Page 55 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

They had to be careful about exactly what they revealed and in what order. He had tricks up his sleeve to make the questions flow as smoothly as possible, but giving up all your cards was rarely the best way to stave off the shock of the person you were questioning. Ease them into it, earn their favor, let them trust you.

“Anyone who travels legally on these ships would be in your logbooks, correct? The first mate drops the crew manifest off with you to document those on board?” Roremar asked.

Emmeline’s impressed stare burned into his skin—how does he know so much about trade ship procedure? He knew she was wondering—but he ignored it.

“They do. Each person is in my records, lest they be a stowaway,” the man behind the window said proudly waving at the back wall. “Been doing this job for two-and-a half centuries, and my father before me. His father before him built this here hut.”

Roremar scanned the rafters, the chipping paint and the bust of Polyr carved into the point of the sloping roof. The Trade House would be a much more secure and organized means of record keeping, but Gideon and his establishment were a figurehead for those docking here.

“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.