Page 2 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)

Chapter two

The Letter

Fern’s morning passed according to the rigid routine set out in her diary.

She was a scholar working in one of the oldest libraries in the Northwest Union: it was only too easy to get lost in the shadows of wooden archways, in the feathery silence of blue carpets and ancient tomes, amongst the velvet of slow-gathering dust and the dull glow of gas lamps over bronze railings.

But Fern was not in Vestersted just as a book lover, she was there as one of its Head Librarians, responsible for the uppermost floor, every book that lived there and every librarian working amongst its shelves and pillars, a responsibility she took as seriously as any saint’s vocation.

Fern was in her office investigating the latest report for missing books on her floor—a staggering number given the considerable effort Vestersted Library put into vetting its card-holding members. As usual, most of the titles on the list were books linked to Sumbra, the subject of the Gateways, the cosmic space beyond them and its entities. Just like the Gateways themselves, books pertaining to Sumbra were strictly chartered and controlled by the Reformed Vatican.

Three more books had gone missing since Fern had set off to Santico. So many, so fast. She sighed and let her head roll back over the brown leather of her chair. Her tiredness sank upon her, almost surprising her. She blinked and rubbed her eyes. Exhaustion was no excuse to be idle. Not when books were missing.

Especially books on the subject of Sumbra, with the Reformed Vatican keeping an ever-watchful eye on libraries across the world.

Fern was just starting on the third report when a crisp knock on her door disturbed the silence of her office. Before she could respond, the door opened, and Oscar Eyck, Director of Library, strode in, brandishing a book in his hand.

“What’s this?”

Fern raised an eyebrow.

“It’s Sheldrake and Schuster’s Symbolism of In-Between Doors . We spoke of it.”

“Oh, I know we spoke of it,“ Oscar said with barely contained exasperation. “We spoke of it at length, in fact. We spoke specifically of the fact that it would be too dangerous to retrieve.”

“And I retrieved it,” Fern said, sitting back. “I don’t see the issue.”

“The issue?” Oscar threw his head back. “The issue is that you were supposed to go to Santico to take notes, not to have standoffs with black-market book dealers. The issue is that you could have been harmed—the Lautric House has been coveting this book for years now.“ He shook his head. “I’m surprised they didn’t send someone to intercept you.”

“They did.”

Oscar was speechless for a moment. In the small space of Fern’s tidy office, amongst her collection of impeccably kept books and manicured alpines, he towered like a giant. Once, Fern had been so intimidated by him that she hardly dared speak in his presence.

With his sharp features, hawk eyes and crooked nose, his face often seemed to thunder and brood even when he was in the best of moods. His shoulder-length hair was mostly grey now, and a white streak in the middle of his beard seemed to spread and grow exponentially the longer he worked with her.

Of course, Fern knew now that despite his fearsome features and menacing height, Oscar was incapable of harming even the smallest creature. A man of strong morals and gentle heart, but more importantly, a true scholar who dedicated his life to his library.

“I’m well, Oscar,” Fern said in a softer voice. “I’m safe. I’m here.”

All the anger and frustration seemed to seep from him. He slumped down into one of the small felt seats facing Fern’s desk. She drew the tin box of sweets she kept in the top drawer of her desk and pushed it towards him. He glared at her but picked his favourite flavour—pear—popping the sweet into his mouth.

“Well?” he said. “What happened?”

“Not much. They found me on the train back from Santico. This time there were two of them. Our old friend Hector Boussard and some other man. ”

Fern reached into her drawer and produced the card she had taken from Hector’s pocket. A white card with three black symbols: a raven, a fleur-de-lis, a crown. The symbols were really a pictograph of the Lautric House words: Savoir et Souveraineté .

Knowledge and sovereignty.

She handed it to Oscar, who cast a long, dark look at it before handing it back. “And?”

“And, I reported them to the constable in charge of the train and brought the book back here. With neither damage to myself nor the book—as you can see.”

“Were they sent to retrieve the book, or to hurt you?”

Fern shrugged. She had not waited long enough to find out.

“Probably both.”

Oscar rubbed his hand across his face. It was the exact same gesture she had herself made earlier, the weary wiping of the eyes and the cheeks. She must have subconsciously picked that up from him.

“It’s not the first time they’ve tried, Fern,” he said quietly.

Fern answered with a slight smile. “No, nor the last, I’m sure.”

They watched one another in silence for a moment. Her attempt at lightening the mood must have failed, for Oscar exploded.

“Fern Eulalia Sullivan, you took a stupid risk and you know it!”

Fern shivered. “Do not call me Eulalia.”

Oscar thundered onward. “What on earth possessed you to go now ? It’s been missing for years, we’ve had plans, we spoke of putting a team together. ”

“I didn’t need a team,” Fern answered mildly. “Retrieving books is what I do best, you said so yourself when you hired me.” And then she added the truth. “I really need it for my research.”

Oscar shook his head. “Your research? Fern, you’re lucky you’re still alive.”

If it was luck that kept Fern alive, then luck was the name of Fern’s small knife and the poison on its blade. Fern knew better than to say so aloud; the vein in Oscar’s neck looked dangerously close to bursting.

“I knew what I was doing,” she said in a tone she hoped was reassuring.

“You’re going to believe that all the way to the grave,” Oscar said. “Why didn’t you take Sufian with you? He’s specially trained for this.”

