Page 8

“Sparethe time?“ He rolled his eyes. “You overwhelm me with the warmth of your affection.”

Fern laughed, and Oscar smiled, watching her laugh. Then his smile faded.

“I mean it, Fern. Please keep in touch. It’s not with a light heart that I must watch you leave for Carthane. If anything should happen or if you should ever need help, you’re not alone in this world. I hope you know this.”

“I know.”

He was worried. Oscar always paid more heed to rumours than he ought to as a scholar. Perhaps he feared that Fern was venturing recklessly into a dangerous unknown. But Fern was not going into the unknown.

She was going home.

Chapter four

The Gift

Fern’s assurance did notfalter until she reached the last week of her notice at Vestersted. On the Monday of that week, she awoke from an unsettling dream and found Inkwell sitting at the foot of her bed, watching her. Inkwell was an aloof beast, and he and Fern mostly lived in a tacit agreement to never intrude too closely upon the other.

But perhaps Inkwell had sensed the distress in her nightmares, or perhaps she’d disturbed his sleep with noise. When she awoke, he slowly crossed the length of her bed and butted his skull against her knuckles where her hand lay by the corner of her pillow.

“I’m alright,” Fern said. “Only a dream.”

The black cat blinked and jumped down from the bed, disappearing into the corridor. Fern rolled onto her back with a breath; she had already forgotten her nightmare.

The rest of the week went by much faster than she had hoped—far too fast. The days were full of administrative tasks, overseeing the training of her replacement, closingout pending projects, ensuring handover documents were thorough and helpful without being too overbearing.

In the evenings, when she wasn’t packing or preparing for her journey to Carthane, there were farewell events to attend. A formal dinner event organised by the library, and a more relaxed and chaotic evening of drinks and dancing, which ended with Fern helping an inebriated and emotional Sufian back to his apartment.

Fern half hoped this excess in socialisation would make her feel better about having to leave Vestersted—it only made her feel worse.

At the end of her final day, a small party took place in one of the auditoriums. Just the Head Librarians, Fern’s team and Oscar, some wine, a cake and presents.

Given Fern mostly kept to herself at work, she was surprised and moved by the thoughtfulness of the gifts she received from her colleagues. Books and collections of essays pertinent to her research, a beautiful notebook with a fine leather cover and robust paper, and a collection of monogrammed fountain pens. Finally, it was Oscar’s turn to give her his present, but not before he made a speech.

Fern sat back against the red cushion of the auditorium seats, watching him with a mixture of embarrassment and fondness.

“It is no secret that Fern and I have had our disagreements over the past,” Oscar began, to a wave of stifled laughter. “Memorable disagreements include the debate over the punishment of book thieves amongst our card-holding members, the many skirmishes over which wings should be accessible to the general publicand, of course, who could forget the great filing system war of last winter?”

He paused to give Fern a heavy look.

“We can all agree that the better filing system won.” Here, he was interrupted by dissenting noises in the auditorium, which he dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Though I may be talking of triumph, we are experiencing a great loss today. I have never known a librarian to be so impeccably punctual, so exacting in their duties, and so wholly dedicated to their work. Many of our most valuable books were retrieved by Fern at great personal danger. Fern, your absence here will be truly felt, but I know I speak for everyone when I say that we wish you nothing but luck, good fortune and success at Carthane.”

This was confirmed by a murmur of acquiescence from the librarians. At Fern’s side, Dr Jamila Himan, Fern’s successor, took her hand without looking at her, squeezing her fingers. A brief, warm touch, a fond, silent farewell.

“Though I know you have long desired this opportunity,” Oscar continued, “I hope you remember this, Fern. You’re not the lucky party here, Carthane is. In you, they will receive the most hard-working, disciplined, deserving and dedicated candidate they could ever ask for. And on that note, I invite you all to drink to this toast: Fuck Carthane and congratulations, Fern!”

Laughter erupted at the words, then cheers. Though she did not quite agree with the sentiment of the toast, Fern raised her glass and drank. She drank at every toast thereafter, and partook in the cake, though her stomach was knotted with new-blooming nerves.

She was making the correct choice, she told herself. This was the only thing she’d ever wanted, what all her work had always led to. She believed it completely; only, the knots of nerves still persisted, inextricable from the excitement.

Oscar walked over toher and handed her a small box wrapped in blue paper.

Fern took it, a tremor shaking her heart. She unwrapped the present, revealing a slim casket of blue velvet with a gold clasp. She opened it: inside was a dagger. Fern’s mouth fell open. Taking the dagger carefully in her hands, she pulled it free from its sheath.

It was an object of outstanding beauty and craft: a pommel with a sun carved into it, a bone hilt inlaid with gold, a slim blade of refined steel, wickedly sharp. The sheath had an upper fitting of embossed gold from which hung a chain and a belt clip.

Fern looked up, throat tight. “Oscar. It’sbeautiful.”

Oscar crouched in front of Fern and laid his hand over hers, covering the dagger.