Page 17 of The Deadliest Candidate

“Thank you,” she said, a little discomfited. “It seems you have the advantage of me. You know my name, and I don’t know yours.”

He gave a wan smile. “It’s Léo.”

Fern scrutinised him for a moment. She had not expected him to respond so readily, but his name rang no bell anyhow. Her research, it seemed, was not as thorough as his.

With a polite nod, she excused herself and entered her room, closing the door behind her. She could not help the feeling that the young man had somehow managed to already gain the upper hand on her.

Turning her back tothe door, she set the matter firmly from her mind. She would be formally introduced to her fellow candidates soon enough. For now she simply had too much to do to worry about the matter, especially when she suspected it was her pride, more than anything else, that had been impacted. She made a mental list of things she must do: unpack, wash, ready herself for the banquet.

And before any of that, there was something else she needed to do.

She propped her suitcase on the bed and the wicker basket on a chair near the window. She opened the wicker door, and Inkwell jumped to the floor before strengthening the dark length of his little body. Fern left him sniffing the air inquisitively to pursue her own investigation of her new living quarters.

First, she ran her hands over the smooth azure tiles of the bathroom: they were firmly set in. She checked the floor beneath the plush rug next to her bed—not a singleloose slat. Unsatisfied, she checked the mantelpiece, the inside of the wardrobe. All to no avail.

She returned to the bathroom and finally found what she was looking for—high in the ceiling on the opposite side of the window was a ventilation grille of latticed iron. Fern grabbed the dressing table stool and moved it against the wall, stepping on it to pull the grille open.

The space there was small but perfect for what she needed.

She hastened back to the main room and threw open her suitcase.

From it, she took the two most valuable things she had brought with her: Oscar’s gift—the beautiful dagger—and her research notes. She wrapped both the casket and the notebooks in a scarf and placed the small bundle in the space behind the ventilation grille, which she carefully pushed back in its place.

It was unlikely she would be robbed, but she would be far from the only person with access to her rooms. It would cost nothing to be cautious.

Satisfied, she unpacked her suitcase and ran herself a bath. The water was blissfully hot, exactly what she needed after her stay in East Hemwick and her journey up the cliffs in the ice-cold rain.

Now that she was here, finally back in Carthane where she belonged, her worries had receded, her fear vanished. She was in control, sure of herself, secure in the knowledge that she knew Carthane better than any other candidate.

After her bath, Fern readied herself for the banquet. She brushed and dried her dark blonde hair, then twisted it back, securing it with large pearl-adorned pins. Sheusually favoured blouses and trousers over dresses, but since the occasion was formal, she wore a dress of pale grey taffeta. A simple, elegant garment, structured but comfortable, with long sleeves and a square neckline.

Fern had just slipped into her shoes when a noise startled her. She froze. Two voices. A tight, quiet conversation right outside her door.

Grabbing an empty glass from next to a jug of water, Fern padded over to her door. She placed the glass to the wooden panel and pressed her ear against the cold glass. There was a masculine voice, words muttered through clenched teeth.

“Tell anyone of this and you, too, will die by my hand.”

Something slammed into the door with a dull impact, startling her back. There were no more voices, just footsteps rushing away, and then silence. Fern set aside the empty glass and waited with her hand on the door handle, her heartbeat quickening.

If she opened her door, she might see the speaker who had uttered such a chilling threat—but he might see her too and guess she’d heard him. Was the knowledge worth the risk?

There was only one answer to that question, of course.

Knowledge wasalwaysworth the risk.

Chapter nine

The Candidates

Fern opened her door.

On one end of the corridor was a man, early thirties, dressed in pine-green velvet, his blond hair in disarray, his face flushed. On the other end of the corridor was the paper-skinned young man from earlier, now in a fine black suit, his dark hair combed back from his face.

He was calmly adjusting the cuffs of his crisp white shirt. Neither man looked at the other, and Housemistress Sarlet, hands clasped in front of her, had just glided up the corridor from the direction of the staircase.

If Sarlet had heard anything, it had not fazed her. She did not seem to care one way or the other for the candidates and had the manner of one tasked with some tedious chore.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “follow me, please.”

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