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For a moment, nobody moved. Dr Essouadi looked careworn, her fierce black eyes dulled with tiredness; Srivastav appeared solemn but unsurprised. Baudet’s fist had relaxed around his Abyssal cross, which now dangled from his fingers, swaying like something shaking its head. Vasili Drei, with his long black hair gathered back—his version of formality—seemed supremely unconcerned, almost amused.

The twins were as ice, utterly expressionless, but they held one another’s hands, fingers interlaced, and their knuckles were pale with the force of their grip.

They had come here to claim both roles, and now, only one of them could succeed. Fern could not begin to fathom what that might mean to the siblings, what poisonous storm might be brewing in the small glass phials of their strange hearts. Fern could hardly bear to think on it.

Finally, her gaze swept over Lautric. He was staring straight at her.

His expression reflected her own feelings back to her: sadness, concern and determination.

This time, there wasno party to celebrate the completion of the second assignment, no gathering, no sense of relief or brief companionship. Despite the Grand Archivists’ attempt to foster cooperation amongst the candidates, recent events had the opposite effect. The candidates seemed more divided than ever.

Dinner in the Mage Tower was a sober, subdued affair. General Srivastav made no toast this time, and nobody attempted to do so in his stead. Fern forced herself to eat, but she had no appetite. Her stomach was in knots. She took several sips of wine, hoping it would help her relax.

But there was no wine strong enough to wash away the emptiness in Baudet’s gaze, or the quiet, terrible despair with which the twins held each other’s hands even as Edmund tried to encourage his sister to eat.

Even the formidable Dr Essouadi, whose exhaustion and illness seemed to be catching up with her in the wake of whatever spell she’d performed for the second assignment, seemed diminished, almost frail.

As soon as dinner was done, Fern stood to leave. She wanted to be alone, she needed to be away from the other candidates. She was certain she’d feel calmer alone, less affected, less raw.

But as she made her way back up towards her apartment door, quiet footsteps caught up with her. She smelled sugar and almonds before she could turn. Shestopped in front of her door to find her key, opening her mouth to firmly bid Lautric goodnight.

He spoke before she could.

“Fern.”

She turned her head. He stood close enough to touch her, though he made no attempt to do so. If she wished to, she could begin to count the freckles on his cheeks, nose and forehead. She could trace the lush, rounded bow of his upper lip with her fingertips, or feel the feather softness of his long eyelashes.

She did none of those things; she was not so tired and reckless yet.

“Would you like to come back to my apartment with me?” Lautric said.

Her heartbeat faltered, a flit and flicker, like the wings of a frightened bird. She faced him almost in a start of surprise, her mouth falling open. He drew closer, close enough that the warmth of his skin was an invisible, trembling veil between them.

Fern was certain she must be overreacting, misinterpreting his question, like misreading a line in a book. She steadied her voice. “The assignment is over—whatever for?”

“Whatever you want.”

His voice was a murmur, and as always, his gaze was bold and unashamed. There was naked want on his face. Fern’s insides, like sugar in fire, seemed to melt and burn all at once, trickling down, pooling low in her stomach, aching. Lautric’s quiet mannerism belied the audacity of which he was capable—still, Fern would have never expected him to be quite so direct.

“I… don’tthink I should,” she said.

Lautric’s lips curled into a smile that was melancholy, otherworldly, almost elfin. He stepped closer, trapping Fern between her door and his body. “You don’tthinkyou should, or you do notwantto?”

It was certainly not a question Fern intended to answer to herself, let alone to him. Lautric seemed to take her silence for an answer of some kind: he took Fern’s wrist gently in one hand, turning it as he reached into his pocket with his other hand.

In her upturned palm, he placed a small, cold object.

“In case you change your mind,” he murmured. “And if you don’t, keep it still. Whatever you might ever want—or need—come find me. My invitation is permanent.”

He tilted his head and brushed his lips against Fern’s burning cheek. The sweetness of his smell was a heady perfume, the warmth of his body lulling hers closer. She turned her head a little, just as she had done the previous night when she’d caught his kiss on her lips, and stood very still, almost nervous, though Fern was rarely ever nervous.

Lautric gave a low, feathery laugh, amusement tinged with melancholy, desire softened into longing. Then he kissed her mouth with tantalising lightness, the touch more a whisper than a kiss.

“It was a pleasure having you for my partner,” he said. And, “Goodnight, Fern.”

He released her hand, turned, and withdrew. Fern stood long in the empty corridor, gazing down at the small golden key in her hand, her heart hammering.

It was the key to his apartment door.