Page 28 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)

Chapter twenty-eight

The Lock

It took Fern a night and a day to map out a path from the laundry room in the Mage Tower to Professor Saffyn’s office. It was a hefty but calculated sacrifice to spend the first full day of her assignment preparation period on this search.

In an attempt to make up for it, Fern left a list of instructions in Lautric’s tray. Since she was trapped in a partnership with him, this would be his opportunity to prove that he was capable of more than just throwing out wild accusations about her personal life.

Her mentor’s office was located on the second floor, near the archives of erroneous incantation scrolls, so she spent the first night mapping the passageways up to the second floor, and the following day cross-checking the passageways locations by exploring the library proper and finding Saffyn’s office door, marking it on her map.

By the second night, she was sleep-deprived but triumphant, with a map that should lead her directly to her destination. She was all too aware of the break-in of Sarlet’s office, but it heightened her determination rather than weakened it. Whatever reason they had, it had been an act of rebellion, in its way, something proactive done to achieve a goal. It was precisely what Fern herself was doing now.

Nobody in Carthane was willing to give her answers; she would seek them out herself.

It was almost three o’clock in the morning when she found the wooden panel her map told her should lead into Saffyn’s office. She pressed her hands to the wood, steeling herself, and pushed.

It gave. Relief and triumph flared through Fern.

Professor Saffyn’s office was a large chamber with a set of windows overlooking the labyrinth of hedges leading towards Carthane’s gate and the moors past it.

He appeared to be a tidy man, well-organised, all his notes and files alphabetised. His office was richly furnished with glossy walnut wood and green leather, an enormous pedestal desk in front of an empty fireplace. Upon the mantelpiece was a row of photographs in gilded frames.

Fern emerged from behind a painting of a forest scene, painted dogs chasing painted foxes. She had guessed—correctly—there would be secret passageways leading directly into the offices. She could not imagine the Grand Archivists did their own cleaning, and the servants were strictly forbidden from being in the corridors.

Leaving the painting ajar, she made a beeline for the door, carefully turning the knob. It was locked, just as she suspected. Good .

Taking one of the picture frames, she propped it glass-down against the bottom of the door. If someone came in, she would hear the glass hit the floor.

Next, she hurried to the desk. There, she found a brass inkwell, a wax stamp shaped like a raven and a felt box of calligraphy pens. A brown accordion folder was set to the side. Fern checked through it. Handwritten essays with notes scrawled in the margins.

Fern skimmed the titles. Wild Magic and the Use of Metal Conduits. Demystifying Wild Magic: a Modern Approach to a Misunderstood Force. Death and Wild Magic: Stealing, Borrowing, Redirecting . A title, different from the others, jumped out at Fern.

Making and Unmaking Gateways .

She frowned, struck by the similarity of that title to her own private research project. Had Saffyn written those? She laid the essays aside and examined the accordion folder. One side bore a small handwritten label. It read: “ L. Noe - Thesis. ”

A past candidate, then. Fern longed to investigate the thesis and reminded herself that it was not what she was here for. She set the accordion folder aside and sat on the edge of the green leather chair, pulling herself closer to the desk. The two top drawers on each desk pedestal were locked. The others held notebooks, essays and academic journals.

Fern flipped through each notebook until her eyes landed on a black leather cover embossed with gold numbers.

“Finally,” she muttered.

It was a diary filled with Professor Saffyn’s small, slanted penmanship. Deadlines, appointments, publication dates. Leaning down, Fern inspected the pages. Professor Saffyn had clearly been aware he would be a mentor and fully intended to be present for the candidates’ arrival. A note read: Friday - F. Sullivan meeting? He had even scheduled his first mentor meeting with Fern.

Whatever had called him away must have been sudden and unexpected.

Fern set the diary aside. Whoever had sent for Saffyn, they must have written to him. She glanced at the locked drawers once more; how likely was she to find the keys? Saffyn had probably taken them with him wherever he went. It was what Fern would have done.

Could she risk a hermetic spell? Fern was well-versed in locking and unlocking spells. She needed them in her line of work. But she was already tired, and the spell would take a toll on her. With her limited powers, spells some people could achieve with the flick of a hand required considerable effort and energy from her.

Besides, she remembered Sarlet’s words regarding hermetic spells. My Sentinels would have sensed a hermetic spell—they are forbidden . There had been a clear warning there. If Fern got caught now, it wouldn’t just cost her the candidacy—she could be prosecuted for arcane crimes. Carthane would not easily forgive this violation.