Sufian, like Fern, specialised in book hunting. Unlike Fern, Sufian was a powerful magic-user, a natural-born talent with finely honed skills. He was also a trained combatant, formerly a lieutenant in the Northern Union Army.

Sufian was also gregarious and talkative, with a warm, booming voice. This could be enjoyable in small doses, but on long train rides, it would have been exhausting.

“He was already on an assignment,” Fern said.

Oscar was unconvinced. “You could have waited.”

“I didn’t need him.”

Oscar shook his head and gave a humourless grin. “No, you never need anyone, do you?”

Fern shrugged. Oscar was right: she didn’t. She had been looking after herself for long enough now. It was not a matter of pride or arrogance; it was a matter of simple practicality. Should she ever need someone, she was quite certain she would be able to accept it in a perfectly reasonable way.

It simply hadn’t happened yet.

“One day,” Oscar said ominously, “you’ll blithely march yourself straight to the gates of hell. And when you’re all alone in front of the devil, I wonder how brave you will feel then.”

“I wouldn’t be alone, though, Oscar.”

He raised an eyebrow.

Fern smiled. “I’d be with the devil.”

Oscar rolled his eyes and stood with a grunt. “Your arrogance will kill you before the devil can.”

She pointed to the book, which he still held. “Are you going to read it?”

He paused by her door, looked at the book then back at her.

A slow smile spread across his severe face.

“How could I not? Salman Schuster—the great explorer—and Arthur Sheldrake, the Friend of the Foe, the man who spoke to a hundred cosmic entities. A catalogue of Gateway symbols, the only one of its kind. Not just a book, an audacious act, an open rebellion against the Reformed Vatican and its campaign of withholding knowledge from the world! And they died writing it, didn’t they?” He lowered his voice, adding in a conspiratorial tone, “I actually skimmed the first few pages on my way up here.”

In his verve and enthusiasm, Fern saw her own reflected. She mirrored Oscar’s smile back at him. “Well, you best hurry up. I’m first on the list to borrow it once it’s been processed. ”

Oscar sighed and opened the door but did not leave. “You and your accursed research . Are you finally going to tell me what this big mysterious thesis of yours is?”

Fern did wish to tell him, but she shook her head. “Not yet.”

“I knew it,” said Oscar impishly. “You’re working on something flamboyant and foolish, a bright, shiny thing to attract all those plump research grants.”

“On the contrary. I’m working on something important and controversial and seek only secrecy and discretion for now.”

“Secrecy, Fiddlehead?” Oscar said, closing the door once more. “I can keep a secret, rest assured.”

“I said discretion .”

Oscar reopened the door.

“Insolent hag,” were his parting words.

“Shameless gossipmonger.”

On her way home that night, Fern stopped by the third floor of her apartment building and knocked on her neighbour’s door. Mrs J?rgensen, who was a retired engineer who spent most of her time now restoring antique clocks, opened the door with a beaming smile.

“ Fernek?r !“ she said in her familiar voice, warm and rough and woody. “You’re back. A day late—so unlike you. You want tea? I have butter biscuits—your favourite.”

Fern laughed and shook her head. “Not this time, Mrs J?rgensen. I need a shower and a good night’s sleep.” She followed Mrs J?rgensen into her apartment, the red wallpaper of the hallway almost completely hidden behind a row of standing clocks of all shapes and wood types. “Thank you so much for looking after Inkwell; I hope he behaved himself.”

“He’s my lucky charm,” said Mrs J?rgensen. “He always behaves himself.”

The knots of shredded packing paper peeking out from under the couch and the tipped-over cups on the low table of cherry wood told a different story. Inkwell himself, balanced on top of a grandfather clock, watched her with inquisitive green eyes, as though seeing her for the first time. Fern looked up at him.

“Inkwell,” she said.

The black cat tipped his head to the side. His tail unfurled from around his body, swiped lazily back and forth. He stood, stretched, and hopped down, landing on the floor in silence.

He did not let Fern hold him, he never did, not since the day she found him curled up in the dark, dusty corner of a monastery ruin in France back when she was a student. But he did bump his skull against her ankle as Fern bid Mrs J?rgensen goodbye and followed obediently when she left.

Home at last, Fern breathed a sigh of relief.

The familiar smell of her apartment, magnolia and cinnamon, greeted her like a friend. She turned on her lamps, kicked off her shoes and finally released her hair from its knot at the back of her head. She dropped her hairpins into their trinket dish, where they fell with a satisfying metallic tinkle .

Dark gold strands of her hair fell on her shoulder, a dull ache radiating in her scalp. She groaned; she needed a hot bath, sooner rather than later.

Fern placed her coat and blazer on their hangers by the door and lifted the bronze flap of her letterbox. She glanced inside. It was more out of habit than anything else; her mail was usually sent to her office in Vestersted Library, where she spent most of her time.

Except that for once, the letterbox wasn’t empty.

Fern’s heart jolted like a startled hare in her chest. She turned and looked at Inkwell, who leapt up onto the console table by the door, watching her with some interest. With a trembling hand, Fern reached into the letterbox, revealing its content.

A cream envelope with her name and address written in elegant, slanted cursive. Fern flipped the envelope. A seal of gold wax imprinted with an image of an eye with a candle in its pupil. No sender name, no address.

It needed neither; Fern knew exactly where the letter was from.