Page 43 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)
Chapter forty-three
The Warning
Long after Lautric was gone, Fern made her way back to the Mage Tower, her mind still reeling from their confrontation.
There was something about Lautric that forever disarmed her. Perhaps it was his tired eyes, or the way his sweaters were always slightly too large, or the sight of his pretty face marred by bruises. Fern, normally so stoic, had somehow allowed herself to be flustered by the handsome face and artless kisses of a young man.
And now, she’d been reminded that he was, and had always been, a Lautric first and foremost, as treacherous as any other member of his house.
Her initial suspicion of him had been the correct instinct, and she should have never let it slip. She remembered her initial determination to find out the books he’d borrowed from Vittoria, to uncover what he was up to. And now, Vittoria was gone.
She should never have allowed herself to forget it.
Whatever Lautric was up to, it was clear that he did it at night. If Fern’s suspicions about him were right, either Srivastav or herself would be next to have their work stolen—either that or disappear entirely.
Srivastav: because he had the natural advantage over the next assignment. Fern: because she had caught Lautric red-handed, and knew the most about him, and would no longer be so easily seduced and manipulated.
You need not concern yourself about safeguarding Srivastav’s work, Fern, he had said to her. It should be the least of your worries.
Hardly a veiled threat. But if Lautric was the predator lurking Carthane, Fern had more than one way of catching him.
With her dagger at her waist, she wrapped herself in her greatcoat and snuck out of her room late that night. At the end of the corridor, in two deep embrasures in the walls, were two windows. Fern hoisted herself onto the high ledge of one of those windows, a book on her lap.
From this vantage point, she could monitor the corridor while remaining hidden in her nest of shadows. Hugging her legs, Fern propped her chin on her knees and began her watch.
Lautric did not come out of his room that night, and Fern ended up returning to her rooms several hours later, disappointed and frustrated. It was only the first night of her watch, she reminded herself as she angrily pulled her clothes off, her injured arm throbbing as she yanked her sleeve off.
Inkwell watched her warily as she climbed into bed. She tossed and turned, sleep evading her no matter how tired she was. She turned Lautric over and over in her mind, the puzzle—the complication of him. It was hot and dangerous, letting her thoughts too near sizzled and seared.
But she would not let herself be so easily deterred. She had a trap she was going to set for him; she was going to hedge him in from two sides. All she needed to do was wait him out—Lautric would slip up eventually.
He did so the very next night. Fern had been in her alcove for a little less than an hour, blinking away the sting of exhaustion from her eyes, when a blade of light fell from an open doorway. She sat up, eyes wide. Lautric slipped out into the corridor, closing his door noiselessly behind him. He wore his coat and heavy backpack, and the long, cylindrical object was strapped to his back.
Fern barely had time to hop down from her perch. He walked down the corridor so fast she had to break into a slight run to catch up with him. Lingering in the shadows and keeping her distance, she followed him down the stairs, past the busts facing each other across the atrium of the Mage Tower and out of the gate.
The cold stone and marble of the Carthane flagstones seeped through Fern’s shoes as she tracked the young man silently through the building, moving from shadow to shadow in his wake. He knew the layout of the library well, easily navigating its corridors, staircases and passageways.
He walked quickly, the slight clinking sound of his footsteps giving away his position even when Fern had fallen behind. She followed him to the third floor, where she’d bumped into him all those nights ago. Fern’s heart hammered; she was finally getting closer, she could feel it. She would discover what he was up to, and she’d finally be able to go to the Grand Archivists, to rid Carthane—and herself—of Lautric.
She trailed him through a long corridor, past statues, vases and dim lamps, until they reached the centre of the third floor. There, a beautiful archway of marble stood, carved with Latin words and images of birds and open eyes. Two narrow doors of ebony stood out from the milky marble. It was the entrance to the Gallery.
Lautric stopped in front of the doors. “You cannot come any further.”
