Page 17 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)

Chapter seventeen

The Thief

The figure appeared from behind a pillar, and Fern’s mouth fell open.

Léo Lautric was crossing the atrium in the direction of the Mage Tower. His back was to her, but she immediately recognised him by his height, his crop of silken black hair, his singular gait, loose and long and relaxed.

Though his gait was familiar, it seemed almost weighed down, accompanied by a clinking sound, like rustling metal plates or chain mail.

Fern stared at him. He wore a heavy backpack, and slung through it was a long cylindrical object wrapped in dark cloth. He reached the other end of the atrium, passing only a few feet away from Fern’s hiding place. As he did, the smells from before grew stronger.

Mud and frost. A sharp, herbaceous smell, almost chemical. Metal, too, and something sweeter, like brown sugar or marzipan.

Lautric disappeared into the corridor in the direction of the Mage Tower. The smells lingered, then drifted away, leaving Fern alone in the pillar’s shadow. She was exhausted from the day’s work and yet her mind was crystal clear, pierced with a volley of questions.

Where the devil was Lautric coming from? What was he doing? What was in his backpack?

Fern’s first guess was books: the most precious things he could steal from Carthane. But the smells seemed to indicate Lautric had been outside. Where had he gone? Had he left the grounds? Not possible. It would take a spell of exceptional strength and complexity to pass the gate from which they had come, a spell so destructive and powerful it would be felt for miles.

Did Lautric know of another way out? His family probably had enough power and influence at its fingertips to find a way.

But even if Lautric was leaving Carthane, where was he going? And to what purpose?

The risk of being caught leaving the grounds could surely not be justified by whatever he was getting out of it. Unless his aim had never been to succeed in his candidacy. After all, the Lautrics had always coveted the knowledge amassed in Carthane: despite their house words, their interest was in power, not academia.

And what about the books Lautric had borrowed from Vittoria? First the borrowed books, then the attack. Baudet certainly had placed the blame at Lautric’s feet. Could it all be connected?

What if Lautric had not been sent here as a real candidate but as a thief?

What was Fern to do? Her mentor had not yet returned. Who could she turn to for advice? Should such a thing be reported to Housemistress Sarlet or even the Grand Archivists themselves? After all, she had no proof to support her suspicions.

It was too late in the night, and Fern was exhausted. With only two days left to prepare, her upcoming assignment should be foremost in her mind.

Protecting Carthane, for now, was the purview of the Sentinels, the archivists and Grand Archivists. Fern loved Carthane too much to let its sanctity be violated by the Lautric House, but she could do nothing as a mere candidate. As things stood, she was little more than a glorified guest in Carthane.

Fern reached the Mage Tower and paused.

The two Sentinels stood in their alcoves, unmoving. Did they ever sleep? It was a question Fern had never found an answer to. They seemed to have no response or reaction to Fern’s presence. Had they been the same towards Lautric? Did they know—or care—where he had been?

Suppressing a cold shudder, she pushed open the heavy door and made her way hastily back to the safety of her room.

Sleep was long to come that night. Fern lay in bed, watching Inkwell as he slept, spying the tiny inkblot body for the telltale movement of his heartbeat. At least he was with her; at least she wasn’t completely alone. It was that thought alone which allowed her to fall asleep at last .

The next day, she awoke feeling restless and disoriented. She turned in her bed, sliding her legs against the warm sheets, wishing she could stay a little longer; the other candidates would not be wasting time, though. Some were already far more knowledgeable in Alchemy than she was. Going back to sleep was not a luxury she could afford.

She got up with much reluctance and resentment, and dressed drably in a plain shirt and black corduroy trousers. Capturing her hair in the teeth of a tortoiseshell claw, she secured it at the sides with her customary pins, then glanced at her mirror.

She grimaced. Her late nights and the stress of her assignment were making her look pale and haggard, the area beneath her eyes taking on a bluish hue where the skin stretched over networks of veins. If she wasn’t careful, she would soon begin to look like Lautric.

The dining room was thankfully empty that morning. After a quick coffee and a slice of toast, Fern made her way to the Alchemy Wing. She strode in, only to falter in her steps. The other candidates gathered in a sort of semi-circle near one of the furthest desks, where Josefa had been working for the past few days.

Except that Josefa wasn’t sitting down: she was standing in the middle of the circle, facing Edmund Ferrow as he spoke.

Though Fern could not quite hear what he said, his tone was low and spiteful, and Josefa’s narrow face was flushed with barely contained fury.

Fern hastened towards the group.

“If not you, then who?” Josefa was saying .

“Really, use your brain, Novak,” Edmund sneered. “You’re a professor of Alchemical History, you have the greatest advantage here. Who wouldn’t benefit from your research?”

“And you and your sister are both from Santa Velia. Everything I know, your peers pioneered. Tell me, how much of your work has been stolen?”

Edmund shrugged. “Perhaps it’s easier to rob someone working alone than an entire group of people. You only have yourself to blame—I offered you an alliance, did I not?”

