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“I never said I wished for everyone’s success,” he said. “Only yours, Miss Sullivan.”

“Why?” Fern tightened her fingers on Lautric’s shoulders. “I certainly am not wishing for yours.”

“Why? Because we are rivals? Or have I done something to displease you?”

He knew perfectly well he had done nothing to displease her. Lautric seemed to be, ironically—irksomely—a perfectly pleasing young man. Graceful, handsome, courteous and mild-mannered.

Fern, emboldened by the heady alchemy of alcohol in her bloodstream and little food in her stomach and Lautric’s arms about her, said, “I know your family well.”

Lautric’s smile grew, becoming at once more beautiful and dangerous. He pressed her closer, sweeping her to him by tightening his arm about her waist, and spoke in a voice so low she barely heard him over the music.

“They know you well, too.”

Chapter twenty-one

The Trap

The room crystallised intoa sort of paralysis. Everything around Fern stopped happening, the candidates and the sofas and the gleaming bottles of the bar disappearing. Her focus, through the haze of alcohol, sharpened, narrowing on Lautric as though she were seeing him properly for the first time.

Of course his family knew her well. They had sent too many thugs to steal books from her to not be aware that she’d hospitalised every one of them. They knew the names of all the books she had snatched out from under their noses, and that she was the one who had returned the only existing copy ofSymbolism of In-Between Doorsto Vestersted.

She was a thorn in the side of the Lautric House and had been for years; it was as much of a professional achievement as any award Fern had received over the course of her career.

But there could only be one reason for Lautric to mention it now.

“Are you threatening me?” Fern asked in a breath.

Lautric’s expression fell, as though the thought had not occurred to him and appalled him now she had mentioned it.

“To what possible purpose?” he said.

Fern thought of what Baudet had said to him the night Vittoria got attacked.You manipulative wretch. But Fern would rather be manipulated than lied to, because manipulation, like learning, could only stand solidly on a foundation of truth.

“My question exactly,” she said.

Lautric was silent for a moment, his stare unreadable. He leaned forward, close enough that Fern could smell the sweet alcohol on his breath, the warm, sugary smell of him. He spoke in a tone of sincerity, his eyes boring into hers as though he wished to pour the essence of his true feelings into her.

“I have no reason to threaten you,” he murmured. “You are not my enemy.”

“You might be mine.” Her words were as sincere and soft as his, though she had not intended to speak so gently.

“Why would you take me for your enemy when you could have me for an ally?”

They had stopped dancing. Now, they simply stood in a corner of the room, beneath the dim light of a blue lampshade, with her hands on his shoulders and his arm still around her waist. The wool of his sweater was soft beneath her fingers, and the warmth of his body radiated from him like subtle pyromancy.

Fern stepped away. “Because I despise book thieves.”

His arms dropped to his side, and he nodded in a way that seemed to acknowledge that this was a fair enough reason to make an enemy.

Then he said in a solemn tone, “Then, Miss Sullivan, you will be relieved to learn that I have never stolen a book in my life.”

Fern opened her mouth to ask him about the Sumbra books she had seen Vittoria give him, but she clamped her lips shut. She’d had too much to drink, and she was tired, and careless. She had almost spilled precious information and given up whatever advantage she held over him.

Narrowing her eyes, she studied Lautric. Whether or not it was an attempt at manipulation—and it almost certainly was—he seemed to wish for peace between them. Antagonising him was more stubborn pride than sensible strategising, and Fern should know better than to value pride over sensibility.

“I’m sorry, we got off on the wrong foot,” she said with her most courteous smile. “I should not have been so rude, and you are right; we are not enemies. Why don’t we begin anew?”

She extended her hand. “How do you do. Fern Sullivan.”