Page 18 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)

Chapter eighteen

The Hand

Fern made her way to her own desk, deep in thought. Edmund had seemed genuinely offended by Josefa’s accusation, and Emmeline deeply wounded on his behalf; Fern’s instinct told her they weren’t lying.

Of course, she could be wrong: Santa Velia alchemists were probably well-versed in the art of manipulation. But Edmund and Emmeline’s brand of manipulation was not this indignant anger, this impassioned rage. It was pretty and polished, a high shine, that glossy, venomous veneer—and a far cry from what Fern had just witnessed.

Sitting down, she organised her things, her mind racing.

Whoever had stolen Josefa’s research mustn’t have had many opportunities to do so. Josefa had left the Alchemy Wing at dinner, as had all the other candidates, including Fern. Fern had been the first to return to the Alchemy Wing, and the last to leave it, when she’d heard the strange noise in the night .

Whoever had stolen Josefa’s work had either done it during dinner or in the presence of others, but they would surely have been noticed. Or else, somebody else had been up deep in the night and visited the wing after Fern had left.

Fern froze and looked up.

Lautric was still talking to Josefa, who was listening and nodding tearfully. Last night, she had guessed he was coming from the grounds, but she didn’t know this for a fact. And she had no way of knowing where he had come from within the central building. All she knew for certain was that Lautric had been roaming about the library after Fern herself had left the Alchemy Wing.

This could not be a mere coincidence.

Fern had imagined that all the events were threaded together with Carthane in the centre but what if she had been wrong? What if the common thing tying all these things together wasn’t the library but Lautric himself?

Fern could barely focus on her work that morning. Her thoughts felt long and disjointed and without focus. No matter how hard she tried, she could not concentrate.

She kept glancing at Lautric, sitting amongst his golden alliance with a book on his lap, then Josefa, who was trying to gather herself after their search had failed. Her misery was difficult to miss, more difficult still to ignore. Her shoulders sloped, and her face was a mask of sadness. She looked utterly defeated .

Fern thought of the threads of connections between the candidates and tried to put Josefa out of her mind. If Josefa struggled in the assignment and failed in her candidacy, it would mean one less candidate to compete with.

Eventually, Fern would need to send all the candidates home, so why should she concern herself with them?

And yet she could not bring herself to stop thinking about the young historian. The injustice of the situation scratched at Fern, refusing to be ignored. Fern understood and respected competition, but she despised thieves and cheaters.

The new Grand Archivist of Carthane would have to do many things to achieve this position—but deception and crime should not be one of them. The Grand Archivists deserved more; Carthane deserved more.

When the clock chimed lunchtime, the candidates trickled out one by one until nobody remained in the Alchemy Wing except Fern and Josefa. The young woman was standing in front of her desk, gathering her books and notes with lethargic movements. She started slightly when Fern approached her.

“Oh, Miss Sullivan. You’re still here.”

“Please. Call me Fern.”

Though Fern spoke in her calmest, most polite tone, the implied friendliness in her words must have been plain enough for Josefa to sense her sympathy. The young woman slumped into her seat, dropping her head in her hands.

“What am I going to do?” she whispered, as if to herself .

Fern drew a seat from a nearby desk.

“I’m sorry this happened. If there is anything I can do to help, name it. I will do what I can.”

“Thank you, but—” Josefa paused, her voice strangled by emotion. “Most of my notes are gone. I know most of it, of course, but my arguments, my script, my evidence. A week’s worth of research—no, several weeks’ worth of research, condensed. How can it all be gone?”

Fern was silent for a moment. Ought she tell Josefa of her suspicions? It would mean revealing what she saw and giving up precious information about Lautric. Given that she had no definite proof, would the risk be worth it? And could she guarantee the repercussions would not harm her ?

No, she must keep her thoughts to herself. Her suspicions would neither comfort Josefa nor help her recover her work. It was help the young woman needed, not conjecture.

“Is there any possibility you might have taken them somewhere and not remembered?” Fern asked.

Josefa shook her head. “I always leave my work here. It never occurred to me it might go missing. This is Carthane! But of course, this is Carthane. Most candidates here would do anything it took to become Grand Archivist, why would they not? I’ve been a fool, an utter fool.”

“You’re not a fool,” Fern said. “Why strive to become Grand Archivist on the merit of someone else’s work?”

“Be that as it may,” Josefa said, looking up at Fern with her dark eyes glimmering with tears, “have you ever left your research here overnight?”

Fern said nothing .

“I should never have left Moscow.”

The words were spoken so low and soft that Fern almost missed them.

She frowned. “Don’t say that. You are as worthy a candidate as any of us, worthier than many, I think, since somebody was threatened enough by you to steal your work. Now your work is gone, but your knowledge is not.”

“The assignment is tomorrow,” Josefa said, softer now, almost defeated. “There’s simply not enough time.”

Fern hesitated. Josefa was correct; there simply wasn’t enough time. She did not deserve to be disqualified because of the interference of others. If she should fail her candidacy, it should be fairly , on equal footing with all the others.

“If you’d like,” Fern heard herself say before she’d even finished thinking her decision through, “I can show you my notes. I’m sure my list will differ from yours on many points, but I should think many of the symbols I chose would have been on your own list. If you would like to use any of my research, you might be able to save time on researching whichever symbols you chose and I did not.”

Josefa’s eyes widened. “You really would share your work with me?”

Fern hesitated. She had taken the first step on a path she had hoped to avoid without quite meaning to. But now the first step was taken, and she did not regret it, whether or not it was a mistake.

“Well, not all of it, of course,” she hastened to clarify. “My writing and arguments will remain private—I’m sure you understand. But as for the rest… I will gladly share my notes and research with you, Miss Novak.”

“I’d like that,” Josefa said. “Please, call me Josefa.”

She gave Fern her hand, and Fern took it in her fingers, squeezing firmly. The two women shook hands, sharing a smile. In a way, this was the closest thing Fern had to an ally in Carthane.

It was strange, and probably wholly reckless, and not at all unpleasant.