Page 40 of The Deadliest Candidate

On top of Fern’s desk lay a pile of blank paper, a tin box of pens and brushes, and a large inkpot. Fern sat down, laying out her research notes in neat piles. The scraping sound of a chair drew her attention: Josefa was taking her place at the neighbouring desk.

The two women exchanged a secret smile. They had stayed together in the Alchemy Wing until the midnight bell and then worked for a few more hours at a corner ofthe dining table in the Mage Hall, taking turns fetching coffees.

Now, Josefa’s silent presence at her side made Fern feel a warmth she had not expected. It would seem she had grown fonder of the young woman than she intended to.

One by one, the candidates were taking their places. Drei carrying a handful of messy notes shoved into a shabby folder, Srivastav and Essouadi calm and determined, Vittoria limping slightly still but already looking better, Baudet casting her glances as he followed several paces behind. The Ferrows strode in like a king and queen of old, shoulders pressed together, heads held high.

Last of all, as usual, Lautric sat at the desk in front of Fern. If he looked at her before sitting, she did not see. She only looked up once his back was turned.

He wore one of his over-large woollen sweaters, this one deep azure, making his slim neck appear paler in contrast. Even the nape of his neck was dusted with faint freckles. Fern quickly dropped her gaze.

Finally, every candidate was seated, and the three presiding Grand Archivists filed in: Professor Incera, a short woman with long grey curls, the slow-moving, intimidating Lady Covington, and Professor Farouk, her short hair like a white crown atop her head.

They reintroduced themselves to the assembled candidates before taking their places standing in the middle of the room, where the tiles of the floor formed the shape of the moon’s stages.

Professor Farouk spoke, her voice filling the room with its solemn drawl.

“Candidates, your assignment is about to begin. On your desks should be all the equipment you need, though you may ask for additional paper, ink or brushes if required. If you must excuse yourself to the lavatory, simply make your way to the door, where you will find a Sentinel to escort you. Lunch will not be served, though you may find water, coffee and tea available near the doors. You may only communicate with the Grand Archivists. Any communication, be it verbal or written, between candidates will result in immediate disqualification.”

A clock chimed quietly. Professor Farouk gave a curt smile. “Your time starts now.Finis coronat opus.”

The study hall filled with the flutter of turning pages and the clinking of brushes tapping against inkwells.

Fern’s strategy was to draw her symbols first, make a note of their keys, and then go back and add her justifications. The most archaic symbols were usually the most intricate, so she would leave those for later. Last of all would be the Blood Alchemy symbols, which were the most complex of all, circles upon circles split in geometrical patterns, smaller circles, each containing their own set of symbols.

Though Alchemy was far from her area of expertise, Fern was in her element. Relying on nothing but her own mind and reading, armed with pen and paper. If wars were waged thus, Fern might have made a great general.

She reached the fiftieth symbol on her list within the first hour and sat back in her chair, laying down her brush. Her fingers were stained with ink, her eyes stung, and her back and neck ached. She had barely moved inthose two hours, too focused on her work. She rolled her head, trying to loosen her stiff muscles.

In front of her, Lautric appeared to be deep in thought, his chin resting in his palm, his head turned in the direction of the windows. With his left hand, he was idly playing with the corner of his pile of papers, his thumb flicking at the pages in a gentle, steady rhythm. Fern’s heartbeat stuttered. She looked away and quickly resumed her work.

By the time Fernreached her final illustrations, the rain had resumed its assault on the windows with renewed fervour, and the afternoon was descending into early darkness. She looked up, blinking, to find that the desk lamps had come on; she hadn’t even noticed. Outside, rain clouds had darkened the sky as though it were dusk instead of noon.

Fern sighed, rubbing her hand across her face. She had reached her final three illustrations. An archaic Death Alchemy symbol for reverse putrefaction and two common Blood Alchemy symbols: blood purgation and blood cibation. Though common, those symbols were extraordinarily complex—anything that sought to interfere with human biology had to be.

Try as she might, Fern could not summon the circles from her memory. Her brush hovered over a blank page; her mind flipped mental pages, sifting, seeking, to no avail.

Balancing her brush across the neck of her inkwell, Fern sat back. She suppressed a sigh and closed her eyes: they were stinging and sore with tiredness. Her brain, it would seem, had hit some impassable wall of exhaustion.

She stood, her cramped muscles seizing in protest, and made her way to the front of the room to pour herself a cup of coffee.

Normally, she preferred taking her coffee black and plain, but it was time to make an exception. She dropped two sugar cubes into her cup and stirred slowly, watching the sugar melting in the hot liquid. Her brain, suffused with the afterimage of alchemical symbols, imagined what a symbol for melting sugar might look like.

Even this, after all, was a subtle kind of alchemy.

She made her way back to her desk, cup in hand. Most of the candidates were bent over their desks writing, concentration taking different shapes across their faces. Emmeline and Edmund, though writing without pause, both seemed at ease, arrogant almost. Baudet’s face was cold and almost disdainful as he worked.

The general, whose mien was customarily so warm and amiable, seemed the most anxious of all the candidates, his expression bordering on fear. It made Fern’s heart clench, a thread of sympathy stretching from her to him before she could suppress it.

When she reached her desk, Josefa seemed to have just left hers. They passed each other, exchanging a quick nod. Then Josefa was gone, and Fern was carefully setting down her cup upon her desk, pushing it into a corner to avoid any unfortunate accidents.

She sat and took a deep sip of her coffee. It was strong and horribly sweet, but the sugar succeeded in shocking her awake.

Picking up her brush, she dipped the tip into her inkwell and stopped in her tracks, almost dropping her brush.

She glanced around. Incera, Farouk and Lady Covington were still patrolling the hall. The candidates were all working in silence. Josefa was pouring herself a cup of tea near the door. Everybody else was still bent over their desks working.

Fern grabbed the three pieces of paper that had appeared on the surface of her desk, quickly flicking through them.

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