Page 152 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

Emmeline flipped open the leather file so pages spilled across her desk. Discreetly, she tucked away her notes on the Averian. She’d been scouring recent history for the name, not brave enough to go back to the Snake Charmer yet, no matter what information he might have. She was determined to figure it out without the serpent’s help.

“Maybe we should attack this from a different angle,” she muttered as she reorganized the various segments of information.

She had notes on the methods of killing—all slit throats that did them in—as well as the other evidence found on the bodies themselves and information from the victims’ families. The tattoos, shoddily sketched, all with that one uneven point of the star.

“I’ve been thinking since Alvan that maybe the tattoo is pointing toward Anphrosia,” Emmeline said.

“For revenge?” Myrella asked.

“That, or maybe the ritual is supposed to reach her. Roremar and I guessed maybe it was to forge some kind of connection.” Emmeline scribbled down the theories as she spoke and pinned them to her wall beside the rendition of the tattoo.

Myrella followed suit, hanging up notes on the ash circles around the bodies and the remnants sprinkled about. Most were withered, so they hadn’t been able to determine what exactly had been burned, but they created a list of herbs and flowers associated with Anphrosia, noting down those for Arenothos and Aevollon beneath it, and pinned them to the wall, too.

With an arrow stretching away from those, Emmeline wrote in large letters SEEDS. Over it all, she scrawled the title Viperous Vices.

Next, Emmeline tacked up the vague, unhelpful hints the Storytellers had given them as well as everything Myrella could remember from the Mourning Gardens. There were the notes on imports from the docks, and the records of ink both brought in by and stolen from Desmond.

Finally, there was the overabundance of information on cults, including their known practices and rituals.

“Nothing new about the Warders of Selene?” Myrella asked as she took in the large blank sheet of parchment headed with the cult name.

“No, but Regina and Harttorn found two other groups who used to be prevalent on Lyra.” Emmeline pinned the first next to the Warders. “The Celestial Children.”

The cult had five known rituals that she’d been able to uncover so far. Four were seasonal, performed to honor the Fates at each equinox and solstice. They involved blood willingly given from each participant and prayers muttered over dying candles. The fifth was their induction ceremony, where each member received a tattoo of a wreath of twelve stars on their back, one broken to symbolize the Dead Fate.

Just as Emmeline and Myrella were comparing notes on that cult to present day murders, Lyra’s bell rang out.

“Fates,” Myrella swore. “I have to go.”

“Off to see Nico?” Emmeline forced a modicum of teasing into her voice.

Myrella tutted, rolling her eyes. “No, it’s my turn to patrol the corridors.”

Emmeline nodded. “How are things with Nico? Have you let him off the hook with the flowers, yet?”

“He’s getting there.” Myrella’s telltale blush tinged her cheeks. “I know it’s not fair of me to test him like this.”

“You’re allowed to take time to feel comfortable,” Emmeline reminded her.

“I’m never uncomfortable around Nico,” Myrella corrected. “That’s the point. He feels like more…like home. That’s what’s scary.”

Emmeline’s heart jumped into her throat, the words landing too close to a wound beginning to unravel within her. “I understand,” she whispered. Avoiding Myrella’s gaze, her eyes dragged back to the cult notes pinned to the wall.

“I can come back to help more after my patrol if you’d like.”

“It’s okay,” Emmeline said. “Get some sleep. I’m going to try reading again soon.”

She’d likely be up all night, until she had any kind of answer for Falliare. The pressure of the Revels approaching clogged her throat as she bid Myrella good night.

Once she was gone, Emmeline finished pinning up her cult notes. The final group Regina had found, the Realmspinners, were as poorly represented in history as the Warders.

With it all laid out before her, she stepped back, crossing her arms.

So much of this evidence had implicated Desmond. She knew it was wrong now, but he had been a viable suspect. What she needed to do was flip it all over. Take those facts that had pointed toward him and realign them to highlight someone who looked like him but wasn’t.

Someone with a motive to avenge the Fates or a grudge against Anphrosia. Revenge, as the Snake Charmer had implied.

“Maybe we’re thinking too small,” she whispered to herself.