Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Emmeline
“You really didn’t have to come,” Roremar told her for the dozenth time as they exited the foothills onto the Promenade.
“I wanted to,” Emmeline swore. She didn’t add that she’d needed to get out of the Academy.
For the sake of her own memories, but also because she didn’t belong there right now.
Didn’t belong with Charisse’s mourning or Myrella’s tears.
She hadn’t known Liana like they had, and it felt like a lie to allow herself to hurt with them.
“Desmond didn’t give any further detail?” she asked to change the subject.
Roremar shook his head. “He just said it’s the parlor.”
“Not the apartment, then,” Emmeline muttered, mostly to herself, but Roremar’s relief was impossible to miss.
“Not the apartment.”
They crossed the wide Promenade, cutting between benches lined with Starsearchers. Though some were relaxed, heads tipped back and laughing, there was a general air of unease on the isle these days. More than one person checked over their shoulder, scurrying to their destination.
The door to Fated Ink was closed, but through the wide window looking out onto the Promenade, the distress on Desmond’s face was evident.
“Fucking stars.” Roremar raced ahead and threw the door open, the bell overhead ringing in an off-kilter chime. Emmeline followed him inside, her boots crunching on broken glass.
“Oh, Fates,” she whispered.
The parlor had been ransacked. Mirrors broken, shelves torn off walls. The remains of vials of ink and shredded designs splattered the tiles.
Desmond stood in the center of the mess, hands on his hips as he stared at the floor. “Came in to open for the night and found the place wrecked.”
“You weren’t open this afternoon?” Roremar asked, carefully stepping over an upended table and turning to help Emmeline.
“Had some shit to deal with,” Desmond growled. An anger that contradicted his usual casualness rose Emmeline’s nerves. “I moved all my appointments back. The door was closed and mystlights off when I left my apartment this morning so I don’t even know when it happened.”
“The lock was intact?”
Desmond grimaced, nodding. “And my key downstairs.”
Carefully, Emmeline strolled along the gallery space. Desmond must have had incense or candles in here that got exposed. Her magic was pulsing harder than usual against her veins, pinpricks of starlight piercing her vision.
“Did it get left unlocked last night?” she asked, trying to force down the encroaching session.
“Must have, though I’ve never done that before.” Desmond dragged a hand through his honey hair, and though Emmeline was on edge, she couldn’t help but feel bad at how forlorn he looked. It was a different situation, but they’d both had their personal property violated.
“What’s missing?” Roremar asked Desmond.
“I don’t know what’s missing, Rore, I can’t even tell what’s here!”
“Then let’s go through it,” Roremar said, unfazed by his friend’s outburst. “One thing at a time.”
His grey eyes took on that hyper-observant stare Emmeline was becoming very familiar with. It was the way he often studied her—though she was almost certain he didn’t realize that—and the way he assessed the murder scenes.
Emmeline carefully stepped over shards of glass, the hem of her skirt dragging across the mess. Pointing to the artwork from the walls, she asked, “Can I pick these up?”
Jaw tight, Desmond nodded. One by one, Emmeline lifted the sheets of paper from the ground, discarding the broken frames in a pile of trash.
Roremar and Desmond got to work lifting the heavier pieces of furniture, reassembling what they could or at least getting it into a position where it would make do.
Emmeline steadfastly ignored the way Roremar’s capable hands repaired the delicate scraps, his long fingers both nimble and strong.
The art she gathered was all intact, at least. As she collected the last piece, she had to admit the work was exquisite.
Graceful brushstrokes and precise lines, lifelike mythological creatures.
One beautiful portrait of a woman from behind, a sheet wrapped around the curves of her waist and a waterfall of dark hair tumbling down her shoulders.
Her profile was barely visible, moonlight gilding it.
“There’s definitely ink missing,” Desmond commented after he and Roremar finished organizing his station, most of the broken glass swept up. “I had a new shipment the other day.”
“Was it all out here?” Roremar asked as Emmeline approached.
Only a few unopened vials remained. She didn’t know what it took to draw even one piece, but they weren’t any larger than honey jars. She had to imagine Desmond had more on hand, especially if he imported it in bulk from somewhere off the isle.
