Page 107 of The Deadliest Candidate

“I have to go. I have to… There’s someone there who’s in danger.”

“So willyoube,” Addie said darkly, “if you go back.”

“I can look after myself.”

Addie shook her head. She pierced Fern with that sharp gaze Fern remembered from her first time in East Hemwick, when Addie had asked her if her job wasworth dying for. Addie spoke quietly this time, without amusement or sarcasm.

“The train comes in an hour,” she said. “Leave while you still can.”

“One hour?” Fern exclaimed. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine.”

One hour left until the start of the second assignment.

Barely enough time to get back to Carthane—and Emmeline had been alone in the sewers all night, and Fern needed to get to Edmund, to tell Sarlet and the Archivists about Emmeline, about someone pushing her into the pit. And then, somehow, she would need to do the assignment, to force herself to use Wild Magic. There was so much to do; she could not waste one more second.

She lurched to her feet. A wave of pain slammed into her skull, darkening her vision, then her entire body, limb by limb. She wavered and stumbled, slumping back against the couch, one hand rising to her head. A powerful emotion washed over her, as though her weakened state had broken a dam within her: she missed home. She missed Vestersted, her librarians, Oscar.

She missed them so much she could have wept, had she the strength to do so.

Eyes clenched closed, she took a second to collect herself.

“I need to go,” she muttered. “Now.”

“If you go back up to the Library,” said Addie, “you might never leave.”

“I should hope not,” Fern said in a rasp. “I’m planning to secure a job there.”

Addie shook her head with an incredulous laugh.

“You know how many of your comrades must have wished for the opportunity you’ve been given here, girl?”

The doctor laid a hand on Addie’s shoulder, but Addie’s eyes stayed on Fern. Fern looked back just as intently.

“I’m not going to turn my back on the bad things happening in Carthane,” Fern said. “I’m going to fix them.”

Addie leaned back with a slow nod, and something in her sharp eyes softened, like the edge of a sword dulled by times of peace. She gave a rueful smile.

“Idealists die quickest,” she said.

“I’m not an idealist,” Fern answered. “I’m a librarian.”

She took the rolls of bandages and small brown bottle Dr Moad handed her, stuffing them into the deep pockets of her borrowed trousers, and limped to the door.

“Thank you for all the kindness you’ve both shown me,” she said. “I’ll have my clothes sent for and those you’ve so generously lent me sent back as soon as I can.”

Addie shook her head in a gesture of amused disbelief. It was clear that she thought Fern was committing some act of madness by going back; she gazed at Fern in much the same way as Oscar had when she’d told him she was leaving for Carthane.

An idea dawned into light through the murk in Fern’s mind. She paused in the doorway and turned back.

“Can I ask you for one more favour before I go?”

“Of course,” said Addie. “It would be bad luck to deny the living dead. Ask.”

“Can I have some paper and a pen? I need to send a letter.”

Chapter fifty-two

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