Page 30 of The Deadliest Candidate

It was only a beginning, but it was proof that the night’s journey had not been in vain.

Fern took off her coat and changed into her pyjamas, more than ready for bed. Before that, she slipped into her bathroom and placed her new map in the makeshift hiding place behind the ventilation grille.

If anybody should find out what she was doing, she would almost certainly be dismissed from her candidacy, perhaps even prosecuted.

Her things safely hidden away, Fern climbed into bed. Feline steps dipped the mattress near her feet, and soon after, she felt the warm weight of Inkwell settle against her side. She fell asleep quickly, completely, already dreading the tiredness of the following day.

Despite sleeping in longerthan usual, Fern awoke feeling groggy, sluggish and poorly rested. Her sleep had been haunted by dreams of something dark and slow-moving, something seeping and insidious, which crawled towards her and called out to her in her parents’ voices. She’d started awake a little after sunrise, heart beating erratically, skin drenched with cold sweat.

An odd and disturbing dream, but only a dream.

After a hot bath, Fern dressed for the day: white blouse, grey woollen trousers, hair tied back. She observed herself in the mirror, almost expecting to look different—shefeltdifferent. She felt raw.Exposed. Almost nervous.

But the mirror only reflected the familiar image of a young woman with grey eyes, a straight, serious mouth and dark blonde hair pinned back in a reasonable knot. She looked clean and professional in her crisp blouse and woollen waistcoat. The sight of her reflection, looking exactly the way it always did, was oddly reassuring.

She made her way to the dining room for breakfast; it was deserted. Her shoulders slumped in relief.

When empty, she rather liked this room. The midnight-blue upholstery and tall windows gave it an atmosphere of calm airiness. Fern poured herself a cup of coffee and buttered two slices of toast, sitting to get some reading done while she ate.

She had just flipped a page of her book and started her second slice of toast when the door opened. She glanced up.

Léo Lautric was making his way towards the table, dressed in black trousers and a sweater of rust-brown wool that seemed slightly too large for him. Though his appearance was as tidy and unassuming as ever, his black hair was ruffled, as though he had simply brushed his hand through it instead of combing it.

If Fern felt tired and raw this morning, she could not imagine how Lautric felt.

He lookedexhausted. The shadows beneath his eyes were so pronounced they looked like bruises, and his eyelids were heavy and hooded. His skin seemed almost translucent, pale blue veins visible around his eyes and chin. Even the fawn constellation of his freckles seemed to have faded somewhat.

He trudged to the table and sat down, then gazed at the carafe of coffee without moving or saying anything.

Fern stared at him. He blinked slowly, eyes unfocused and glazed. Then he reached for the carafe and poured himself a cup. His movements were strengthless and lethargic, as though he moved in a dream.

Fern returned her attention to the pages of her book, but her mind refused to turn the letters into words.

What was wrong with him? Was he ill? Heseemedill. But even the Lautrics would not have sent a sickly family member here. They might be utterly ruthless, but their unquestioning loyalty to their own family was well-known and well-documented.

If he was not ill, then he was tired, tired beyond exhaustion, but why? She had never seen him work hard amongst his group. Was it all just a show, a charade of idleness?

“What are you reading?”

She looked up. Lautric indicated her book with a lethargic gesture of his head.

Fern remembered the deal she had witnessed, the three Sumbra books. If she set the precedent of answering his question honestly, might he follow her example when the time came?

The truth was a calculated choice in this case. “I’m reading Alivett’sComplex Transmutations for the Modern Age.”

Lautric nodded, took a sip of his coffee. He wasn’t quite looking at Fern, but his gaze still rested on her book.

“You’re a scholar of Sumbra,” he said in a low, thoughtful tone, “is that not influencing your selection of symbols?”

He was asking her about Sumbra again. Why? Was he trying to find out what she was researching? He was the last person she would ever discuss it with.

“Sumbra is my area of expertise academically,” Fern answered. “Professionally, I am a librarian. The job I am applying for—just like you, Mr Lautric—is that of archivist. In the grand scheme of things, Sumbra does not matter anywhere near as much as you seem to think it does.”

His eyes rose to hers. His blinks were slow, the skin around his eyes was murky. But his irises, that pellucid brown, were clear and clever.

“If Sumbra doesn’t matter,” he said, “then why are there so many Gateways in Carthane?”

Fern had never questioned the presence of Gateways in Carthane. To her, they were as much part of the library as any of its bricks or statues or books.

---