“Some is in the back, but I had at least six extras on this shelf.” Desmond gestured to the empty space above the mirror.
“Who would steal ink?” Emmeline asked.
But Roremar gave her a knowing stare. “Someone who needed it desperately, without a practiced enough hand to run their own parlor for conspicuous access?”
“You think it’s whoever is responsible for the murders? That they needed ink for their ritual?”
“It makes sense,” Roremar said as Desmond began restacking his design books on their usual shelf near the front entrance. “And especially if we think that person is watching you. They’d have known Des’s shop was here and when he wasn’t in it.”
Emmeline inhaled sharply, her gaze slicing to Desmond. She couldn’t see his face, but this was either a very convincing, elaborate ruse, or he wasn’t the murderer after all. Staging a break in at his shop would be a good cover. This alone didn’t erase her suspicion.
Still, if he wasn’t involved and was merely an innocent bystander…
“I’m sorry, Desmond,” she said sincerely. “If someone did this because I’m here, I’m so sorry.”
Desmond shook his head, sliding another book onto the shelf. “It’s as much Rore as it is you.”
“Hey!” Roremar barked.
“You’d have been here anyway!” Desmond argued half-heartedly. “I’m not blaming either of you, just letting your girl know it’s not her fault.”
“I’m not his girl,” Emmeline said, brows creasing.
“Yeah, yeah,” Desmond chided as he placed the last book. He froze. “There’s one missing.” He slid his tattooed hand between two leather volumes. “Right here.”
Point forgotten, Emmeline scampered over. She didn’t know how Desmond could tell where the missing book belonged, given that there was nothing discernible on the outside of any of them, but she asked, “Do you know what it was?”
He shrugged. “That one has half of my constellation designs and a couple of the Fates.”
“Which Fates?” Roremar asked.
Desmond scanned the rest of the books. “Arenothos and Aevollon.”
Not Anphrosia and Serchus, the Fates most associated with cults, but…
“Those are the Alvan Fates,” Emmeline whispered. Jumping around to face Roremar, she blurted, “We need to go back to the Academy.”
She was out the door before either man could comment.
Charisse’s dormitory was warm, cloying with the scents of frankincense and myrrh burned for mourning—a superstition some Starsearchers believed in to say goodbye to loved ones—and what Emmeline suspected was chamomile, to help Charisse calm and sleep tonight.
Violet scarves were draped across the mystlights, casing the chamber in a soft glow fit for her pain.
Myrella and Regina were curled on the bed beside Charisse, the latter’s head in Regina’s lap as she recounted a story of the time Liana snuck them all onto a ship for the evening with a group of Starsearchers from Della.
Sorrow twisted behind Emmeline’s ribs as she watched them, not quite sure what to say. She knew death intimately, had walked side by side with it, had inflicted it, but this was different. She hadn’t ever shared in anyone else’s grief.
What would it have been like, to have someone else there when her mother died?
To have stories to exchange, memories to keep aflame rather than solitude snuffing them out?
Perhaps she would have liked that. Perhaps she wouldn’t have this constant hole in her chest if it had been patched over with company and understanding.
With sharing the agony of loss rather than burying herself beneath it.
That wasn’t something she knew how to do, though.
So when Myrella patted the bed next to her and the edges of that hole in Emmeline’s chest tried to pull together, instead of quivering beneath the aching loneliness, Emmeline shook her head.
Roremar’s eyes burned into the side of her face, but she kept her attention on the women and spun her opal ring around her finger.
When there was a lull in the conversation and Charisse was ready for questions, Emmeline asked, “Where was Liana from?”
And her heart pounded as Charisse answered, “Alvan.”
Neither she nor Roremar reacted, though internally her spirit was lifting. Was it possible they were finally putting together the correct pieces?
“One more question.” She waited for Charisse to nod. “Did she ever mention a group by the name the Warders of Selene?”
“No. No, never.”
Emmeline’s confidence withered. But just because Liana didn’t know of the group didn’t mean they hadn’t known of her—for whatever reason.
