Page 3 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)

Chapter three

The Resignation

The letter sat, unopened, on top of Fern’s narrow fireplace for a week.

It seemed to watch Fern in the mornings when she took her breakfast in the small nook of her kitchen, sitting by the open window and watching the lively house sparrows pick at the dirt in her flowerbeds.

It watched her as she stood at her hallway mirror, securing her hair with pins and picking specks of lint off her coat sleeves. It watched her in the late evenings when she sat on the soft rug in the middle of her living room, a plate of butter biscuits by her elbow and books spread out in front of her, scribbling notes and references into the pages of her overworn notebooks.

Every day before she left for work, Fern turned to look at the envelope, the clean cream square of it like a small gateway cut into the fabric of her life. Should she pass through that gateway, she would have to leave Vestersted behind and with it her office, her librarians, Oscar. New Copenhagen, her little apartment, Mrs J?rgensen and grandfather clocks.

Every night, when the moon rose high above ?resund and the nights were silent and pensive, Fern twirled her pen between her fingers and watched the envelope.

She reminded herself of everything it meant. Years of work in the Northwest Union’s best libraries, dozens upon dozens of essays and research papers, recommendations from some of the most respected scholars in the world. She’d worked her way all the way up, and now, she finally had the chance of reaching the pinnacle.

She reminded herself, too, of everything it meant, deep down. What she had lost, so long ago. A narrow cot and soundless weeping. Ornate halls and books and Gateways. Her breath caught in her chest; she held it prisoner there and looked upon the envelope, the glowing white invitation.

How could she not give everything up for it when it was everything she had ever wanted?

So she thought, and yet her nights were restless, her sleep disturbed. She watched the letter for a week, and for a week, it watched her back.

Inkwell, once, in the glowing amber dusk of a Thursday evening, had jumped up onto the mantelpiece and bared his teeth at the envelope. He did not touch it, and otherwise did not return to the mantelpiece while the envelope remained there.

Was it a sign? Fern did not believe in signs. She believed in reading and observing and studying; she believed in facts and figures and records. She believed in what she knew: that she was ready for this, that it was the right thing for her, the destination the path of her life had always led to .

All this time, she had thought the decision, when the time came, would be so easy to make, but in the end, it wasn’t.

It was the hardest decision she ever made.

Fern handed in her resignation the following week—the day after she finished reading Symbolism of In-Between Doors . Oscar stared at her letter where she’d placed it on his leather desktop. Neither of them spoke, the room full of the crackling of kindling in his small fireplace.

Finally, Oscar released a heavy sigh and picked up her resignation letter, unfolding it with an unnecessarily theatrical gesture. He put on his gold-framed glasses, which were an accessory more designed for intimidation than to aid his sight, which was almost without flaw. His hawkish eyes skimmed the pale paper, the tidy handwriting, the signature.

He sat back with a groan, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. Then, he seemed to have an idea. He pushed his glasses back on and handed Fern her letter back.

“Throw it into the fire,” he whispered loudly, “and we can both pretend I never read it.”

Fern drew closer, tilting her head. “I’m not throwing it into the fire, Oscar. I’ve already given a copy to your secretary anyhow.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Oscar said.

“Do you accept my resignation?”

“Obviously I don’t accept it, Fern! ”

“It’s a formality, you know that,” Fern said, propping herself up onto the corner of his desk. “It’s the professional thing to do. Please, accept my resignation.”

“What the devil are you thinking? Where is this coming from? What could you possibly be giving this up for?” Oscar sat up. “Is it the Imperial Library of Klivsky? Did they make you an offer? I knew it! Those bastards have been trying to poach you for years, but you’re too good for Klivsky, Fern, too good to lick the boots of the Reformed Vatican like they all do over there.”

“It’s not Klivsky. It’s Carthane.”

Oscar blinked. “Pardon?”

Fern smiled. She could not hide her pride, nor did she feel she ought to.

It was no secret how hard she had worked on her application. Vestersted Library was an institution of great renown, a place Fern held close to her heart. Leaving it would be like leaving a piece of herself behind, a precious organ for Oscar to keep in a tin box in his desk drawer like the sweets she kept in hers.

But the Carthane Athenaeum was worth it—this sacrifice—any and all sacrifices. It was the greatest arcane archive in the world and the only library to house not only one but multiple trans-dimensional Gateways. It was one of the oldest libraries in the world, and its Grand Archivists boasted some of the greatest academic minds still living.

Fern’s ambition was two-fold when it came to Carthane. On the one hand, it was the very peak of what she would achieve as an arcane librarian, her skills put to noble use retrieving some of the rarest and most coveted books in the world. On the other hand, Carthane was the only place in the world where she would be able to finally complete her research.

They recruited rarely, perhaps only once or twice every decade, and Fern had waited patiently, and worked assiduously, to become a candidate.

She would not give up her chance, not even for Vestersted Library, no matter how much she loved it. She could not. Her life’s work had led to this, and now, it depended on it, too.

Fern took the cream envelope from her pocket and placed it in front of Oscar. He picked it up, flipped it, then looked up sharply.

“You’ve not even opened it.”

“I already know what it says.”

“You’re unbearable.”

Without further ado, Oscar flicked loose the gold seal with the tip of his letter opener and pulled out the letter. He read it in seconds, then tossed it down on his desk. He glared at Fern.

