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Her scruples might have cost her precious information. She should’ve read the letter.

When she returned to her apartment, she found everything as she left it. If Sarlet had searched her rooms, then she had taken great care to leave everything as it was.

Inkwell was the only clue that the room had been disturbed. His food and water bowls were both half-full, kept regularly maintained by either Fern or the servants who cleaned her apartment. His wicker cage was still near the window, where Fern had set it when she’d arrived.

But Inkwell himself was nowhere to be seen.

“Inkwell,” Fern called. “Where are you, little inkpot? Come out. It’s only me.”

She waited for the familiar pitter-patter of small paws, but only silence answered. A weight settled on Fern’s stomach as she set her things down. Was it possible Inkwell might have made his way out of her room while Sarlet searched it? Inkwell did not like strangers.

Fern searched her apartment, checking under the bed and chairs, checking inside and above the wardrobe and bookshelf. She checked the bathroom, the console in the tiny vestibule by the door, under her coat where it was draped over a chair and behind the curtains of the windows and bed.

Not you too, Fern couldn’t stop thinking.Not you too.

She had confirmed in writing that she had permission to bring Inkwell with her, and Inkwell would never leave her side, no matter how standoffish he was. He had been with her too long, and they were too used to one another, their tacit, silent affection for each other.

She thought of what Lautric had said earlier, that she was too ambitious and that she did not love well enough, and her heart sank. With Oscar so far away, she only had Inkwell left. Without him, she would be completely alone: the sad, lonely wretch Lautric had implied her to be.

Fern seized her key and checked her watch, shaking herself out of her despondency. Some spoiled nobleman’s words would not bring her down like this. Inkwell was probably lost somewhere nearby, trying to make his way back to her. Fern would simply go find him.

She’d reached her door when she felt something butt against her boot. She looked down and let out a strangled laugh, half-anger, half-relief.

“You perfect little idiot.”

She crouched, and Inkwell rubbed his head against her knee, sweeping her with his tail before circling away. Fern slumped back against the wall, and stayed on the floor for a long time, blinking wet eyes into the darkness of the unlit vestibule.

The following morning, Fernwoke up full of grim purpose and requested a meeting with the Grand Archivists. She was summoned only an hour later, right after her breakfast, into a grand office on the fourth floor of the Keystone.

Three of the Grand Archivists sat behind an ornate desk facing her: the old Lord Battyl, stony-faced Dr Auden and austere Professor Incera, their black sashes gleaming across their chests.

Fern knew before she even spoke that she was unlikely to get much out of this meeting. The faces looking down at her were closed and indifferent—distracted, almost. There were probably a thousand things the Grand Archivists considered to be more important than this, but it did not matter. Fern was determined.

“Please, sit,” said Professor Incera curtly.

Fern did as she was told, laying her hands on the table in front of her and lacing her fingers. This would stop her from fidgeting and appearing nervous. The people facing her now, as intimidating as they were, might soon be her colleagues. She could not allow them to see her as weak or easily daunted.

“How may we assist you?” Dr Auden asked coolly.

Fern had thought long and hard. Her instinct, and perhaps her pride, told her to ask the Grand Archivists to grant her a new partner. This would be a mistake. More than a mistake: it would show weakness and a lapse in professional resilience.

No, she was stuck with Lautric for this assignment. But she was acutely aware of the advantage all the other candidates would receive, especially the strongest pairs, such as Srivastav and Essouadi, and she needed to seek an advantage somewhere. She had shown grace and patience thus far. It was time to claim what she was owed.

“I’m hoping to find out when I might be able to request a meeting with my mentor.” When the Grand Archivists said nothing, Fern added, “Professor Saffyn.”

Dr Auden said nothing for a moment, exchanging a quick look with his colleagues. He was a handsome man, in his fifties, with a swarthy complexion and intelligent eyes, but there was a sort of dourness to him that Fern, having now noticed it, could no longer ignore.

“Professor Saffyn is currently unavailable,” Dr Auden said.

“Yes.” Fern stared at the Grand Archivists pointedly. “He has been since the start of my candidacy. I understand that unforeseen circumstances are unavoidable, but I’m reaching a point in my candidacy when I would appreciate some guida—”

Lord Battyl interrupted her. “Mentors were assigned before the start of the candidacy. I assure you, Miss Sullivan, that Professor Saffyn’s absence will not affect you negatively.”

Fern was familiar enough with bureaucracy to know she would not be getting far. A viper of resentment and irritation coiled inside her chest, but she steeled herself before speaking.

“Of course,” she said. “I understand that, and I’m not here to complain, rather I would like to find out—”

“Professor Saffyn’s absence is unfortunate, and I understand your position,” Lord Battyl said. For such a stately, elderly man, his voice was high and almost plaintive. His words implied empathy—his tone did not. “Once he returns, we are certain he will do his best to assist you in whatever way he can.”