Page 52 of The Deadliest Candidate

Back in her apartment,Fern decided to run herself a hot bath. She was tired, but too restless and preoccupied to sleep yet. Besides, she was grimy from the dust of the Sumbra Wing. Hopefully, a hot bath would relax her enough that she might get some sleep.

In her bathroom, she set her dagger on the side of the sink, then reached for the bathtub tap and froze mid-motion.

On the stool near the bathtub was the blue towel Josefa had used the night before. Fern frowned and lifted the towel. Underneath it was Josefa’s dark dress, the one she had worn for the post-assignment party. It lay folded neatly; on top of it were small silver bracelets and earrings, lace underthings and a key on a silver chain to which a blue ribbon was attached.

Heart in her mouth, Fern reached for the key.

Why on earth would Josefa have left her key here? If she had indeed gone to the library, why would she not have taken her room key with her? And what about her clothes? She might have borrowed some of Fern’s clothes, of course, but Fern could somehow not imaginethe young woman doing so without speaking to her, or at least leaving a note.

All the comfort she had felt after speaking to Sarlet vanished like a weak apparition. No matter how much she tried to explain away what she was seeing, Fern could not help the dread slowly filling her.

Something was wrong. She had suspected so before. Now she was certain of it.

Key in hand, she left her apartment, her bath forgotten. She pushed Josefa’s key into its lock; it slipped in with a quiet click. She twisted. The key turned as smoothly as though she had pushed it into pastry butter.

Inside, the apartment was similar to her own but in shades of violet and old gold, paintings of flowers on the walls. Josefa’s clothes were strewn on the backs of chairs, and her desk was covered with books and stacks of paper.

It only took Fern a moment to confirm what she already knew: Josefa was not here.

Fern made a quick search of the apartment, doing her best to collect clues without violating the historian’s privacy. She found a box of herbs and plants with a small set of alchemy blades in pewter, a volume of Slavic folk tales on the bedside table with a bookmark of red leather. Underneath the book was a letter folded back into its envelope, the top of the envelope looking as though it had been cut hastily open with a blade.

Brushing her fingers over the envelope, Fern hesitated.

If she read the letter, and Josefa returned by morning as Sarlet said she would, would she feel ashamed? Not if she read the letter looking for clues to help Josefa, butwould that be her only reason, if she did so? Fern could not deny her own curiosity, and she remembered, not for the first time, that curiosity could be deadly.

Leaving the envelope untouched, Fern settled herself into the velvet chair by Josefa’s window. Sarlet had told her to wait until morning, so she would.

Outside the window, the moon was high and hazy, and a sharp wind whipped at the trees of the Arboretum far below, tearing flocks of leaves from the branches and sending them whirling into the black sky. In the distance, the ocean stretched beneath the cliff, glimmering faintly, as far as the eye could see.

Fern did not realise she had dozed off until her head dropped to her chest, waking her up with a start.

She checked her watch. A few minutes past midnight. She hadn’t even heard the midnight bell. The apartment was still empty, and Fern could not help but think of Josefa’s words, whispered in the darkness of Fern’s bedroom.

As if a dark shadow stalks my steps, inching closer with each passing day.

And as she thought of Josefa’s words, Fern thought, without meaning to, of the narrow cots of St Jerome, of the bony arms and shivering body of one of the younger children pressed to her side. Fern had left the orphanage on the very day she turned eighteen—she’d left all the younger children behind without the courage to say goodbye.

The thing she had felt then was the very thing she felt now: a painful lump in her throat like a tumour threatening to metastasise through her chest and infect her heart. It was as unbearable now as it had been whenshe was eighteen; Fern seized the book of folk tales from Josefa’s bedside table and read until memories gave way to words in her mind.

She read until she slept, without knowing when the one turned into the other.

The next time she awoke, the apartment was full of the powdery blue pallor of morning light. Fern checked her watch. Almost eight in the morning. Only one hour left until the meeting in the Palissy Auditorium for the announcement of the next assignment.

Josefa had not returned.

Chapter twenty-five

The Warning

Fern arrived at thePalissy Auditorium with the heavy, reluctant gait of a prisoner ascending the gallows. She’d barely had enough time for a quick bath and a change of clothes; she’d tried to force herself to eat but her stomach was a nest of black, writhing fears. She’d only managed half a cup of coffee.

She was the last to arrive and swept the room with a glance. All the candidates were already assembled—all of them except Josefa. Fern sank into the seat nearest to the door, rubbing a hand over her tired eyes. She needed to collect her thoughts, but she could barely concentrate on the Grand Archivists as they filed into the room.

Professor Kundani was first to walk in, followed by Dr Auden, then Lady Covington.

Housemistress Sarlet was last to enter and waited to the side as the Grand Archivists stood at the podium.

“Good morning, candidates,” Dr Auden said. His tone was solemn, his face stony. “We were hoping to use this opportunity to congratulate you all on the completionof the first assignment and praise the impressive score some of you achieved. Instead…”

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