Page 7 of The Deadliest Candidate

“Hardly. Carthane most likely wishes to avoid the eventuality of a candidate pursuing the candidacy only as a means of accessing the library.”

With a heavy sigh, Oscar sat back in his chair. “So you’re going?”

“Of course. How could I turn down such an opportunity? You know I’ve always been trying to make my way back to Carthane.”

Oscar knew more about Fern than anybody else she’d ever met. It was perhaps his serious mien, or his stubborn determination to make her his friend, but something about him had allowed Fern to let go of some stories she had never told anybody else.

Despite knowing the truth of her words, he shook his head.

“Carthane,” he said, “might not be the place you remember.”

“Does it matter? It’s the only place I’ve left to go.” Fern smiled. “Besides, it won’t be the place I remember becauseIwon’t be the same person going back. I’m not a servant’s child anymore.”

“And I suppose the rumours do not deter you in any way?”

Fernhadheard rumours. Rumours of unexplained disappearances and strange occurrences. But Fern wasn’t fooled: those rumours were nothing more than ways the powerful kept Carthane isolated and alienated.

It was one of the last great arcane libraries that had not yet fallen under the wealth and influence of one of the noble arcane houses. Even the Reformed Vatican could find no way of bringing it to heel. So of course, rumours would be trammelled up, anything to besmirch Carthane’s reputation.

But Fern was not easily frightened, and even if she were, her heart, which was a machine of steady rationality, had been set on Carthane for too long to give up.

“We are librarians and scholars, Oscar,” she said. “We deal in knowledge, not hearsay. If I’m willing to forsake Vestersted for Carthane, rumours won’t be enough to dissuade me.”

Oscar gave her a long, searching look. Perhaps he sought to find a weakness, a sign of doubt or hesitance. A chink in the wall of her conviction in which to lodge his pick before the punch of the emotional hammer. Or perhaps he was simply trying to memorise her features.

Though their relationship was often fraught with conflict, Fern knew he considered her one of his closest friends; she felt the very same way about him.

It was perhaps the reason why, in the end, he sighed and said, “The best library in the world, huh? Well.”

He went to the small chestnut cupboard behind his desk, took his favourite decanter of brandy from its tray and poured two glasses. He handed Fern one.

“I suppose we ought to celebrate, then.”

He lifted his glass and Fern tapped the rim of hers to his. They both drank, the brandy burning a warm path down Fern’s throat to her stomach. Oscar gazed at her over his glass.

“They chose well,” he said in a murmur. “Grand Archivist of Carthane. It’s a lofty thing indeed, and yet I can’t think of a worthier candidate for such a role.”

“Sentimentality, Oscar?” Fern said with a small smile. “Should you not be saving this speech for my last day?”

“I was actually being quite sincere and not at all sentimental. Why must you always be so acerbic? This is the reason you remain friendless and single. How long have you been in New Copenhagen now? Three years? You’reabout to turn thirty, and you’ve not so much as asuitorto your name. Truly embarrassing.”

It was a conversation they had often.

Oscar had put a considerable amount of effort into attempting to bring a social element into Fern’s life, usually to no avail. He had invited her to dinner parties, conventions and gatherings, encouraged her to go to parties and balls, visit the theatre and go to bars. He had even offered to introduce her to eligible bachelors he knew: scholars he thought she might be compatible with or handsome young men he thought might offer her some distraction from her work.

At first, those attempts had irked Fern. She disliked personal entanglements and did not appreciate the implication that she could not function without a companion in her life.

Then, Oscar’s secretary had mentioned in passing that Oscar often worried that Fern might be lonely, having moved to New Copenhagen without knowing anyone there. From that day onward, Fern had tried to be a little more open to Oscar’s artless attempts at finding her a friend or a partner: she had attended a few of his dinner parties and even gone on several dates with a scholar friend of his.

Of course, Oscar could not know that Fern functioned best alone, that she preferred her own company to that of others, or that she believed the importance of her work trumped everything else in her life, including companionship and romance.

“Friendless?” Fern now said quietly, raising an eyebrow in a playful quirk. “I thought I could count you as a friend—could it be I was mistaken?”

Oscar’s countenance changed in an instant, his thunderous features lit by a wide, genuine smile.

“Of course I’m your friend! My dear Fiddlehead. I’m happy for you, truly, I am, and forever proud of you. I am your friend and shall remain so until death itself stands in my way.” He tilted his head. “Does that mean you will write to me from Carthane?”

“As often as I can spare the time to do so.”

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