Page 60 of The Deadliest Candidate

It was almost three o’clock in the morning when she found the wooden panel her map told her should lead into Saffyn’s office. She pressed her hands to the wood, steeling herself, and pushed.

It gave. Relief and triumph flared through Fern.

Professor Saffyn’s office was a large chamber with a set of windows overlooking the labyrinth of hedges leading towards Carthane’s gate and the moors past it.

He appeared to be a tidy man, well-organised, all his notes and files alphabetised. His office was richly furnished with glossy walnut wood and green leather, an enormous pedestal desk in front of an empty fireplace. Upon the mantelpiece was a row of photographs in gilded frames.

Fern emerged from behind a painting of a forest scene, painted dogs chasing painted foxes. She had guessed—correctly—there would be secret passageways leading directly into the offices. She could not imagine the Grand Archivists did their own cleaning, and the servants were strictly forbidden from being in the corridors.

Leaving the painting ajar, she made a beeline for the door, carefully turning the knob. It was locked, just as she suspected. Good.

Taking one of the picture frames, she propped it glass-down against the bottom of the door. If someone came in, she would hear the glass hit the floor.

Next, she hurried to the desk. There, she found a brass inkwell, a wax stamp shaped like a raven and a felt box of calligraphy pens. A brown accordion folder was set to the side. Fern checked through it. Handwritten essays with notes scrawled in the margins.

Fern skimmed the titles.Wild Magic and the Use of Metal Conduits.Demystifying Wild Magic: a Modern Approach to a Misunderstood Force. Death and Wild Magic: Stealing, Borrowing, Redirecting. A title, different from the others, jumped out at Fern.

Making and Unmaking Gateways.

She frowned, struck by the similarity of that title to her own private research project. Had Saffyn written those? She laid the essays aside and examined the accordion folder. One side bore a small handwritten label. It read: “L. Noe - Thesis.”

A past candidate, then. Fern longed to investigate the thesis and reminded herself that it was not what she was here for. She set the accordion folder aside and sat on the edge of the green leather chair, pulling herself closer to the desk. The two top drawers on each desk pedestal were locked. The others held notebooks, essays and academic journals.

Fern flipped through each notebook until her eyes landed on a black leather cover embossed with gold numbers.

“Finally,” she muttered.

It was a diary filled with Professor Saffyn’s small, slanted penmanship. Deadlines, appointments,publication dates. Leaning down, Fern inspected the pages. Professor Saffyn had clearly been aware he would be a mentor and fully intended to be present for the candidates’ arrival. A note read:Friday - F. Sullivan meeting?He had even scheduled his first mentor meeting with Fern.

Whatever had called him away must have been sudden and unexpected.

Fern set the diary aside. Whoever had sent for Saffyn, they must have written to him. She glanced at the locked drawers once more; how likely was she to find the keys? Saffyn had probably taken them with him wherever he went. It was what Fern would have done.

Could she risk a hermetic spell? Fern was well-versed in locking and unlocking spells. She needed them in her line of work. But she was already tired, and the spell would take a toll on her. With her limited powers, spells some people could achieve with the flick of a hand required considerable effort and energy from her.

Besides, she remembered Sarlet’s words regarding hermetic spells.My Sentinels would have sensed a hermetic spell—they are forbidden. There had been a clear warning there. If Fern got caught now, it wouldn’t just cost her the candidacy—she could be prosecuted for arcane crimes. Carthane would not easily forgive this violation.

How certain was she that there would be something worth finding in those drawers? A lifetime of work, an opportunity she had awaited for years. Could she risk it all now?

Whatever was in there, Professor Saffyn had considered it precious enough to lock away. Fern closed hereyes, remembering the letter in Josefa’s room. Josefa had slipped right out from between her fingers, as had her letter, and now Fern would never know what had happened to the young woman.

Knowledge, Fern reminded herself, wasalwaysworth the risk.

She had already spent two nights and a day making her way here, giving up precious time she should be using to prepare for her assignment. She hadnotcome here to cower and retreat at the last minute.

Raising both hands in front of the two small locks, she murmured an unlocking incantation, an intricate spell that forced the locks to obey. Unlocking spells were particularly difficult, her will pitted against the lock’s clever mechanisms. She felt the spell pulling on the energy inside her, tugging at it, then forcing it loose.

The locks clicked.

Fern slumped forward with a gasp, her vision swimming. She hated using magic when she was tired; it made her dizzy, nauseous and slightly panicked. Too much energy pulled out too harshly.

But she could not allow it to slow her down—a Sentinel might have sensed her spell already. She rubbed her eyes quickly and pulled the drawers open.

In the right drawer was a box of letters. In the left drawer was money. Fern’s eyes widened. Stacks upon stacks of banknotes bound by thick bands of black paper. Tens of thousands, if not more.

Ignoring the money, she rifled through the letters. Correspondence from the other Grand Archivists, polite and perfunctory letters from a young, ailing niece,enquiries from scholars, a typed message on white card paper. Fern stopped and picked up the card.

It read:

---