Page 17 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

She continued her letter. She’d send this and then start organizing her research about the city districts, decoding her readings about her sister, and interpreting new theories about Dryvius and Roremar.

“Who are you writing to?” Alana asked, pretending she wasn’t leaning closer to read the name at the top of the page.

“Someone back on Lyra. I want to check in.”

Alana tore her eyes away from the paper. “Best be quick. It’s already midday.”

“Midday,” Emmeline echoed without taking in the word. Once she folded her letter and tossed it over the mystlight lantern beside her bed, the importance behind Alana’s words registered.

“Midday,” Emmeline repeated.

And for the first time she took in Alana’s resplendent dress, the rich purple silk and embroidery, tiny gems lining the bodice. She peered around the curtains framing her bed to see a gown of her own hanging on the door to her dressing chamber, another heavily-beaded periwinkle piece with cascading sleeves.

“Fates’ fuck,” Emmeline swore.

Alana snorted, and reality came rushing back.

Emmeline flopped back against her pillows. So much for the research on her sister and Roremar. “The opening ceremonies for the tournament are today.”

And attendance was mandatory.

Chapter Six

Desmond

It smelled like fucking fish.

Desmond Alvanti would throw up if he didn’t get away from this Angels awful port soon. How he’d lived his entire life in the isles, worked near the docks, and never noticed how horrific a place like this reeked was beyond him. Perhaps not everything was better on the continent.

His boots splashed through puddles pooling in the gaps between the cobblestones, fallen leaves plastered into holes worn over time. Horses and carts clamored every which way and men shouted to their companions.

A line of run down taverns, inns, and shops lined the wide roadway along the docks, thatched roofs weighed down from the recent rain and signs declaring vacancies—or lack thereof—and deals on seasonal items for ships about to depart. Everything from liquor and dried meats to Mystique ink, to oil for lanterns or incense, to cards and instruments for entertainment on board.

Desmond picked up a toy lyre outside a woodworker. One glance told him the deals were overpriced for the cheap shit they offered, even compared to the quality on the Constellation Isles.

He scoffed, dropping the poorly crafted toy and turning to head down the street, not that he had a destination other than not here. The clouds were heavy and grey along the coast, and he didn’t want to be caught in the rain.

“Why are there so many people?” Desmond grumbled, ducking to avoid a crate two warriors were carrying overhead, nearly smacking into the sword strapped to his back. “For Fates’ sake, watch it!”

“You’re quite cranky,” Myrella answered from behind him, said warriors lifting the crate perfectly over her small stature so she didn’t have to duck. She flashed them an appreciative smile, a stark contrast to the shadows rimming her eyes.

“It reeks,” Desmond muttered, scanning the road. A building ahead bore a sign for horse rentals. “Come on.”

The stables opened onto a small park, trees shadowing the horses as they grazed. A sanctuary, for which he couldn’t read the signs, framed the other side of the grassy expanse, a waist-high wrought iron fence and weeping cypher trees sectioning it off from the rest of the establishments.

Myrella scampered after him. “The smell? That’s all that’s bothering you?”

Desmond glared at her in time to catch her brow hiking. He waited for her to go on.

In their two-week journey from Lyra, he’d learned Myrella Corvus may be unassuming, but she was hardly silent. Every thought on her mind found its way out of her mouth. Even when she tried to stifle them, he couldn’t count to twenty before all her wonderings were spilled.

Most days, it was entertaining. They made a fun pair—despite the horrible circumstances that brought them from Lyra to the continent—drinking and playing games to distract themselves during the journey across the Faelish Waters. But as they’d gotten closer to the capital city, his anticipation had wound tight. He wished she’d spit out whatever she was thinking.

The past few nights on the boat he’d been less than pleasant company. No matter how aware he was of his attitude, he wasn’t able to stop himself.

Valyn may have been Emmeline’s destination, but there were some very convincing reasons why he shouldn’t go to the capital. Reasons that would spawn very bad ideas if he thought about them too long.

But that was an impulse he’d have to control.