Page 68 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

Why would Desmond care so much?

But she had nowhere else to go, so she relented.

“By the way,” Roremar said, standing from the bed once they had a plan in place, “you should talk to your friend about my brother.”

“My friend?” She tilted her head, tugging her blanket back around her shoulders. She was still in her clothing from yesterday, but a peek toward the bags Roremar had brought revealed bright swatches of cotton. Her heart pattered at the thought of him getting her the things she needed to be comfortable here.

Falliare’s comments about reputations not being accurate came back to her. Perhaps she had misjudged Roremar the Reckless.

“The other instructor? She came tearing into the corridor when Des and Nico were talking to the guards. Apparently she was pretty startled to see Nico there. Young girl, sweet but real lively apparently. Dark hair, My—something?”

“Myrella?” Emmeline asked.

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

Myrella had been there last night? The thought squeezed Emmeline’s chest in an unfamiliar way.

“What does she have to do with Nico?”

Roremar shrugged, drifting over to the kitchen corner and unloading the bags he’d dropped. Sure enough, a few skirts tumbled onto the table. She followed, folding them to give her hands something to do.

“Don’t know,” Roremar said, “but Nico seemed upset by it. Once you’re able to, maybe talk to her? He’s a good kid. I’m sure whatever he did, he didn’t mean to.”

“Why would Myrella listen to me?”

Roremar paused putting jars in the pantry, looking at her with a brow quirked. She again felt like he was seeing right through her. “She’s your friend, isn’t she?”

Emmeline didn’t respond. Was Myrella a friend? She’d considered her an acquaintance, a colleague, even someone whose presence and conversation she enjoyed, but it had been so long since she’d really had a friend, she couldn’t recognize it for what it was.

Myrella had always put in more effort to talk with her than the other instructors. Invited her on outings, asked about lessons and readings, was concerned when she found Emmeline nearly asleep in the bathing chamber the other night.

First Roremar’s care, now Myrella. The hollow of loneliness receded a bit at the consideration.

“Roremar?” she asked.

“Yes?”

She hesitated but remembered his fingers gently resting against her throat. His reassuring words whispered in her ear as he carried her from the Academy. And she dared herself to ask, “If I have to stay here today, do you think you could stay, too?”

One corner of his lips hooked into a smirk. He upended another bag, and an assortment of notes from their research, vials of incense, and what appeared to be a few wooden puzzles tumbled onto the table. “Was already planning on it, Huntress.”

By sunset, Emmeline was desperate for fresh air. When Roremar told her he never made it to Angel’s Draw last night, she insisted they go.

He agreed, only if they waited until it was dark and she both wore a hooded cloak and carried a dagger, which she’d been planning to do anyway.

The parlor was busy when they arrived, the red velvet benches in the entryway lined with patrons trying to get appointments in before curfew. Emmeline had to admit, all the pieces she saw being inked looked way more skilled than the ones on the victims.

Roremar grumbled something beneath his breath about the work not being half as good as Fated Ink, but Emmeline only rolled her eyes. His grouchy defense of his friend was a welcome reprieve from her own thoughts. All day, she’d been consumed by fear and fury from last night, the lingering memory of her reading about Desmond sending unease curling through her.

“What can I do for you?” the owner of Angel’s Draw, Baron, asked Roremar when he finally finished with his crowd, eyeing Emmeline’s hood suspiciously.

She nudged it back but not far enough that he could see the bruising around her neck.

“We’re here on business from the Temple Master,” Roremar began. They’d considered masquerading as customers, but after last night, they both wanted answers as quickly as possible.

Plus, neither of them really suspected Baron anymore, though Emmeline knew she was still more sold on her cult theory than Roremar was. He was quite a skeptic when it came to divine worship.

“Ah, yeah,” Baron said, wiping his hands on a rag. He wasn’t much taller than Emmeline, but his deep voice and thick arms exuded strength. “Neighbors told me you’ve been poking around. What is it the old man wants?”