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“Do you not missyourlibrary?“ Josefa asked.

Did Fern miss Vestersted Library? She tried not to think on it too much. Ever since her parents’ death had forced her to leave Carthane, she had always intended to come back. Like some sort of homing bird, she’d lived with a constant sense that she ought to return, a pull she must answer one way or another.

As a result, she had never really given her heart to any other place. She had lived at the St Jerome Orphanage, then moved to London, working in an old bookshopwhile she studied. She had lived in Cambridge, lived a while in the south of France, studying Gateways in old monasteries for her dissertation. After that, she lived in Paris, working at the Bibliothèque Mazarine, before moving to New Copenhagen.

Even in New Copenhagen, she was forever travelling to retrieve missing or stolen books. She felt as much at home in her apartment as she did in hotel suites, train cabins or the small rooms of old countryside inns.

“I miss my work and my routine,” she said finally. “And of course, I miss Vestersted Library and my colleagues. But adjusting to a new place is always difficult at first. With time, it will ease. One day, you might even come to think of Carthane as your home.”

As she said it, she thought suddenly of Oscar’s office: the smell of books, the crackling of the small fire burning in his fireplace, the taste of brandy and the sound of Oscar’s booming laughter. It hadn’t felt like home then, so why did it feel like it now? Fern pushed the thought aside even as she heard Josefa’s unconvinced reply reach her through the darkness.

“Perhaps…”

The silence that followed lasted so long that Fern had almost fallen asleep when Josefa’s voice pulled her back from the brink.

“I’m so afraid.”

Her voice trembled, almost breaking. Fern turned in the bed, facing Josefa. Although she could not quite make out her features in the darkness, she saw the outline of the young woman. She was reminded once more, painfully, of the little children who used to sneak into her bed at the orphanage, clinging close, desperatefor comfort. She swallowed back a painful lump in her throat.

“What are you afraid of?” she asked.

“I don’t know… Ever since I arrived here, this—this awful dread’s been weighing on me. As if a dark shadow stalks my steps, inching closer with each passing day.”

Fern reached out a hand and placed it on Josefa’s arm. “You may be far from home, but you’re not alone. If you feel afraid, I’ll help keep you safe. If you feel alone, I’ll keep you company. All you ever need do is ask; I’ll be there.”

“Thank you. It means a lot to me.” Josefa suddenly let out a peal of quiet laughter. “I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect you to be so kind.”

Fern, too, laughed. “That’s because I’m not usually a very kind person.”

“Oh,” Josefa said, a smile in her voice. “Does that mean you’re making an exception?”

“I’m making an exception.”

Silence fell, and this time, it was not interrupted again. Josefa’s breathing grew slower, deeper. Fern, smiling to herself, turned in the bed, curling up under the blanket. A minute later, she felt the telltale dip of Inkwell settling near her feet.

She had not intended to extend anyone the hand of friendship, nor to concern herself with the affairs of others. Now that she had promised to help Josefa, she expected to instantly regret giving in to the impulse. She expected to feel the slow, crushing weight of having made a mistake.

But she felt none of those things. Instead, a small flame of warmth flickered in her chest and grew, spreadingthrough her. A warmth that was quite the opposite of the cold memory of St Jerome’s dormitory. It glowed inside her all the way until she fell asleep.

That night, she slept better than she had in a long time, and she awoke refreshed and in a pleasant mood. She turned, sat up in surprise.

Josefa was gone.

Chapter twenty-three

The Cynic

Fern’s first thought wasthat Josefa must have left before she’d awoken. Perhaps the young woman had felt embarrassed by her display of emotions the previous night, or perhaps she had gone to find Housemistress Sarlet about her door. Fern did not see her in the dining room for breakfast, but most of the candidates were absent that morning, probably resting after the assignment or nursing hangovers.

When Fern returned to her room, bearing a small bowl of cream for Inkwell, she found three envelopes in the wooden tray by her door.

She set the bowl down quickly inside, bid Inkwell a polite goodbye, and returned to the tray to pick up the envelopes. All bore the seal of gold wax and the image of the eye with a candle for a pupil. Fern had only written to Oscar recently; he probably hadn’t even received her letter yet, but disappointment still surged through her chest.

She opened the envelopes. The first contained a brief letter congratulating her on the completion of her firstassignment and informing her she had achieved a score of eighty-seven out of a possible one hundred.

A modest score, though of course she would not know its true significance unless she learned what the other candidates got. And in any case, it did not matter if she’d achieved the very lowest score, it could not be changed now.

The second envelope held a short invitation to attend the Palissy Auditorium the following morning, Fern guessed for the announcement of the second assignment.