“Well. You’re being offered a candidacy for the post of Grand Archivist.”

Fern nodded. “Yes.”

Oscar frowned and gestured to the letter. “It says here that once you accept and arrive at Carthane, you won’t be able to withdraw your candidacy.”

“Why would I?”

“You don’t think that’s a strange stipulation?”

“Hardly. Carthane most likely wishes to avoid the eventuality of a candidate pursuing the candidacy only as a means of accessing the library.”

With a heavy sigh, Oscar sat back in his chair. “So you’re going? ”

“Of course. How could I turn down such an opportunity? You know I’ve always been trying to make my way back to Carthane.”

Oscar knew more about Fern than anybody else she’d ever met. It was perhaps his serious mien, or his stubborn determination to make her his friend, but something about him had allowed Fern to let go of some stories she had never told anybody else.

Despite knowing the truth of her words, he shook his head.

“Carthane,” he said, “might not be the place you remember.”

“Does it matter? It’s the only place I’ve left to go.” Fern smiled. “Besides, it won’t be the place I remember because I won’t be the same person going back. I’m not a servant’s child anymore.”

“And I suppose the rumours do not deter you in any way?”

Fern had heard rumours. Rumours of unexplained disappearances and strange occurrences. But Fern wasn’t fooled: those rumours were nothing more than ways the powerful kept Carthane isolated and alienated.

It was one of the last great arcane libraries that had not yet fallen under the wealth and influence of one of the noble arcane houses. Even the Reformed Vatican could find no way of bringing it to heel. So of course, rumours would be trammelled up, anything to besmirch Carthane’s reputation.

But Fern was not easily frightened, and even if she were, her heart, which was a machine of steady rationality, had been set on Carthane for too long to give up .

“We are librarians and scholars, Oscar,” she said. “We deal in knowledge, not hearsay. If I’m willing to forsake Vestersted for Carthane, rumours won’t be enough to dissuade me.”

Oscar gave her a long, searching look. Perhaps he sought to find a weakness, a sign of doubt or hesitance. A chink in the wall of her conviction in which to lodge his pick before the punch of the emotional hammer. Or perhaps he was simply trying to memorise her features.

Though their relationship was often fraught with conflict, Fern knew he considered her one of his closest friends; she felt the very same way about him.

It was perhaps the reason why, in the end, he sighed and said, “The best library in the world, huh? Well.”

He went to the small chestnut cupboard behind his desk, took his favourite decanter of brandy from its tray and poured two glasses. He handed Fern one.

“I suppose we ought to celebrate, then.”

He lifted his glass and Fern tapped the rim of hers to his. They both drank, the brandy burning a warm path down Fern’s throat to her stomach. Oscar gazed at her over his glass.

“They chose well,” he said in a murmur. “Grand Archivist of Carthane. It’s a lofty thing indeed, and yet I can’t think of a worthier candidate for such a role.”

“Sentimentality, Oscar?” Fern said with a small smile. “Should you not be saving this speech for my last day?”

“I was actually being quite sincere and not at all sentimental. Why must you always be so acerbic? This is the reason you remain friendless and single. How long have you been in New Copenhagen now? Three years? You’re about to turn thirty, and you’ve not so much as a suitor to your name. Truly embarrassing.”

It was a conversation they had often.

Oscar had put a considerable amount of effort into attempting to bring a social element into Fern’s life, usually to no avail. He had invited her to dinner parties, conventions and gatherings, encouraged her to go to parties and balls, visit the theatre and go to bars. He had even offered to introduce her to eligible bachelors he knew: scholars he thought she might be compatible with or handsome young men he thought might offer her some distraction from her work.

At first, those attempts had irked Fern. She disliked personal entanglements and did not appreciate the implication that she could not function without a companion in her life.

Then, Oscar’s secretary had mentioned in passing that Oscar often worried that Fern might be lonely, having moved to New Copenhagen without knowing anyone there. From that day onward, Fern had tried to be a little more open to Oscar’s artless attempts at finding her a friend or a partner: she had attended a few of his dinner parties and even gone on several dates with a scholar friend of his.

Of course, Oscar could not know that Fern functioned best alone, that she preferred her own company to that of others, or that she believed the importance of her work trumped everything else in her life, including companionship and romance.

“Friendless?” Fern now said quietly, raising an eyebrow in a playful quirk. “I thought I could count you as a friend—could it be I was mistaken? ”

Oscar’s countenance changed in an instant, his thunderous features lit by a wide, genuine smile.

“Of course I’m your friend! My dear Fiddlehead. I’m happy for you, truly, I am, and forever proud of you. I am your friend and shall remain so until death itself stands in my way.” He tilted his head. “Does that mean you will write to me from Carthane?”

“As often as I can spare the time to do so.”

“ Spare the time?“ He rolled his eyes. “You overwhelm me with the warmth of your affection.”

Fern laughed, and Oscar smiled, watching her laugh. Then his smile faded.

“I mean it, Fern. Please keep in touch. It’s not with a light heart that I must watch you leave for Carthane. If anything should happen or if you should ever need help, you’re not alone in this world. I hope you know this.”

“I know.”

He was worried. Oscar always paid more heed to rumours than he ought to as a scholar. Perhaps he feared that Fern was venturing recklessly into a dangerous unknown. But Fern was not going into the unknown.

She was going home.