Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Emmeline
She didn’t remember passing out. Everything during the visit to the Lair had been swarming with incense. Her magic had pounded through her veins, begging to be unleashed. More and more as they climbed to the stone tower, as if alerting her something was wrong.
When she’d asked Roremar if they really should be going there, she’d been worried the Storytellers of the Fates would expose something about her. She hadn’t thought to worry about being overwhelmed or whisked away.
When she came to, she was surrounded by harsh, arguing whispers.
“It was the Storytellers of Arenothos, Aevollon, and Anphrosia, but for the thousandth time, I don’t know why,” someone grumbled from nearby.
“But they were mostly speaking about Anphrosia?” a second voice asked.
A long pause, as if the two were communicating silently, then the first sighed. “Yes, mostly Anphrosia and her relationship with Arenothos, though it seemed like Aevollon was somehow involved, too. The whole place is a fucked-up tribute to Anphrosia.”
“That whole part of the isle is,” Emmeline whispered, pink flowers blooming behind her still-closed eyes. A forked serpent’s tongue lashed through them.
Her entire being recoiled at the memory of the reptile’s beady eyes and the knowing stare the Storyteller of Aevollon had pegged her with as it slithered about her form. She internally cursed the Fate of Artistry and Trickery for preying on that weakness.
The room went silent for so long, Emmeline finally forced an eye open. Roremar sat in a chair beside her bed, his hair rumpled like he’d been dragging his hands through it and sword propped beside him in easy reach. His thin linen tunic was disheveled and open, tattoos on display.
Myrella perched quietly atop the wool bedspread at Emmeline’s feet, Nico sitting on the writing desk beneath the window, and Desmond leaning against the door.
All quietly staring at her.
“Good morning, darling,” Desmond said. In the ensuing silence, a subtle hiss echoed.
Without moving, bones locked, Emmeline flicked a glance toward the window over Nico’s shoulder, the moon’s glow permeating the aged lace curtains. “It’s nighttime.”
Desmond shrugged, his blond locks swaying, but Nico said, “You’ve been out for a while.”
Nerves laced Emmeline’s bones as the hissing faded through her mind, but it was Roremar’s calming, deep voice that asked, “How are you feeling?”
And Emmeline focused on the way his steel eyes steadied her as she evaluated her body, just as they had when he found her on the floor of her dormitory. As the familiar slimy sensation eased and the music from the dining room of the Hound’s Inn vibrated the floorboards.
Only this time, Roremar didn’t come closer.
Finally, denying how hollow that made her feel, she said, “Fine. Tired. But okay.”
Bracing his elbows on his knees, Roremar studied her. “You’re sure?”
She nodded.
“You don’t need to fret, Rore, she’s okay,” Desmond teased.
Roremar sliced his friend a glare. “She fainted, Des. I wouldn’t call that okay.”
Emmeline placed a hand on his arm. Roremar flinched, and she tried not to let that sting as she said, “I’m okay now, though. Thank you for seeing to that.”
It was unfamiliar, having someone care about her well-being even if he leaned away. Earlier today, when Roremar had promised he would protect her, that vow had burned behind her ribs with the force of starfire, the shock of it a near explosion within her.
Now, as she held his stare and he nodded, the distant threats of the Storytellers and serpents faded to blurry memories.
Fidgeting at the foot of the bed as if dying to speak, Myrella interrupted, “Do you think it was the same cause as last time?”
“Last time?” Roremar straightened. “What happened last time?”
Emmeline sighed. “I don’t know, and I’d rather not discuss it.”
“I found her nearly unconscious in the bathtub a couple weeks ago,” Myrella informed the group.
“Traitor,” Emmeline muttered.
Myrella rolled her eyes, but Roremar’s fury burned through the exchange. “You didn’t tell me this?”
“Uh oh.” Desmond laughed, exchanging a glance with Nico, who pressed his lips into a line.
“Always have to tell him when something’s wrong, Emmeline,” Nico said, nodding so aggressively, his waves bobbed across his brows. Shoving them back, a tattoo of woven vines flexing around his biceps, he added, “It’s one of the Rules of Roremar.”
“What are the Rules of Roremar?” the Reckless himself grumbled.
Nico grinned as if inciting his brother’s frustration was his greatest joy.
Emmeline had to bite back her own laugh as he leaned forward, hands curled around the desk.
