Page 10 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Chapter Four

Emmeline

For the first time since arriving in Valyn, Emmeline felt like herself.

Beneath a thin blanket of stars, air prickling before a storm, she hopped between rooftops in the Fourth District. With her leathers hugging her body in a familiar embrace and her hair braided back, nothing obscured her from the night, but no eyes were on her unless she dictated it.

She was free.

Still learning the layout of the city, it had taken her some time to locate a shop that was open, but Alana had told her earlier today the Fourth District was where she’d find Mystique ink.

Now, three tiny jars clanked in her satchel as she hopped across narrow alleys, the soles of her boots gripping easily to the rooftops of Valyn’s apartments and shops. The tiles were less worn than those on Lyra, but all were made of similar enough materials that, for a heartbeat, she could pretend she was back on her isle.

Emmeline let that feeling bloom in her chest, soothing the aches from earlier. Only when that shroud of anonymity had settled and her control was stable did she find an incense den near the border of the Third District.

Prophecy’s Demise, the sign read. The windows were lined with crystal-studded candles and blessed necklaces that supposedly enhanced readings. Based on the name, Emmeline assumed it was a tongue-in-cheek reference to Metrina, the Fate of Prophecy and Demise.

Dense clouds of incense lined the packed tables, but Emmeline wove her way to the back corner and leaned against the wall. A warrior stood at the head of the shop with his glass raised in one hand and a roll of herbs in the other. He gestured to a couple standing atop the polished-oak bar.

“To the freshly bonded couple!” His cheer was followed by the entire room applauding and the man atop the bar dipping the woman—his newly bonded partner, apparently—to kiss her passionately.

Emmeline stomach twisted.

Every thought of a bonding ceremony—of the vows warriors took to swear themselves to one another and the more rare, mythical types of bonds that existed—was like snapping jaws around her heart. But she was determined to begin her hunt for her sister tonight.

So, she wound her way through the crowd a few times, stopping at the bar to purchase fresh incense from their hundreds of vials, and she listened.

Most people were discussing the tournament Rocarri was hosting, theorizing about what it would entail. Perry was right. The public had been given very little concrete information which only encouraged their interest.

Whatever Rocarri’s plan was, it appeared to be working.

Unfortunately for her goal tonight, most of the conversations weren’t tipping toward drug movements or other, seedier habits like the temple trades. Apparently this tournament was really going to skew her plans.

When she heard a few warriors discussing rumors of the woman tied to eleven Fates or Fateblessed as they were calling her, she ducked beneath the beaded curtain at the back of the room and left.

She doubted they knew what she looked like, but she wasn’t willing to risk being caught.

Emmeline took to the roofs again, hastily hopping a few streets over until she was in the Third District. Though she hadn’t expected to find answers about her sister on her first hunt for Valyn’s underbelly, she couldn’t help the disappointment blooming behind her ribs.

This city was vast—and entirely new. How long would it take her to find a lead?

She looked over the edge of an apartment building, trying to orient herself. Ominous clouds rolled in, obscuring the stars, but even without the coverage, from three stories up, she’d be no more than a shadow to anyone below.

What light did peek through the clouds highlighted the theater and opera house standing opposite each other at the end of the cul-de-sac, both of their silver-gilt doors shut tight for whatever shows were currently on.

A barely-distinguishable hum of music echoed out, mixing with the dim wash of voices from the nearby taverns. Emmeline squinted down the way, barely making out the sign: Angel Brew. And the next door down: Angel Kiss. Partner establishments, based on the matching silver charms hanging on the signs and deep ruby curtains trimmed in thick tassels.

A number of the surrounding shops boasted glittering costumery, tailors, and feathered masks, hinting at places to disappear.

Or hide secrets.

Emmeline perked up as the pieces clicked. This entire district was dedicated to the Fate of Secrets and Greed. There weren’t outright mentions, but the elaborate masks and implied discretion combined with the opulent entertainment and ornate details sculpting lampposts and building facades into masks and feathers was pure Serchus.

And Prophecy’s Demise was in the Fourth District. Many of the art museums Alana had shown her—a mark of Aevollon—were in the Seventh. Was each of the twelve meant for one Fate in particular?

As if the thought of the celestial beings had flipped a latch, readings rumbled down her Fate ties, eleven strings pulling tight.

Prophecy and Demise.