Fern started, cringing back into the wall she had been hugging. She stifled a curse and rallied, straightening herself up before emerging from the shadows.
There was no point in hiding now, no point in discretion or subtlety. She spoke without hesitation.
“Where are you going?”
Lautric turned to face her, drawing closer. Fern clenched her teeth, reminding herself sternly to not let his proximity, his pretty face and bruises and scars, his quiet intensity get the better of her. It had worked back when she was injured and overwhelmed—it would not work now.
“And have I ever questioned you , Fern?“ he asked, tilting his head. He did not sound angry at her, nor even irritated. He sounded gentle and reasonable. “Have I ever demanded your reasons for sneaking around at night and walking inside the walls like a ghost?”
Fern’s heartbeat faltered, her stomach churned. Had he been spying on her before she’d ever thought of spying on him? She was reminded of their first night in Carthane, when he’d known her name before she could even guess at his.
“My reasons are my own,” she said, her tone as rigid as her posture, the dagger heavy in her pocket, almost tempting. “I can assure you they are noble.”
“Was it for a noble reason that you set every Sentinel hunting you that night? That you returned to your rooms with an injured arm less than a week ago?”
She stuck her chin out and said, half in defiance and half to shock him, “I’ve found a way into the Astronomy Tower.”
His eyes widened; he did not try to hide his surprise.
“How? What happened?” He let out a long, weary sigh, rubbed his long-fingered hand over his face. “Ah, Fern, you should—please, don’t go back there alone.”
Fern stared at him. She had not expected this from him, this sudden, quiet desperation.
“I thought you wanted to find out what happened in the Arboretum that night?”
“Of course I do, but…” He glanced down, shoving back his sleeve to stare at the slim watch on his wrist. “I have to…” He shook his head, looked back at her. “Things here are not so simple as you imagine, Fern—I want to find out what happened that night in the Arboretum just like you, and what happened to Josefa and Vittoria, but I don’t want you to—“
He seemed distracted and frantic now, his eyes wide in the dim night lamps, and then he was right in front of her, and he raised his hands, and cradled her head, and his fingers traced her skull through her hair to rest against her neck .
“You don’t have to trust me,” he murmured, his head tilted towards her, tremulous urgency in his voice. “I know you don’t, I doubt you ever will, but please, Fern. Be careful .”
“Of what? Of whom?”
“Everything. Everyone .”
“Even you?”
“Yes.” Anguish was in his voice and in his features. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t let you follow me. So turn away. We’ve regrets enough between the two of us, we need no more.”
Lautric finally let go of her, turned, and disappeared through the door into the Gallery. Fern raised her hands in front of her; her fingers were trembling. But it was not fear she felt. It was something else, something more troubling than fear, something that burned her insides and sent them curling in on themselves in a flurry of embers.
She knew she should follow him, but Lautric had spoken the truth. There were already too many regrets between them. And Fern was getting closer to the truth, she sensed it. She needed to be careful, now, tread softly and pull slowly. If she pushed too hard, she might lose the thread altogether.
Sleep was long to come that night. Fern lay in her bed tossing and turning, full of thoughts of Lautric and his fingers resting on the nape of her neck through her hair, and his soft voice, and the memory of him standing in her bedroom, unbuttoning her shirt, and his kisses, which had felt so good—the most delicious poison.
And when sleep finally came, Fern’s dreams were writhing and black and gold, and Lautric’s petal mouth found hers as they lay in a bed of pulsing darkness. And Fern’s chest was gashed open, and the bleeding red rose of her heart rested, a glossy pulsation, between Lautric’s long fingers. Fern started awake in a shock of horror and desire.
After that, she dared not go back to sleep.
The next day, exhausted and cold and restless, she returned to the top floor of the Elemency Tower and walked over to her small desk to find that her trap had worked exactly as she expected.
Everything she had left there—every single book, notebook, and sheet of paper she’d left as a decoy of her work—it was all gone.