Page 83 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“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.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Roremar

The next evening, Roremar flopped back on the couch in his father’s old study, his legs kicked up over the side of its rounded velvet arm. Though he supposed it was his study now, a twisted thing inside of him never allowed himself to refer to it as that. He didn’t deserve to claim it.

These four walls, with their rickety shelves lined with old tomes and the aged wooden desk that wobbled a bit when you slammed the drawers, were steeped in his father’s memory. This entire house was. Even after a decade, he lingered, and while Roremar had certainly done despicable things in his life, erasing his father’s imprint on their lives was one he couldn’t fathom.

Despite—

No.

His throat closed at the thought, and he pushed upright, taking deep breaths to try to get air down.

He trained his gaze on the clock behind the desk, trimmed in dark wood with polished silver accents. Made by his great grandmother, it was one of his father’s prized possessions. The hands got the time wrong often with how many centuries the thing had been around, running on mystlight, but they were carved with intricate details. Constellations and beautiful artistry that made Roremar sick when he considered that his father wasn’t here to see them anymore.

Tonight, Roremar counted the soft ticks as he tried to regain his breath.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Roremar called, dragging a hand over his face and standing. Fates, he was tired, but he collected his features into the controlled mask he always wore around his mother, no matter how much pain lanced his chest.

But it was Nico who popped his head around the door. “How’s everything going?”