Page 11 of The Deadliest Candidate

Fern set her suitcase down and removed her coat, her mind awhirl with questions. Whose body had washed up? Who had killed it? Why would the Reformed Vatican concern itself with a random isolated murder on the edges of the world? It could only be because of the village’s proximity to Carthane.

It was strange timing, all of this. The candidacy for the post of Grand Archivist, the body, the ostary. It made Fern remember Oscar’s warnings, the rumours he seemed so concerned about. It made Fern think, briefly, of her little apartment, her cosy office in Vestersted. The life she had left behind, everything she had given up to come here.

It would love to get its hands on your lot, Addie had said,but you’re already in the grip of some greater predator.

Addie did not strike Fern as the kind of woman to speak for the mere sake of speaking. But why had she chosen to say this, and what did she mean?Your lot—did she mean the candidates? Librarians? Carthane?

Fern did not think she was in the grip of any predator, but she now knew that someone had been killed and that the killer was still at large. There wasn’t a single part of her mind that believed for one moment the unknown person’s death could be accidental, not when an ostary had been sent to solve the mystery of that death.

And between the ostary and the killer, Fern was beginning to suspect there might be more than one predator stalking her path to Carthane.

Chapter six

The Body

The morning was ableak, grey thing, as wet and cold as one of the creatures swimming the murky depths of the sea. Fern awoke early, since sleep evaded her anyhow, and dressed in thick wools and sturdy boots. She had no intention of waiting idly in her room; too many questions needed answering.

Downstairs, she found the inn hall subdued and gloomy. The fire had dwindled in the great hearth, casting only the faintest breath of warmth into the wide chamber. An elderly man slept slumped in a chair close to the fire, his hands shoved in his pockets, and the young boy from the previous night emerged from the kitchens to bring Fern a cup of strong hot tea and two slices of dark bread.

Addie was nowhere to be seen. Fern suppressed a sigh of disappointment. She had hoped to draw more information out of the old woman.

Left to her own devices, and with nothing to do in East Hemwick but wait, Fern would simply have to investigate herself.

After her breakfast, Fern wrapped herself in her scarf and coat and left the inn. Outside, the mists were clearing, swept further inland by the harsh northern wind blowing in from the sea. The smell of salt and brine and smoke filled the air like an invisible presence, almost as tangible as the crooked buildings and their rot-devoured stilts. The streets, now washed grey and green by the weak morning light, were as empty as they had been the previous night.

Burying her chin and mouth in the woollen nest of her twice-wrapped scarf, Fern set off through the streets in the direction of the pier. There would be some life there, she was sure: fishermen and dockworkers and net-menders, people she could draw into conversation. It would be a start.

She was careful to steer clear of the church on her way. She hoped to avoid the ostary altogether if she could, and besides, she would rather not have to see the symbol of the Abyssal cross unless she had to.

She had slept under the cross until she turned eighteen, and the image it depicted—a tortured Jesus on the cross with the Sumbral eye opening in the centre of his chest—was both the subject of her many adolescent nightmares as well as an unwelcome gateway into memories she wished not to revisit.

Rain had begun to fall in a thin, steady drizzle by the time she arrived at the pier, misting Fern’s eyelashes, cheeks and lips. Even the rain tasted of salt.

The pier was busier than the rest of the town, just as she had guessed it would be, but the attention of the workers was already captured by an arrival other than her own. Drawing back underneath the shelter of a flatwooden bridge connecting the upper sections of the village, Fern turned towards the longest pier, where a magnificent ship had just moored.

It was a beautiful vessel with three vast sails and a steam engine, and it dwarfed even the largest of the fishing boats docked nearby. Despite the grandeur of the ship, only two figures emerged from it, descending slowly from the gangway, one leading the other through the rain.

They stopped for a moment, glancing around them, and then glided, with identical speed and grace of movement, down the length of the pier towards the quay, where the constable stood with his shoulders squared and his countenance as unfriendly as it had been the previous night.

Fern could not hear the conversation that unfolded, though she could guess much of it, but she was too busy observing the two strangers.

A man and a woman, her age or perhaps younger, both exquisitely well-dressed in Aegean-blue travelling habits. At first, Fern might have guessed they were lovers from the way the man’s hand stayed protectively draped over the woman’s back, or the way the woman looked up at him, up-tilting her head in an expression of respect bordering on adoration.

But as the couple concluded their conversation with the constable, they set off from the quay and passed close to the bridge beneath which Fern was sheltered. She noted first the colour of their hair beneath the hoods of their greatcoats, a vivid red like polished copper hit with low sunrays, then their resemblance:delicate faces marked with a curious harshness, and large, emotive eyes.

Immediately, Fern realised her error. They were not a couple—they were siblings.

Pieces of their conversation reached her as they passed by.

“—have no intention of staying in this sad, dirty little place any longer than I have to.”

“Perhaps this is Carthane’s way of testing us.”

“We’ve been tested enough, Teddy.” The woman’s tone was lazy, almost playful, but there was a tightness to the way she spoke that indicated true emotion.

“And have we not endured, dear sister? What’s one more test?”

“We’ve been saying this all our lives.”

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