Page 22 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)
Chapter twenty-two
The Exception
Fern was slightly disoriented by the time she made her way up the winding steps to the apartments. When she reached the landing of her corridor, she came face to face with Josefa.
She looked as if she had been crying.
“Are you alright?” Fern asked with some alarm.
Josefa wiped her eyes quickly. “Yes. I’m not upset, just a little frustrated.”
“Why? Has something happened? Where are you going?”
“I need to find Housemistress Sarlet.”
Fern checked her watch with a frown. “At this hour?”
“I need her to help me get into my apartment.”
“You’ve lost your key?”
Josefa held up her hand, revealing a key dangling from a silver ring to which a blue ribbon was tied.
“No, it… it just doesn’t work. It is as if the lock has changed, though I know it hasn’t.”
Fern narrowed her eyes, suddenly much more awake and sober. “That sounds like a hermetic spell. ”
“Yes, or a ward against me.” Josefa sighed. “It’s happened before.”
“This has happened before ? Do you know who might be doing this?”
“I have suspicions, but as ever in this place, no proof.”
Fern shook her head. “How cruel.”
“A childish prank and nothing more, I’m sure,” Josefa said.
Fern was not so sure this was the case, but she remained silent. Whoever had done this must have done so for a reason—a reason linked to the stolen work. These events could not possibly be mere coincidence.
The truth was that Josefa had a natural advantage on the first assignment. But then, so did the Ferrow siblings. Had any of their work gone missing? Had somebody locked their doors? If they had, Fern doubted the twins would advertise it. And if not, then that might be because they were behind the troubles plaguing Josefa.
And then, of course, there was Lautric.
Always him: the quiet, pale young man with the tired eyes and open, curious mien. With his corrupt, power-hungry house, his stolen books and his midnight wanderings. Whatever was happening, he was not completely innocent, Fern was sure of it. But just like Josefa, she had only suspicions and no proof.
“Why don’t you go find Miss Sarlet tomorrow?” Fern said. “It’s late, and I’m sure you must be quite exhausted. You’re more than welcome to share my apartment for the night.”
“I would not wish to impose…” Josefa said, glancing away .
“It would be no imposition, I assure you,” Fern said. “Though, of course, there is no pressure to accept my invitation. I’m more than happy to help you find Housemistress Sarlet instead.”
“No, no, I wouldn’t dream of asking you to do such a thing. If you’re sure it is no inconvenience, I’ll gladly accept your hospitality for tonight.”
Fern smiled and offered her arm to Josefa. “Please.”
Josefa smiled, a broad smile of genuine contentment. It made her appear younger somehow. She linked her arm through Fern’s, and the two women withdrew to Fern’s apartment. Inkwell, sitting by the windowsill, jumped down and curiously circled Josefa, who crouched down with her hand held out.
“I didn’t know you had a cat,” she said.
“I’ve had him for more than five years; it didn’t feel right leaving him behind.” As Fern spoke, Inkwell sniffed Josefa’s hand cautiously, then curled away with a slow blink. “His name is Inkwell.”
Josefa attempted and failed to pet Inkwell a few more times while Fern replenished his bowls of water and food, then the two women prepared for sleep, taking turns to go into the bathroom and change out of their clothes. Fern handed Josefa something to sleep in—a pair of pyjamas in sensible dark green cotton—and then climbed into bed, shifting to one side.
“You’re welcome to share the bed,” she said, indicating the free space next to her.
Josefa hesitated. “I wouldn’t wish to intrude upon your privacy…”
A wry smile stretched Fern’s lips.
How could Josefa possibly know how little sharing a bed meant to Fern? Josefa could not know about the narrow cots of the orphanage, the thin sheets and scratchy blankets, the harsh winters when the small children had crept into the older children’s beds to stay warm. The memory of cold feet and bony arms and the sound of quiet sobs flooded Fern, making her eyes burn.
She had not thought of those things in a long time. They belonged to the past, a book which Fern had long ago closed and vowed not to reopen.
“You need not worry,” she said, turning her back to reach for the lamp on the bedside table. “There’s plenty of space.”
Josefa lifted the blanket, and Fern felt the mattress shift as the young woman slid into the bed. She extinguished the light and settled against her pillows, her back to Josefa.
A long silence followed, so long that Fern assumed Josefa must have fallen asleep straight away. Finally, Josefa’s low, thoughtful voice drifted across the darkness.
“Do you regret coming here? Leaving your library behind?”
“No,” Fern replied, which was not a lie, and yet did not quite feel like the truth either. “Do you?”
