Chapter 18 #2
“That’s a lovely family tale,” Emmeline said.
The over-exaggerated niceties in her tone nearly made Roremar laugh.
Clever as all Fates, he had to give her that.
Even though she’d almost slipped up a minute ago, she had observed and adopted his method quickly.
She could transform herself so effortlessly.
Shaking away the distraction, Roremar said, “You’re clearly an expert at your job, then. I’m sure no one gets past your keen notice.”
“Very few get on or off those ships without my eye catching them, and if they do?” Gideon snorted a laugh. “Then they’re not riding in a very pleasant part, so Angel be with them.”
They were below deck, tucked between crates of Fates only knew what, and likely vomiting from the ebb of the tides and stale air.
“I knew you were the man to help us,” Roremar complemented, removing a sealed envelope from the inside pocket of his leathers. His sword shifted against his back as he slid the letter across the counter, the metal warm in the late afternoon sun. “From the Temple Master.”
The man’s brows drew together, and Emmeline bristled. Roremar practically saw her bite her tongue at the reveal that Falliare had given them jurisdiction here, too. She’d certainly be laying into him for that omission later.
Roremar waited while the log keeper peeled the envelope open and read the instruction to answer whatever questions they ask and speak of it to no one, stamped by the Temple Master’s personal seal itself.
“What is it you’re after?” he asked warily as he returned the letter, and Roremar tucked it away. All hints of his previous jubilation were gone.
“We’re wondering if you have any records of travelers who have not left the isle?”
“Not left?” he echoed.
Emmeline elaborated, speaking in a much softer tone than Roremar expected based on the tension rolling off her, “Particularly women who have arrived here but aren’t residents of Lyra.
We’re looking for someone, but we don’t even have a name to go by.
We fear she’s fallen into some sort of danger that may have resulted in her not returning home after her visit. ”
The little vixen was an excellent liar. Roremar wasn’t sure how he felt about that. In reality, they wanted to identify the friends of the first victim and the name of the second, but they didn’t want to scream their motive to the entire port.
“Danger?”
Emmeline shrugged one shoulder as if afraid to voice her thoughts. Her teeth slipped over her plush bottom lip, and Roremar almost forgot where he was as his focus homed in on the small indents left behind when she added, “Please, whatever information you have may be helpful.”
“It will take me a day or two, but I’ll see what I can find.”
“Thank you,” she said, and Roremar echoed it, leaving Gideon with instructions on how to contact them.
As they turned away from the hut and crossed the wooden walkway back to the Promenade of Revels, Emmeline’s soft facade slipped away. A steel shell of armor slid up in its place, frustration rippling off her. Roremar was about to be reprimanded. He felt it coming.
But when Emmeline’s hand wrapped around his biceps—warmth spearing through his entire body—and she steered him down a narrow alley, it wasn’t animosity that looked up at him.
If he wasn’t mistaken, it was hurt. And that dashed the anticipation of sparring with her.
An unfamiliar lump of regret settled in its place as he waited for her to say something.
“I thought we’d agreed to work as partners.”
Taken aback, Roremar answered, “We are.”
“Then why are you pulling out letters from Falliare that I’ve never seen.” She took a deep breath, seemingly really trying not to lash out at him. “I need to know what angle we’re approaching people with or else I may say something contradictory.”
It was a much more rational response than Roremar expected based on how abrasive she’d reacted originally—or every time he did anything reckless. And…
Fates. She had a point. He pursed his lips, considering his mistake.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m used to working alone when I’m gathering information for an assignment, so I’m used to being discreet.”
He wasn’t alone in his life. No, with his five siblings, his mother, and Desmond, he was never afforded much solitude.
But when it came to the reconnaissance work he’d thrived on in the army—the rare, eye-opening moments when he thought he may have found a place and purpose that was his—he was always on his own.
“I understand,” Emmeline agreed, anger simmering. “But discreet or no, it shouldn’t be a secret from me.”
That was hurt in her eyes, and Fates, did it slice him up more than he’d ever expected.
But indignation reared within him, too. She preached partnership and full disclosure, but Roremar wasn’t dumb. Emmeline DeLeoste kept secrets from him, yet she didn’t think he deserved to do the same?
It was another puzzle he added to the roster Emmeline was acquiring.
“Sure, Huntress,” he told her, stepping closer in the narrow alley, dim from the tall apartments blocking the sun. She pressed back against the wall. Roremar’s hand settled on the brick beside her head, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip again.
Hollers and chatter washed over the street, but here, they were in their own bubble. Nothing but silence, their heavy breaths, and daring challenge as he repeated, “No more secrets. From either of us, right?”
She lifted her chin to meet his stare. He’d be damned, it was just as piercing as he was sure his own was. Just as stubborn and willful and determined.
Just as flooded with the starfire that was sewn deep into his bruised bones.
“No more secrets,” Emmeline said, promise lacing her words.
And though Roremar nodded in agreement, he knew they’d both just lied. They stayed there for a moment, each waiting for the other to crack. He couldn’t say what would happen when one of them did.
And with how much pressure was on them to solve this case before the Revels, he couldn’t waste time finding out.
Roremar stepped back, clearing his throat, and gestured for her to walk ahead. “Let’s go to the Accords, then I’ll escort you back to the Academy.”
With this new facade of truth weaving a web between them, Emmeline brushed past him.
Roremar’s skin tightened at the slight contact, but they rounded the corner back onto the Promenade, and he forgot the heat flushing through his veins when he spotted a familiar form speaking to a figure shadowed beneath an awning with rapt attention.
“Des?” Roremar blurted. His friend turned, expression instantly brightening to his usual smirk. “What are you doing here?”
“Ah, one of my shipments is late.” He rolled his eyes. “Incompetent asses keep losing things lately. Came down here to track it during the afternoon lull.” Whoever he’d been speaking with had disappeared inside the storefront, apparently happy for the interruption.
Roremar didn’t blame them. Desmond was known for his charming, cordial manner, but he was a different person entirely when angry or threatened, and he certainly held a grudge over things he cared deeply about—like his business.
Beside Roremar, Emmeline shifted. He cast her a glance, her narrowed eyes instantly smoothing into their usual shine as she smiled at Desmond.
“You’re working tonight?” Roremar asked Desmond, gaze flicking between him and Emmeline. “Despite the curfew?”
“Trying to. A few people may come in.”
“I’ll stop by before…” Roremar’s words trailed off quicker than he could think of an excuse. Before I go home to check on the kids. Certainly, Emmeline didn’t miss the pause, but she didn’t comment, and he quickly amended, “I’ll stop by after Angel’s Draw if I can. May have a lot of work to do.”
“Good luck. Door’s always open,” Desmond said. Clapping Roremar on the shoulder, Des stepped around him. “Emmeline,” he greeted with a flirtatious smile as he headed up the street.
Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t speak. Roremar’s chest tightened as Emmeline watched Desmond’s disappearing form, an uncomfortable sensation prickling behind his ribs. He wasn’t sure he liked it—the smile Des had flashed her. The way her look lingered.
It felt conspiratorial almost. Like there was something he didn’t know of between them.
But when he tried to ask her what was wrong, Emmeline only brushed him off.
No more secrets, they’d sworn.
On a Fate’s fucking grave.