“Thank you, Charisse,” Emmeline said, turning back toward the door. “We’ll leave you—”
“One more.” Roremar placed a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, Charisse. We’ll go in a moment. But Emmeline mentioned Liana frequented an apothecary across the Scholar’s Quarter. Do you know the name of it?”
Emmeline glanced at him. Where was he going with this?
Charisse considered for a moment. “Probably Viperous Vices. It’s on the edge of the quarter near the jungle.”
“Thank you, Charisse,” Roremar said, clearly having whatever information he needed.
“Please, if there’s anything I can do, let me know,” Emmeline said softly, reaching for the door handle behind her.
Charisse’s gaze flicked between her and Roremar, and Emmeline felt like they were being assessed as one. The attention choked her. “I don’t know what you two are doing, but promise me, whatever it is, you’ll find out who did this.”
“I swear it on my life,” Emmeline vowed.
“Mine, too,” Roremar added.
Charisse nodded, her lips trembling.
Roremar closed the door quietly behind Emmeline, and she immediately spun toward him. “The apothecary?”
“It’s the same place one of the missing women worked at.
And I’d bet anything it’s the one the other missing woman visited, but her daughter didn’t tell me the name.
” He swore, dragging his fingers through his hair.
“It was such an insignificant and routine thing she did a few days before her death, I didn’t even think to press the lead further. ”
“We will now,” Emmeline said. Roremar’s distress bled into the air, but she placed a hand on his arm.
“I think we have a more imperative lead to follow.” His grey eyes flashed to where she touched him, that look molten and burning through her entire body.
Stuffing it down, she removed her hand. “We need to go to Alvan. Liana and the first victim were both from there.”
“Not just them,” Roremar said. “That’s one of the things Darcy uncovered about the second victim. She was originally from Alvan, too. It was something I was going to talk to you about tonight.”
“And whoever broke into Fated Ink took a book with designs about Arenothos and Aevollon, the two Fates most prominently revered on the isle.” Emmeline’s heart was pounding, her anticipation mirrored in Roremar’s flushed cheeks.
Finally, they had a tangible theory on how these women were all connected.
“So someone is killing off women who have come to Lyra from Alvan,” Emmeline stated. “Why?”
“Don’t know, but it’s a lead at least.”
She nodded, struggling to be excited about the progress with Liana’s death hanging over her. But it only solidified her resolve to end this as quickly as possible. “When can we go?”
Roremar considered, seeming to run something through his head. “Day after tomorrow? I need to get a few things organized.”
“I’ll get my lessons covered,” she agreed. Glancing back at Charisse’s door, she mentally repeated the promise to find who did this.
“You can be sad, you know,” Roremar whispered.
Her attention snapped back to him. He was closer than she remembered, his sandalwood scent swarming her.
“Just because you weren’t as close to Liana as the rest of them, doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to mourn.
She deserves to be remembered by every life she touched, not just those she knew best.”
He saw right through her, as if she was made of glass. Fear snaked around her heart. What else would he see if he looked closer? What chips would he uncover beneath her facade?
But he was right. Emmeline may have kept everyone at arm’s length, but why should that mean she kept the pain there, too? It had been easier to live her life that way for so long, to isolate it all, but perhaps easier wasn’t always better. Perhaps it was robbing her of something more valuable.
She bit her lip, holding Roremar’s gaze as she fought to believe his words. The silver streaking his grey irises was comforting, alive.
“I may go back inside for a bit longer,” she whispered.
Roremar nodded. “Are you going to stay here tonight?”
“No,” she rushed out. She couldn’t stay near them. Fates forbid, if her attacker came back, she didn’t want to be near anyone in the Academy. “Maybe just an hour.”
“I’ll run down to the kitchens. Get something to eat, stop by Falliare’s to tell him our plan and see what contacts he has on Alvan. Send me a note when you need me back, but take your time.”
“Don’t give Miss Bethany too much grief in the kitchen,” Emmeline joked.
Roremar gave her a troublemaking smirk. “No promises, Huntress. I’m sure she’s missed me.”
As he strode away, Emmeline placed a shaking hand on the door. Before he rounded the corner, she whispered, “Roremar?”
He turned, silver eyes glinting like starlight. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”