Page 25 of The Deadliest Candidate

“Miss Novak.” His tone was silken. “Why don’t you join us in our studies? My sister and I would be pleased to get to know you better.”

The Ferrows must think highly of Josefa, Fern thought, if they were inviting her into their alliance. They had come from the Poison Tower of Santa Velia, where alchemists were all but genetically engineered.

But Josefa seemed far from flattered by this invitation. She stared at Edmund for a moment, an expression of surprise on her face. Then she shook her head.

“Thank you, but I prefer to work alone.”

Fern was about to leave the auditorium, but she paused with her hand on the door handle when she saw Edmund Ferrow draw closer to Josefa, too close. Close enough to make the young woman retreat slightly, cringing in his shadow. Fern’s eyes narrowed.

“Dearest Josefa, you would refuse me so coldly?” The softness of Edmund’s voice, that polished veneer of intimacy, reminded Fern of poison concealed in a rich wine. “Your work in Archaic Alchemy is peerless and my sister and I specialise in poisons and transmutation. Surely cooperation between us would prove mutually beneficial?”

“Thank you,” Josefa repeated, more firmly this time. “No.”

Edmund reached abruptly forward, gripping her hand in his, and opened his mouth to speak, but several things happened all at once.

“Edmund.”

Fern had removed her hand from the door handle, stepping back towards the stairs. Simultaneously, Srivastav, the pyromancer, had risen from his seat, surging up with such speed that several of the surrounding candidates jumped.

But it was Lautric who had spoken Edmund’s name, low and sharp as glass.

Edmund turned sharply to look at him.

“Miss Novak wishes to work alone,” Lautric said.

His tone was firm but gentle, without reproach. Edmund raised both hands.

“Of course. My apologies, Miss Novak. My intellectual curiosity must have gotten the better of me.”

He retreated, standing aside to give Josefa room to pass. She did so stiffly, head held high, but her cheeks were flushed a dull pink once more. When she reached the door, Fern could see that the young woman’s chest was rising and falling rapidly.

Pulling the door open, Fern let Josefa through and followed her out. She cast a quick look back before closing the door: Srivastav had sat back down and all conversations had resumed, but Lautric’s eyes were still fixed upon Edmund, a strange expression replacing his customary impassivity.

Fern closed the door with a firm click and turned around. Instead of walking away, Josefa stood still for a moment, breathing slowly. Then she tucked her short dark hair behind her ears and looked up at Fern.

“Thank you for waiting.”

“No need to thank me,” Fern said. She hesitated. “Are you alright?”

Josefa nodded slowly, then sighed. “I hate Santa Velia alchemists.”

Fern herself had never met Santa Velia alchemists before—she imagined their peculiar upbringing in the isolated city-state must make for peculiar people. But the Ferrow twins were something more than strange.There was an intensity to them, despite the airy, laughing veneer of careless beauty they seemed to project.

“What’s the saying?” she said to Josefa. “Fear the child that was raised with poison in its milk?”

Josefa gave a wry smile.

“It’s not the alchemists within Santa Velia the world should be afraid of,” she said. “But the alchemists Santa Velia chooses to sendout.”

The Alchemy Wing waslocated in the eastern wing of the central building, spreading out from the left of the great hallway. Two floors of bookshelves, the higher floor overlooking the centre of the room like an expansive balcony.

In the centre, rows of leather-top desks with red banker’s lamps spanned the length of the space, which tapered towards an enormous tomb-shaped window. The bluish light of early morning fell through the warped glass, making the interior appear almost underwater.

Fern selected a desk at the far end of the wing, near the window. She liked the light, and being able to see the ocean move like a distant heartbeat when she turned her head. Above all, she preferred being far from the doors and the interruptions of passing archivists or candidates.

Josefa followed her, sitting at a desk nearby. Close enough that they could converse but far enough that they would not be cramping one another.

Opening her notebook, Fern glanced at Josefa. The historian’s dark head was bent over, her hair falling likea drawn curtain over her face as she pulled out the contents of her silk bag, laying them out on the desk.

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