber filled with large desks of polished wood facing an extravagantly embellished pulpit. Heavy cartwheels of intricately wrought iron hung from the vaulted ceiling, flooding the hall with wavering light, and the arches and walls were carved in ornate patterns.

Fern arrived early and was instructed to find the desk marked with her name. It was near the top of the room, sitting beneath a blade of blue and red light cast by the stained-glass window. Rain fell heavily outside, the force of the raindrops making the glass tremble.