Page 11 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)
Chapter eleven
The Mentor
When Fern entered the small dining room the following morning, most of the candidates were already gathered there for breakfast. Fern was generally misanthropic in the mornings—she preferred to begin her days with coffee and silence. But the conversation at the table seemed to revolve around the subject of the soon-to-be-announced mentorships, a topic which did not fail to draw Fern’s interest.
“Lord Battyl and Lady Covington, of course, are the only mentors worth having,” Emmeline Ferrow was saying.
She had a manner of speaking that drew attention to her in the same way the tinkling of silver cutlery on the rim of a crystal cup might. Her incandescence was an affectation, but an affectation so perfectly polished it fit her like a second skin.
“Just because they are the oldest of the lot doesn’t necessarily make them the wisest,” Vittoria Orsini pointed out.
This morning, she wore a shirt of pale blue silk and a long skirt trimmed with lace. There was something movingly Romantic about her, from the soulfulness of her eyes to the mermaid-like gloss of her curls.
Rapha?l Baudet, when she spoke, sat up in his chair, though he said nothing in reply. Fern noticed him noticing Vittoria, and she wondered how much of his interest was motivated by Vittoria’s noble surname and how much of it was motivated by her beauty.
“Out of all the Grand Archivists of Carthane,” Dr Essouadi pointed out from her end of the table, “Professor Incera alone has published more research than all her colleagues.”
“Being a talented scholar does not necessarily mean being a good teacher,” Emmeline Ferrow replied with an airy laugh. “Would you not say so, Miss Novak? You are, after all, both those things.”
Josefa Novak had just walked into the busy dining room. She looked up as though surprised to be addressed and shook her head.
“I’m not sure what you’re asking, Miss Ferrow.”
“My sister and I were merely wondering which of the Grand Archivists you covet for a mentor,” Edmund Ferrow said. “Lady Covington, perhaps, or perhaps even Lord Battyl?”
Though his arm was draped around the back of his sister’s chair, his body turned towards her, his eyes were fixed on Josefa, tracking her as she walked down the length of the table to pour herself a cup of tea.
“I’ve not thought much on the matter,” answered Josefa after a moment of thought. “All of them are great scholars in their own way. I suppose I should not be disappointed by any of them.”
“What a sensible little answer!” Emmeline said with a scintillating laugh. “How I should like to stitch you like a flower and wear you right here.”
She pressed her hand to her chest, where the deep blue satin of her dress stretched taut over a stiff bodice. A flush of pink drifted into the sunken valley beneath Josefa’s prominent cheekbones.
“A Santa Velia compliment,” Josefa said, sitting herself down as far from the twins as she could. “The art of flattering your interlocutor while making them feel awful about themselves. Is that not so?”
Edmund and his sister looked at one another and both laughed, airy and soft. Then Edmund turned his eyes on Fern, as though he was now done paying Josefa attention, and he launched his question like a challenge.
“And yourself, Miss Sullivan? I’m sure the Grand Archivists will be fighting over you, our resident Sumbra luminary, but which would you choose?”
Another Santa Velia compliment. Fern was beginning to understand the phrase more clearly—she was far from a luminary and doubted the twins considered her to be one for even a second.
In any case, Fern was saved from having to give a response when a new arrival took the attention away from her. The door opened, and Léo Lautric made his entrance.
He was last to arrive at breakfast, and he was still rubbing the sleepy haze from out of his eyes with the ball of one hand. He looked better rested than the previous day, and his garments were understated and comfortable: a deep blue woollen jumper over plain black trousers.
At his arrival, Baudet interrupted his conversation with Vittoria Orsini, looking up to ask with cold joviality, “Did you rest well, Lautric?”
Lautric’s eyes slid over to Baudet, then away as though he had barely heard him. He gave a non-committal nod and made his way to the carafe of coffee, pouring himself a cup before taking a seat next to Fern.
