Page 72 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“You wouldn’t have,” Emmeline assured her. “He’s too good at hiding it. I helped students with their Fate ties all day at the Academy, and I never noticed. Neither did Desmond over all the years, and he’s more attuned to his magic than most since he has two Fate ties.”

As soon as she said it, Emmeline wondered if she maybe shouldn’t have revealed Desmond’s secret, but Lola didn’t react. “I’m surprised Des didn’t notice. He’s normally nosier than that.”

Emmeline laughed, then added, “If you want to talk about your brothers, I’m here for you.”

She may not be able to help her own sister yet, but she could help Roremar’s. Even if she was only holding her hand as she waded through grief. Spirits knew Emmeline had spent more than her fair share of time doing so alone, and that solitude had scarred her in ways she’d never noticed until recently.

“Thank you,” Lola said softly. She kicked off the wall, skirt flaring around her as she spun to face Emmeline. “Now we should probably get you back inside before your absence is noted. But this will be over soon, and all the guests will sneak off to incense dens and pleasure houses in the city. And then”—Lola’s blue eyes glinted with mischief as she wrenched the sticking door open—“I have a plan for us.”

“A plan?” Emmeline asked as the music and mystlights washed over them, her stomach pitching.

Lola nodded, the mischievous Silventa glint in her eye as she held up the piece of parchment crumpled in her hand. “There are some people you need to see.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Roremar

This very well might have been one of the most reckless things Roremar had ever done—and that was saying something—but he had nothing left to lose. Especially after enduring that fucking Presentation, watching Emmeline dance with every man other than himself.

Roremar crept across his empty room in the barracks, having returned much earlier than the rest of the men who were encouraged to enjoy all the city had to offer. He didn’t care, though. As he looked at the cabinet set between the narrow windows opposite his bed, he was grateful he wasn’t expected to be out there right now.

It was a fool’s hope they’d have anything he could use in here, but he’d been a fool for Emmeline DeLeoste for weeks now, he may as well see it through.

The glass-paneled door squeaked as he opened it, and he paused, listening for a key being inserted into the lock outside as he held his breath. If anyone found out he was attempting to read the Fate they were all terrified of, he was sure he’d be thrown back in a cage. But the shadows through the clouded windows didn’t move beyond slight shifting.

Exhaling slowly, he opened the cabinet and scanned the shelves. There were rows of pressed oil and incense sticks, easiest to store in mass quantities like this when a variety of soldiers would need them.

“Lavender, chamomile, eucalyptus, sage,” he whispered as he read each vial. It was a collection of the most common scents, many both mentally and physically soothing. His fingers deftly picked over each, pulling a few from the back row.

“Spiced citrus,” he muttered. It wasn’t typically one he would choose—it was a better scent for an Aevollon tie—but given the lack of anything with vanilla, cinnamon, or rich fruits, it would have to do.

Roremar uncorked the vial of broken incense sticks and sniffed from a few inches away.

“Fuck,” he exhaled as the fiery notes ripped through him and stars crackled in his mind, a rusted lock being pried open.

Even from here, with a low potency, it was a hit of a drug he’d avoided for so long, he forgot how good the high could be. With it came dependency. It could unlock a dark, dangerous path within his bones that he couldn’t risk exposing too often.

But for Emmeline, he would.

Roremar didn’t dare actually light the stuff, reactive as his Fate tie was. That was what he got for rarely reading for years.

Dryvius barely spoke to him anyway, even when Roremar was younger and had tried to read. When the Fate of Chaos and Revelry wanted to share something, he ripped into Roremar’s mind of his own accord.

You will be her ruin.

Roremar’s fist clenched around the vial as the Fate’s threat burned through him. He inhaled deeply, head tipping back as the magic raced through his blood.

The high of tapping into his Fate tie was unlike anything else. Where recreational drugs were relaxing, this was like shooting starfire into his veins. It woke up parts of him he hated. Parts he never touched hummed in satisfaction, had his shoulders rolling back and fingers twitching.

A desolate grey world wavered before him, solidifying more by the second. A grand stone chamber, tinted red at the edges like he was viewing it through bloodied starfire. Towering columns lined the perimeter, reaching up toward⁠—

“Fates,” Roremar whispered.

The ceiling had been torn away, exposing a star-scattered sky, the inky depths bleeding crimson.

Overturned tables and ripped linens scattered the stone floors; flowers crumpled and withered like a garden torn to shreds and sprinkled over the scene. And everything was doused in the wine of the Fate of Chaos and Revelry. As Roremar prowled between the mess, he could envision Dryvius striding lazily through and spilling that nectar himself.

This was different than the plane Roremar usually saw the rare times he read. That was bursts of white fire and falling stars, nothing real and tangible like this. No glass and flowers crunching beneath his boots. No drafts on the wind that rippled the shredded curtains.