Page 121 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“Charming,” Roremar slurred, eyes still closed and head rolling back against the pillow. But that one sound—one almost-word—was enough to spur Emmeline into motion.

“He was stabbed, but there must have been something on the blade. He’s been in and out of consciousness since.”

She took a wet towel from Lola and gently cleaned the wound, forcing her hands not to tremble as she touched him.

“Fates, his skin is hot,” Emmeline said. She lifted her gaze, searching around them, the plants she’d purchased since arriving in Valyn adorning the shelves and balcony. “I can—I can make some sort of tonic or antidote, but I’ve never seen a wound react like this. I don’t know what it is.” Her breathing turned shallow and rushed, but she felt for the beating of Roremar’s heart, still there, and tried to time her own to it. “It will probably only buy us hours if that.”

“There’s someone I can ask,” Lola said, voice as harried as Emmeline felt. “But Emmeline, they’re going to have to come here. We’re going to have to let them help.”

Her blue eyes were wide, imploring as she looked between Emmeline and her brother. Understanding that Emmeline was guarded but begging her to, for once, let someone in.

“Of course,” Emmeline breathed, trusting Lola Silventa with her life—her heart. “Hurry.”

Lola dashed to the desk and scrawled a Mystique ink note to whoever her contact was, the blood smearing the parchment visible in the mystlight even from across the room.

A firm hand gripped Emmeline’s wrist where she was still trying to clean the abundance of blood off Roremar’s body, and her gaze snapped up to Desmond’s amber stare, softer than she’d ever seen it.

“Let me,” he said.

Emmeline’s mouth was dry, jaw trembling, but she swallowed and nodded. Desmond took the bloodied towel from her and replaced it with a new one, the white cotton quickly eating up the bright red.

Body wrung dry, chest nearly convulsing, Emmeline crawled up the bed and curled around Roremar, pulling his head onto her lap. She didn’t think as she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead, right against his sweat-and-rain-soaked hair.

He hummed, or maybe it was another groan, weaker than the last. Emmeline slipped her hand over the wing tattoo curving around his shoulder, palm on top of his heart, and the crease between his brows softened as his cheek rolled against the ruined fabric of her dress.

“I’m here, Reckless,” she whispered.

And Emmeline swore, as he’d sat with her all the times she’d been lost and breaking, she’d stay with him now.

Lola’s contact was Cyren, the General who had saved Emmeline when she’d been attacked and become one of the few potential council members who treated her like a person.

And while Emmeline would have allowed anyone into her suite in her desperation, she was grateful it was someone she knew at least a little bit.

The Starsearcher General showed up in casual leathers carrying a pack clinking with glass vials and got to work mixing a paste to spread across Roremar’s wound with no unsolicited questioning. They covered it with damp strips of linens and wrapped more around his ribs to secure it.

“That will stop the bleeding and leech out the infection,” Cyren said. Their hair, usually in a coronet, was secured in a messy braid down their back, like they’d been suddenly disturbed to come here. Gratitude burst in Emmeline’s chest again. “I can’t sew it up until that’s done, though.”

“How long will it take?” Lola asked, standing stoically at her brother’s bedside. Desmond was behind her, a hand on her shoulder.

“Should be okay by morning. He’ll be in pain, though. And even with blood-replenishing tonics, he’ll be weak.”

“Will he be able to compete in the second trial?” Emmeline asked without taking her eyes off Roremar’s peaceful expression. She hadn’t seen him look like that in…Fates, since they swam in the ocean at his family home.

Cyren had given him enough sedatives that he should sleep soundly until the morning, and Emmeline hoped he’d get a few hours of rest.

“He’ll have to participate. Withdrawing isn’t an option for any contestant, let alone him,” Cyren said. The resignation in their tone didn’t comfort Emmeline one bit.

If a man wanted to withdraw from the tournament, they wouldn’t only be forfeiting their chance for her hand. They’d be killed.

No matter what state he was in, Roremar would have to compete the day after next.

“Thank you, Cyren,” Emmeline whispered. And because this was now the second time the General had come to her aid, Emmeline forced herself to voice another vulnerable question. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure.”

She thought about how Roremar had told her to come to Valyn in the seeing chamber, how he continually reminded her she needed to find her sister.

She’d failed miserably at finding leads since arriving in the capital. She had tidbits through the trade routes of the Averian and the Temple of Selene, but she needed something concrete.