“Is that it, then?” Josefa said, fists clenched. “I offend you by turning down your little group of sycophants and aristos, so you punish me by stealing my work?”

“Please, Josefa,” Emmeline interjected, raising a hand. Her tone of voice was indolent, almost amused, but there was a gleaming sharpness in her eyes like glass razors. Emmeline, it would seem, was far angrier at Josefa’s accusations than she appeared. “You embarrass yourself. You have no proof we took your work, and I can assure you neither myself nor my brother have anything to gain from your research.”

“What’s happening?”

Fern started, turning her head sharply.

Lautric, who must have arrived late as usual, had sidled up next to her and leaned down slightly to murmur his question in her ear. He looked as exhausted as ever—and Fern was beginning to understand why—but his appearance was tidy and soft, black trousers and a woollen sweater in deep blue, his hair combed back.

He was standing so close to Fern that she could see the freckles on his face, crowding over his nose, cheeks, forehead, chin, even the pale column of his neck—so close that she could smell him. A warm, sweet smell, like brown sugar or marzipan, almost sensuous. A shiver traversed her, not cold, but deep and disconcerting.

Stepping back to put some distance between them, Fern said, “I’m not sure.”

His eyes fell away from the unfolding argument, sliding up Fern to settle on her cheeks, her eyes.

“Are you alright?” he murmured. “You look tired.”

A hundred questions gathered on her tongue like ice shards, and all of them melted in the sudden heat of his proximity, his quiet voice, his display of care.

“I-I’m quite well, thank you, but you had better check on your friends.”

She scurried away before he could reply, hiding behind Essouadi and Srivastav and trying to ignore the heat pluming in her cheeks.

Lautric, to her surprise, heeded her advice. He broke through the circle of candidates and placed a calming hand on Edmund’s shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” he asked

“He stole my work!” Josefa exclaimed.

She was close to tears. Part of Fern wanted to reach for her and comfort her, but she wasn’t sure the young woman would appreciate it. Certainly if Fern had been in her situation, she would have despised anyone attempting to calm or comfort her.

“My brother is no thief,” Emmeline snapped.

She had risen, now, from the desk she’d been perched upon. She wore purple, today, royal purple, with gemstones on her fingers and her hair a crown of coiled flames about her head. Her beauty was ornate and delicate as the finest gold filigree, but there exuded from her an anger like the trembling tension of a tightly wound coil.

“You ought to be more careful than this, Josefa. Did you not hear the wise words of our friend the cleric? God despises liars.”

“I don’t believe in god,” Josefa spat out.

Emmeline laughed. “No? Then believe in me , dearest girl, for my wrath is no less great and I’m standing right where you can see me.”

Josefa raised herself in a sharp intake of breath. “Are you threatening me?”

“You’ve upset my sister, nothing more,” Edmund said, drawing Emmeline to him by her arm, his hand settling on her back in a soothing gesture. He turned to Lautric even as he comforted his sister. “You know I’m telling the truth, you’ve seen our research. We established our list on the first day. We’ve all been working on that. Why on earth would I need her research?”

“I’m not saying you needed my research!” Josefa said. But some of the anger had drained from her voice, leaving it trembling with frustrated helplessness.

“Why then?” asked Lautric.

“Out of spite,” said Josefa.

“We aren’t children,” Emmeline said. “None of us here have time to waste on acts of spite and petty skirmishes. We’ve all come here to succeed, and we should all be working hard to prepare for this assignment. Your negligence is costing the rest of us precious time. Unlike you, Miss Novak , we can’t all rely on—”

Her brother’s eyes snapped to her; the rest of Emmeline’s sentence died on her tongue. He had said nothing, had barely even moved, but the look he’d given her was enough.

A silent message exchanged between two souls far more intertwined than two souls ever ought to be. Fern’s skin itched and her stomach churned in discomfort at the thought of ever being thus intertwined with another.

“Do you have proof that Edmund took your work?” Lautric was asking Josefa.

Josefa shook her head. Tears glittered amongst her eyelashes. Whatever Emmeline had been about to say, Josefa seemed as lost and confused as everyone else in the room.

“What has happened here is awful,” Lautric said with a sigh. “And should certainly be reported to the Grand Archivists. But accusing anybody without proof is neither going to help you find your work nor catch the actual thief.”

Josefa seemed to deflate like a balloon suddenly emptied of air. The high colour had drained from her cheeks now, and she looked as pale and delicate as she had appeared to Fern that first night.

“What am I to do?”

“For now,” Lautric said gently, “I think the best course is to let everybody return to their work. Perhaps this is all a misunderstanding, and your work has simply been misplaced by archivists. Edmund and Emmeline… if you wouldn’t mind continuing with our research for now, I will help Miss Novak search for her work awhile.”

Emmeline nodded and though she walked away, her eyes remained fixed on Josefa, and the expression on her face made Fern recoil to witness it .

Edmund, hurrying after his sister, took her elbow and said, low and anxious, “ Emmeline .”

Whatever question or entreaty was concealed in that utterance, Fern could not guess. All she knew was Emmeline’s response, bitten out between her teeth.

“No.”