She recoiled away a little, thinking suddenly of the incident on the train back from Santico, the way Hector had grabbed her by the throat, the incantation she had not allowed him to finish.
“Good morning, Miss Sullivan,” Lautric murmured. “Would you care to—”
Before he could finish his question, Housemistress Sarlet appeared in the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her.
“I trust you’ve all had a pleasant first night here at Carthane. If you would all follow me to the Palissy Auditorium, you will now be assigned your mentors.”
She turned without waiting for the candidates to finish their breakfast. Fern was one of the first to stand, eager to get away from Lautric. No good would come from being associated with him.
It was clear he knew exactly who she was. At worst, he had been sent here with the objective of ridding his house of her, at best, to twist and warp her into an ally.
Fern wished for neither of these fates; she would avoid him as best she could.
The Palissy Auditorium was a windowless room shaped like an amphitheatre, elegantly upholstered in red and bronze, bathed in the warm glow of gas lamps. Upon the stage was a large ebony desk, a podium, and a blackboard that extended the length of the stage. The Grand Archivists sat at the desk: the oldest, Lord Battyl, stood, waiting for the candidates to take their seats.
Fern’s eyes searched the Grand Archivists.
Her back was straight, her hands clasped around one knee. This was the moment she had been anticipating—she had spent long hours on her journey wondering which of the Grand Archivists she would be assigned to.
In her heart, she coveted Dr Alistair Auden, a prominent Sumbra scholar who had written some of the most influential texts on the subject. He sat in the middle of the table, an austere man with jetty eyebrows and a black beard groomed to a point.
With him as a mentor, Fern would be able to easily gain access to the Sumbra Wing, which required a permission slip to enter. She’d be able to consult him on the rarest texts in Carthane, including the one book Fern was after. She was wary about sharing her topic of research, and at the same time she was thrilled at the thought of receiving feedback from such a giant in the field.
Fern tapped her fingers nervously against her knee as each Grand Archivist stood in turn to announce the name of their mentee .
First, Lord Battyl himself announced, “I am Hugh Battyl, fifth Baron of Eckelshire, and I will be mentoring Miss Emmeline and Mr Edmund Ferrow.”
Next was a large, forbidding woman with pale eyes and a voice imbued with cold authority. “Lady Covington. I will be mentoring Miss Vittoria Orsini and Dr Essouadi.”
Then it was another woman, this time short and bony, who wore glasses and leaned on a crutch when she stood.
“Professor Incera,” she said with a brief smile. “I will be mentoring Miss Josefa Novak and General Srivastav.”
She was followed by another Grand Archivist, who appeared to be the youngest one.
“I’m Professor Kundani, and I will be mentoring Mr Baudet.”
Fern grew more and more hopeful as each mentor was assigned. Dr Auden was finally next to stand; Fern had to stop herself from leaning forward, hiding her eagerness by tightly clenching her fingers together.
“Dr Auden. I will be mentoring Mr Lautric.”
Fern suppressed a sigh. Why him? It made more sense for Dr Auden to be Fern’s mentor—after all, her research swam in the wake of his. They were both scholars of Sumbra, both accustomed to dealing with Gateways and the entities beyond them.
Perhaps it did not matter—perhaps the Grand Archivists had opted to assign mentorships randomly to avoid bias and favouritism.
Fern exhaled. Well, there it was. Still, there was not a single Grand Archivist sitting at that table who wasn’t an exceptional scholar in their own right. There was nothing to be disappointed about.
Except that the last Grand Archivist at the table stood and announced, “Professor Farouk. I will be mentoring Mr Drei.” She then pointed at the chair next to hers. “And Professor Saffyn will be mentoring Miss Sullivan.”
There was a moment of silence. Fern remained utterly still, blinking slowly in disbelief. Professor Saffyn was a respected scholar, sure enough; having him as a mentor might not have been the worst thing that could have happened.
Except that his chair was empty and he was nowhere to be seen.