How certain was she that there would be something worth finding in those drawers? A lifetime of work, an opportunity she had awaited for years. Could she risk it all now?

Whatever was in there, Professor Saffyn had considered it precious enough to lock away. Fern closed her eyes, remembering the letter in Josefa’s room. Josefa had slipped right out from between her fingers, as had her letter, and now Fern would never know what had happened to the young woman.

Knowledge, Fern reminded herself, was always worth the risk.

She had already spent two nights and a day making her way here, giving up precious time she should be using to prepare for her assignment. She had not come here to cower and retreat at the last minute.

Raising both hands in front of the two small locks, she murmured an unlocking incantation, an intricate spell that forced the locks to obey. Unlocking spells were particularly difficult, her will pitted against the lock’s clever mechanisms. She felt the spell pulling on the energy inside her, tugging at it, then forcing it loose.

The locks clicked.

Fern slumped forward with a gasp, her vision swimming. She hated using magic when she was tired; it made her dizzy, nauseous and slightly panicked. Too much energy pulled out too harshly.

But she could not allow it to slow her down—a Sentinel might have sensed her spell already. She rubbed her eyes quickly and pulled the drawers open.

In the right drawer was a box of letters. In the left drawer was money. Fern’s eyes widened. Stacks upon stacks of banknotes bound by thick bands of black paper. Tens of thousands, if not more.

Ignoring the money, she rifled through the letters. Correspondence from the other Grand Archivists, polite and perfunctory letters from a young, ailing niece, enquiries from scholars, a typed message on white card paper. Fern stopped and picked up the card.

It read:

Your time is running short.

Fail us and you will face the consequences.

Fern’s heartbeat stuttered. At the bottom of the card were three black images: a raven, a fleur-de-lis, a crown. The raven for knowledge, the fleur-de-lis for nobility, the crown for power.

Savoir et Souveraineté. The symbols of House Lautric.

There was the click of a lock being opened and the quiet crack of shattering glass. Fern looked up sharply. The door was opening.

There was no time to think. Fern shoved both drawers shut—she had neither the time nor the energy left to lock them with magic. Someone had already broken into Sarlet’s office; she could only hope the suspect would be blamed for her own crime here.

Card still in hand, she darted back behind the painting, pausing to glance back at the accordion folder on top of the desk. The title Making and Unmaking Gateways called to her. Should she risk taking it?

The office door yawned open. The tall figure of a Sentinel stood in the darkness of the corridor. Icy spikes of fear pierced Fern. She pulled the painting towards her, listening out for the quiet click of the painting sliding shut. And then she ran.

She ran with her heart in her mouth, her blood an electric current through her veins. Sarlet had told the truth—a Sentinel had easily detected Fern’s hermetic spell. She had been needlessly reckless. If one Sentinel had sensed her magic, others would, too. Sarlet herself might already know; she was probably on high alert since her office was broken into. Fern needed to get back to the Mage Tower. Now .

She pocketed the card from Saffyn’s drawer and opened her handmade map. Spots of light danced in front of her eyes, and a wave of nausea washed over her. The residual effect of her spell—it would trouble her until she rested and waited for the energy within her to replenish.

But there was no time to rest now. Forcing her mouth open, Fern took a sharp gulp of air. Her mad escape had led her up to the third floor, on the southernmost side of the Keystone. She needed to cross the building to get to the western side and gain access to the secret passageways there. They would lead her back to the Mage Tower.

Her map told her she was close to the Gallery. Housemistress Sarlet had said it was closed for refurbishments, so it stood to reason that there wouldn’t be too many Sentinels there. Besides, what choice had she?

Fern followed one of the passageways down to a narrow entrance. She touched the panel there, feeling it with her palms. Another painting. She pushed. The panel opened in complete silence.

She peered through. She was at the dead-end of a corridor. The gas lamps here had been dimmed, and a row of portraits hung amongst closed doors. Fern glanced down. According to her map, this corridor must run parallel to the Gallery. If she followed it down, crossed past the Gallery and went up the identical corridor on the other side, she’d find a mirroring entrance to the next network of passageways.

She couldn’t risk bumping into another Sentinel. She’d already come too close to getting caught once. Picking up speed, she broke into a run.

And turned the corner to go crashing into a pair of arms.