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Fern scribbled his feedback down, making a mental note to cross-check the information later, just in case. She liked Srivastav, and he reminded her of Oscar, but she would be foolish to trust him just because she liked him, especially this far into the candidacy.

“Should you be telling me all this?” she asked, half-smiling.

He chuckled, the laugh lines around his eyes crinkling. Fern imagined, briefly, what he might be like as a father, and if his daughters missed him.

“It’s going to narrow down your list, nothing more. Whatever help I lend you now, Miss Sullivan—Fern—the universe will send back to me.” His smile faltered, his tone grew thoughtful. “Just like magic, everything must be paid for, in the end.”

“Well, then you must allow me to return the favour, should you ever find yourself researching Sumbra.” She handed him the list tentatively back. “Any other thoughts, before I go?”

With a silvery laugh, Srivastav took the paper from her hand and laid it on his desk. He scrawled some notes down, his handwriting looped and neat, and handed Fern her list back.

“I hope this helps.”

“Thank you,” Fern said. “I mean it, General. If there’s ever anything I can do to repay this favour, you need only name it.”

“Ravi. And think nothing of it,” Srivastav said. He pointed at her arm, still a little weak and awkward, bookswedged between it and her chest. “Would you like some help with your books?”

“No, thank you,” Fern answered. “You’ve helped me so much already, and I’m only on the top floor. It’s not such a long way to go.”

Srivastav bowed his head and turned back to his work. Taking it as her cue to leave, Fern continued on her way.

Back at her desk, she cross-checked Srivastav’s annotations. He had not told her one lie. Not only was the information he’d given her useful, but it drastically helped her narrow down her list, saving her hours of research.

That evening, Fern went to dinner, intending to thank Srivastav for his help. To her surprise, he wasn’t in the dining room with the other candidates. He was probably working hard on his own research. Still eager to avoid the other candidates, Fern filled a plate with food and went straight to her room to eat alone.

She didn’t see Srivastav at breakfast the next day and vowed to thank him when she next saw him. Returning to her desk on the top floor of the Elemency Tower, she spent the rest of her day working.

Once she was done selecting her pyromancy spells, she began her research on water spells. They were fewer by far than the pyromancy spells, and it took her no longer than an afternoon to narrow down a shortlist of potential spells and their incantations.

She stood to return her books to their places, finding the room steeped in shadows where the dim lamplight could not reach. The sun had long gone down. Outside, a fierce storm raged, rain crackling against the windows.

After returning her books, she passed by the desk Srivastav had occupied the previous day. She turned the corner. Somebody was there, but it was not the pyromancer.

Chapter forty-two

The Cost

Heart pounding, Fern retreatedquickly behind the bookshelf, peering around the dark wood. Léo Lautric, in a sweater of deep red wool, stooped slightly over the desk and was rifling through the books and notes left there by Srivastav.

And as Fern watched him, his long fingers turning pages that were not his, his eyes, sunken into beds of shadows, quick and clever still as they read through the general’s work, her heart sank.

She should have known better than to ever trust him.

Her old suspicions flared back into life, more burning and urgent than ever. Josefa’s stolen research, Lautric walking around the corridors at night. The break-in of Sarlet’s office. Vittoria’s disappearance and the books Lautric had borrowed from her as part of some mysterious bargain.

And now, Srivastav—whom she had not seen all day.

Every soft emotion she might ever have felt towards Lautric calcified into sharp, jutting shards. Her anger was different now, not the cold distrust of before, butsomething personal, something with the same bitter taste as betrayal.

She had always suspected him of being manipulative, had witnessed Baudet accusing him of it, and yet she’d still fallen for his tricks. But true stupidity was never learning from one’s mistakes, and Fern, though far from infallible, was still far from stupid.

She rounded the corner, fists clenched.

“What are you doing?”

Lautric looked up slowly. The serenity with which he lay down the sheaf of notes he had been flipping through made Fern’s stomach twist with indignant anger. He seemed neither shocked to see her nor ashamed of being caught in the act of cheating. He greeted her with the same soft murmur with which he’d invited her to his bedroom mere evenings ago.

“Good evening, Fern.”