“Something Leo, Vivi, and I came up with. Never hide things no matter how much trouble we’re in, no swimming alone after dark, don’t feed the jungle cats unless we’ve had dinner already, when glass breaks, always tell you before trying to clean it up—that one was Siena, actually, after that time she needed stitches—”
Desmond barked a laugh, but Roremar pinched the bridge of his nose. “When did you devise these rules?”
“A few years ago.” Nico shrugged. “They evolve as time goes on.”
Emmeline pushed into a seated position, head canting. A dull ache radiated through her skull at the motion. “Who are Siena, Leo, and Vivi?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Roremar said, snapping his fingers at his brother. “I want a list of the rules.”
“Yes, sir.” Nico saluted.
Roremar turned his attention back to Emmeline. “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve fainted before?”
“We had only just started working together,” she reminded him, allowing for the change in conversation since her head was still spinning.
In no way was she done questioning him on those rules.
“And besides, I was just tired. It was after we found the second body. A lot had happened in a very short amount of time.”
“You were in a bathtub, Emmeline.” She tried to ignore how his eyes silvered at the words, her own skin heating. “You could have drowned.”
“I was fine,” she swore, waving it off as she squirmed. “Thank you for this,” she added sarcastically to Myrella.
Her friend shrugged, big round eyes the picture of innocence. “I waited until you were awake to discuss it. I could have told him hours ago.”
“Rules of Roremar,” Nico murmured to Myrella out of the corner of his mouth. She couldn’t stifle her laugh quickly enough, and Nico beamed.
But Emmeline sighed. Myrella was right. At least it didn’t feel like she was talking behind her back.
She looked from her friend to Roremar. “Truthfully, I don’t know what happened that night or tonight.
It could have been related, perhaps I haven’t been sleeping well with all that’s going on.
I haven’t been reading as often as usual.
Maybe my magic is trying to find a way out that’s overwhelming my body and mind.
Whatever it is, I want to figure it out, but we have more important matters to discuss. ”
Roremar held her gaze for a long silence, during which she could feel the other three staring at them raptly. Finally, he sighed in concession.
“The Storytellers said to go to the Mourning Gardens for answers,” Emmeline reiterated, turning to Desmond. “What are those?”
“It’s a place Alvan Starsearchers go for illicit activities. Music, dancing, fucking.” Desmond frowned. “I don’t know why they would tell us to go there.”
“I can think of a few reasons,” Nico joked, nodding.
Desmond winked. “Other than that.”
“It has nothing to do with readings or worship?” Myrella asked.
“Not traditionally,” Desmond said. “The Mourning Gardens are where people go to forget what pains them. It’s said any dark proclivity can be satisfied within the hedges.”
Heat flushed Emmeline’s skin, chilling quickly when Nico said, “Like the Mezz.”
“Not like the Mezz,” Roremar snapped defensively with a quick glance at Emmeline.
Desmond added, “I haven’t been back here in a while. It could have changed. When I was younger, teenagers used to try to sneak in after curfew, but it’s primarily for adult Starsearchers to unwind.”
“They said to look for that which reflects her,” Roremar recalled. “That has to be referring to Anphrosia. Some kind of mirror?”
Desmond blew out a breath. “The gardens are a maze. There could be anything in there.”
“And we still don’t know how Anphrosia is connected to this. How any of them are connected to the murders.” Emmeline fell back against the pillows, entirely overwhelmed. Her brain hummed like buzzing starflies.
“Not yet,” Roremar said, his stare searing silver as it met hers again, “but if the Storytellers are right, tomorrow night we might.”
Before she settled on Lyra, Emmeline spent a dazzling few months hopping between the Constellation Isles, seeking connections to the continent’s trade network.
Though her focus had been on finding those targets, there were traits of each isle that stuck to her spirit, that had seemed to wind themselves into her soul in the fleeting moments.
On Byron, it had been the towering museums, ceilings etched with star maps from when the Fates were first burning through the skies.
On Epi, the rich history of mythological creatures and a white-tailed gryphon she’d watched tear through the clouds.
Alvan, though? As they ventured toward the Mourning Gardens, she was certain it was the very air that would embed itself in her memory forever. Every pulse of her blood roared with passion, every inhale was laced with the magic of burning wisteria, and every step flowed with the power of a warrior.
Emmeline followed Desmond’s broad form beneath a stone archway, the center carved into a bust with a veil like Anphrosia, and through a hedge tunnel.
The tales from the Lair came back to her.
Salacious stories of the Fates had been passed around bonfires and over bottles of wine for centuries, but perhaps the celestial beings who danced across this land had more secrets than any of them knew.