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Oscar shook his head. “Your research? Fern, you’re lucky you’re still alive.”

If it was luck that kept Fern alive, then luck was the name of Fern’s small knife and the poison on its blade. Fern knew better than to say so aloud; the vein in Oscar’s neck looked dangerously close to bursting.

“I knew what I was doing,” she said in a tone she hoped was reassuring.

“You’re going to believe that all the way to the grave,” Oscar said. “Why didn’t you take Sufian with you? He’s specially trained for this.”

Sufian, like Fern, specialised in book hunting.UnlikeFern, Sufian was a powerful magic-user, a natural-born talent with finely honed skills. He was also a trained combatant, formerly a lieutenant in the Northern Union Army.

Sufian was also gregarious and talkative, with a warm, booming voice. This could be enjoyable in small doses, but on long train rides, it would have been exhausting.

“He was already on an assignment,” Fern said.

Oscar was unconvinced. “You could have waited.”

“I didn’t need him.”

Oscar shook his head and gave a humourless grin. “No, you never need anyone, do you?”

Fern shrugged. Oscar was right: she didn’t. She had been looking after herself for long enough now. It was not a matter of pride or arrogance; it was a matter of simple practicality. Should she ever need someone, shewas quite certain she would be able to accept it in a perfectly reasonable way.

It simply hadn’t happened yet.

“One day,” Oscar said ominously, “you’ll blithely march yourself straight to the gates of hell. And when you’re all alone in front of the devil, I wonder how brave you will feel then.”

“I wouldn’t be alone, though, Oscar.”

He raised an eyebrow.

Fern smiled. “I’d be with the devil.”

Oscar rolled his eyes and stood with a grunt. “Your arrogance will kill you before the devil can.”

She pointed to the book, which he still held. “Are you going to read it?”

He paused by her door, looked at the book then back at her.

A slow smile spread across his severe face.

“How could I not? Salman Schuster—the great explorer—and Arthur Sheldrake, the Friend of the Foe, the man who spoke to a hundred cosmic entities. A catalogue of Gateway symbols, the only one of its kind. Not just a book, an audacious act, an open rebellion against the Reformed Vatican and its campaign of withholding knowledge from the world! And they died writing it, didn’t they?” He lowered his voice, adding in a conspiratorial tone, “I actually skimmed the first few pages on my way up here.”

In his verve and enthusiasm, Fern saw her own reflected. She mirrored Oscar’s smile back at him. “Well, you best hurry up. I’m first on the list to borrow it once it’s been processed.”

Oscar sighed and opened the door but did not leave. “You and your accursedresearch. Are you finally going to tell me what this big mysterious thesis of yours is?”

Ferndidwish to tell him, but she shook her head. “Not yet.”

“I knew it,” said Oscar impishly. “You’re working on something flamboyant and foolish, a bright, shiny thing to attract all those plump research grants.”

“On the contrary. I’m working on something important and controversial and seek only secrecy and discretion for now.”

“Secrecy, Fiddlehead?” Oscar said, closing the door once more. “I can keep a secret, rest assured.”

“I saiddiscretion.”

Oscar reopened the door.

“Insolent hag,” were his parting words.