“How could I?” Josefa murmured. “I studied at the Arcane College of London. Like most arcane universities in the world, my university lived in the shadow of Carthane. All I ever dreamed of back then was to come here, to become part of the giant whose shoulders future scholars would stand upon. To access the Gateways and petition the entities of Sumbra for knowledge, new spells, the answers to the world’s oldest alchemical formulae. And yet, now that I’m here…”
“Is it not as you imagined?”
“No—it is far grander than I ever imagined. Only… I miss my university.”
Fern sensed the emotions crowding the young woman, weighing her chest down, waiting to be let out by way of her mouth. She did not want Josefa to think she was prodding, but in the end, she could not help but ask, “What do you miss about it?”
“Oh, everything.” Josefa’s voice took on softer, more feminine hues, becoming almost melodic as she spoke. “My students, my faculty. The old professor of incantations in the classroom next to mine and the sound of his students chanting. The endless corridors, the old library, the statue of the Fallen Star in the quad. And in the winters, the lake freezes over, and the cafeterias sell sbiten with cinnamon sticks. During blizzards, you can look out of the windows and see the snow spinning like cotton candy in the courtyards.”
Her words painted dream-like images behind Fern’s eyelids.
“Do you not miss your library?“ Josefa asked.
Did Fern miss Vestersted Library? She tried not to think on it too much. Ever since her parents’ death had forced her to leave Carthane, she had always intended to come back. Like some sort of homing bird, she’d lived with a constant sense that she ought to return, a pull she must answer one way or another.
As a result, she had never really given her heart to any other place. She had lived at the St Jerome Orphanage, then moved to London, working in an old bookshop while she studied. She had lived in Cambridge, lived a while in the south of France, studying Gateways in old monasteries for her dissertation. After that, she lived in Paris, working at the Bibliothèque Mazarine, before moving to New Copenhagen.
Even in New Copenhagen, she was forever travelling to retrieve missing or stolen books. She felt as much at home in her apartment as she did in hotel suites, train cabins or the small rooms of old countryside inns.
“I miss my work and my routine,” she said finally. “And of course, I miss Vestersted Library and my colleagues. But adjusting to a new place is always difficult at first. With time, it will ease. One day, you might even come to think of Carthane as your home.”
As she said it, she thought suddenly of Oscar’s office: the smell of books, the crackling of the small fire burning in his fireplace, the taste of brandy and the sound of Oscar’s booming laughter. It hadn’t felt like home then, so why did it feel like it now? Fern pushed the thought aside even as she heard Josefa’s unconvinced reply reach her through the darkness.
“Perhaps…”
The silence that followed lasted so long that Fern had almost fallen asleep when Josefa’s voice pulled her back from the brink.
“I’m so afraid.”
Her voice trembled, almost breaking. Fern turned in the bed, facing Josefa. Although she could not quite make out her features in the darkness, she saw the outline of the young woman. She was reminded once more, painfully, of the little children who used to sneak into her bed at the orphanage, clinging close, desperate for comfort. She swallowed back a painful lump in her throat.
“What are you afraid of?” she asked.
“I don’t know… Ever since I arrived here, this—this awful dread’s been weighing on me. As if a dark shadow stalks my steps, inching closer with each passing day.”
Fern reached out a hand and placed it on Josefa’s arm. “You may be far from home, but you’re not alone. If you feel afraid, I’ll help keep you safe. If you feel alone, I’ll keep you company. All you ever need do is ask; I’ll be there.”
“Thank you. It means a lot to me.” Josefa suddenly let out a peal of quiet laughter. “I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect you to be so kind.”
Fern, too, laughed. “That’s because I’m not usually a very kind person.”
“Oh,” Josefa said, a smile in her voice. “Does that mean you’re making an exception?”
“I’m making an exception.”
Silence fell, and this time, it was not interrupted again. Josefa’s breathing grew slower, deeper. Fern, smiling to herself, turned in the bed, curling up under the blanket. A minute later, she felt the telltale dip of Inkwell settling near her feet.
She had not intended to extend anyone the hand of friendship, nor to concern herself with the affairs of others. Now that she had promised to help Josefa, she expected to instantly regret giving in to the impulse. She expected to feel the slow, crushing weight of having made a mistake.
But she felt none of those things. Instead, a small flame of warmth flickered in her chest and grew, spreading through her. A warmth that was quite the opposite of the cold memory of St Jerome’s dormitory. It glowed inside her all the way until she fell asleep.
That night, she slept better than she had in a long time, and she awoke refreshed and in a pleasant mood. She turned, sat up in surprise.
Josefa was gone.