Page 109 of The Deadliest Candidate

But his expression now, the rawness of his emotions, seemed so vivid and genuine that Fern’s certainty faltered. She might have believed his anguish stemmed from her survival and the ruination of his plans, but this was not the case. Lautric was looking at her with mingled tenderness and distress, the way one might look at something precious and broken.

It made Fern’s heart hurt and her mind ache. She had no time for Lautric and his mysteries, no time for whatever emotion nestled in her chest, squirming and warm like a newborn creature seeking comfort. Just like Fern’s missing book, or her absent mentor, or the Gateway in the Astronomy Tower, she would simply have to deal with it later. She had too much to worry about: hercandidacy, her injuries, Emmeline, helpless and scared and alone, waiting for her.

She needed to find Edmund, now. She tried to barge past Lautric, but he stood in her path.

“What happened to you?” he asked, a miserable expression on his face. “You’re hurtagain.”

Fern steeled herself, her heart, her voice. “I told you to stay away from me.”

His tone was defeated. “I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

“It would be easier to stay away from you,” Lautric said, sounding more hurt than he ever had before, “if you did not insist on always throwing yourself head-first into danger.”

Facing Lautric, Fern asked in a low, cold voice, “And why exactly is it you care so much, Mr Lautric?”

“Please,” he sighed, “call me L—”

“I despise your family and everything it stands for. Do you know how many times I’ve been attacked under your family’s orders? You must think me the greatest of fools. Your family has wanted me dead for years now. So why is ityoushould care so much what happens to me?”

His expression was unreadable—not because it was barren of emotion, but because it was overwhelmed by a myriad of them. Shock, anger, resentment, sadness. Other emotions which Fern could not quite unpick from the others.

When he spoke, his voice was low. “You know why.”

A disconcerting lightness fluttered through Fern. What was he saying? Why now? And how should she feel? And though she knew she was being manipulated,why did it notfeellike manipulation? And ultimately—what did it matter? She had no time for this.

“No, I don’t know why, Mr Lautric, nor do I wish to find out. Keep to your business and I shall keep to mine. Now I must ask you to step aside. I need to speak to Mr Ferrow.”

Lautric stepped aside without a word, his mouth down-turned in an unhappy grimace. Fern brushed past him, past his incongruous sadness and the sweet smell of him, and towards the Grand Mage Hall.

She knocked on theantechamber door before she had even regained her breath. It opened to reveal an archivist, blue sash across her waist. She raised an eyebrow, her gaze sweeping Fern, taking in her untidy hair, her bruised face, her borrowed clothes and bloodstained trousers.

“Um, Miss Sullivan,” she said in a tone of mild concern, stepping aside to let Fern through, “what happened to you? You’re late, they’re about to call your name.”

Fern threw out a quick apology and hurried past the archivist and into a long antechamber. Its ceiling was low, and it was barren of windows, lit only by a row of gas lamps. High-backed chairs were pushed back against one wall.

There, the other candidates sat waiting: Vasili Drei, long hair tied back, shuffling through some notes, Edmund pale-faced and hollow-eyed, clenching and unclenching his hands. Dr Essouadi and Baudet bothlooked up at Fern’s entrance, matching expressions of surprise on their faces. Baudet still seemed to be half-recovering from Edmund’s attack; Fern could not help but be surprised both were sitting in the same room.

Before Fern could take one more step, before she could even utter Edmund’s name, the door to the Mage Hall opened and Ravi Srivastav returned into the antechamber.

His skin was ashen, and his hands were bandaged, as though he’d burnt himself during his spellcasting. His eyes met Fern: his mien, normally so open and amiable, was closed and pinched with fear. Fern frowned; Srivastav had the greatest advantage in this assignment, his Elemency skills outmatching all the other candidates’ by leaps and bounds.

If he was afraid, then something must have happened during the assignment, but what?

Behind Fern, the archivist called. “Miss Sullivan. You’re next.”

Fern glanced at the open door, the glimpsed marble and gold of the Grand Mage Hall beyond, the archivist’s expectant frown. This was the final assignment, and she had come so far and worked so hard.

For a second, she watched the other candidates.

Dr Essouadi, worried and ill and exhausted. Srivastav, who looked as though he was about to throw up, excusing himself and leaving the antechamber in a stumble. Lautric, whose pretty eyes were set in beds of shadows. Vasili Drei, with his long black hair and tinted glasses, still and unruffled, like an immovable rock in a stormy ocean.

Then Fern turned to Edmund and saw, beyond the seething green of his hatred and frustration, the livid crimson of his pain, his terror. She felt trapped in that kaleidoscope of emotion she’d tried so hard to avoid, and now she’d come to a crossroads.

A choice was required of her. She could not choose wrong.

Turning away from the archivist, away from the door, Fern strode past all the other candidates to stand in front of Edmund.

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