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Fern and Lautric stopped in the centre of the chamber. Without greeting or preamble, Dr Auden waved a hand.

“You may begin.”

Given how pitiful a team they made, under-rested and distracted as they were, Lautric was shockingly calm.He presented his half of the assignment in firm, level tones, consulted his notes without embarrassment, and remained steady even when stuttering over a word, something which would have devastated Fern.

Fern, though she was tired and restless and a little lost, was as prepared as she could be. Her research was impeccable, her voice clear and confident as she presented it. The Grand Archivists listened to her stone-faced, giving nothing away, almost as motionless as the paintings of their predecessors which overhung the room.

The time came for their incantations. First, Lautric was called forward, and Fern was asked to stand outside the ward. She did so, her eyes fixed on Lautric. He was pale, deep shadows under his eyes, but his mouth was set in a firm line. Whatever his true purpose for being in Carthane, it was clear that Lautric was trying his best to do well in his candidacy.

He began his recitation.

In his mouth, Zestra’s incantation was clean yet subdued, the foreign words uncurling like liquorice smoke from his tongue. His Guardian Circle formed around him, ribbons of darkness twisting and expanding into the shape of three dark angels.

They were long and spindly, their black wings ragged as a crow’s, their bodies clad head to toe in armour, visors concealing their faces. Whatever image they’d taken, the apparitions were more Sumbral than angelic. Spears were in their hands, shields on their backs, dull silver and faded filigree. They stood around Lautric for several seconds, multitudinous eyes blinking through the dark feathers of their wings.

Then they vanished.

Still expressionless, the Grand Archivists dismissed him and called Fern forward. She stepped into the ward as Lautric stepped out of it, and he gave her a small, sweet smile, his mouth silently forming the wordsGood luck, though Fern could not help but think of all the kisses she’d left on those lips.

Inside the ward, Fern faced the Grand Archivists. She opened her mouth and began the incantation. Her recitation was loud and fervent, fuelled by the power Lautric had lent her the night of the scream, fuelled by all her ambition and her despair and her mistakes, too.

The spell worked quickly. Her Guardian Circle rose around her: five colossal beings of light, their blinding white wings fanning out.

They were naked and fleshless and carried no weapons, but spikes of bone jutted from their arms and legs. They stood, and as they stood, they multiplied: five turning into ten, ten turning into twenty. Fern, blinded by light and a little shaken, ended the spell.

The Grand Archivists bent to make notes; their faces betrayed nothing.

Finally, Fern and Lautric were brought forward once more. Lady Covington leaned over the desk. She was a large, authoritative woman of sixty, with watery eyes and haughty lips, but her focus on Lautric had the sharpness of a needle’s point.

“Mr Lautric,” she said. “Please remind us what your area of study is?”

Fern, sensing displeasure in Lady Covington’s question, dared not look at Lautric. But from the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the small shrug he gave. “Transgressive Invocation.”

“And yet you and Miss Sullivan chose to research Conjuration for this assessment, not Transgressive Invocation.”

“Yes.”

His tone was calm and reasonable, and he gave no excuse, as though his answer required none.

“You would argue that Conjuration is less powerful than Transgressive Invocation?” Lady Covington asked—an insistence.

The Grand Archivists stared fixedly at Lautric. Fern dared not interfere, though she longed to. She watched the panel with a mixture of surprise and dread.

Why were they doing this? She was certain they no more wished to witness taboo magic than Fern and Lautric wished to commit it. So why this line of questioning? Were they angry Fern and Lautric had avoided Transgressive Invocation? Or were they trying to corner Lautric?

Perhaps they despised him after all—perhaps the presence of his house in their halls was something they had been cornered into. What was it Oscar had told Fern, what seemed like a lifetime ago?

Who knows what pressures the Grand Archivists are under, Fern, what dilemmas might dictate their choices and what forces might influence their decisions.

Lautric did not seem hurt or worried or in any way affected by this interrogation. His posture remained straight, shoulders slumped in tiredness; his voice remained calm, his manners subdued.

“I would argue,” he said, “that Carthane is not a place for Transgressive Invocation.”

No hint of defiance when he spoke, only steady certainty.

The Grand Archivists drew back, almost collectively, exchanging a glance. Kundani and Auden said nothing, though the gaze between them lingered in unspoken conversation. Lady Covington had turned once more to look at Lautric, and her lip was curled in disapproval.

“Carthane is a place forknowledge,” Lady Covington said frostily. “It is neither a place for scholarly scruples nor a place for ethical sensibilities. Knowledge is knowledge—it is neither good nor evil, nor in fact, anything at all. Neither you nor I, Mr Lautric, dictate what knowledge is worthy of us and what is not.”