Page 120 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

Nico picked up his papers again, saying, “She’s still working on the case, too. I don’t think either of you can do it alone, but Fates know you’re both stubborn as all realms. May as well make good use of your time and keep at it.”

Roremar drummed his fingers against the door. When had his little brother become the one offering advice? Nico really had grown up.

And he was right.

Roremar’s focus had been scattered without Emmeline. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, they needed each other. But she didn’t trust him, and he couldn’t rely on that fickle of a foundation.

How could they work together if she couldn’t even trust him enough to tell him her theories? When so much was at stake? He couldn’t risk his siblings’ future to follow half-baked leads.

“I’ll see you at home for dinner,” Roremar said, leaving the room, Nico calling after him with menu requests.

As he ascended the wide main stairway in the center of the Trade House, Roremar tried to focus on the task at hand. Numbers bounced around his head. The tallies Desmond had shared with him about how many crates of ink he’d personally imported as well as those from the War Master of Alvan. Emmeline had left the papers in the apartment before everything went to shit the other night, and something wasn’t adding up between them.

Based on the weights of the crates reported in the Alvan export logs and the numbers he’d run with Desmond about his own imports, there was way more ink unaccounted for than what Des suggested. Way more than was necessary for a few twelve-pointed star tattoos.

So where was it all going? Or, if it wasn’t ink in those crates, what was it?

The notion hollowed out his damn stomach. He needed the references in the rooms above. The ones he and Emmeline had broken into.

Of course, now it was broad daylight. He’d just see if he could get⁠—

Roremar froze on the second-floor landing, his boots scuffing on the velvet rug. “Uncle?”

Aldryn Falliare was descending from the third floor, tucking a large ornate key into his pocket.

“Roremar,” he greeted, smiling. “What are you doing here?”

“Stopping by to see Nico.” He didn’t elaborate on the rest of his plans. His hackles had risen when he and his uncle went to the Mezz the other night, and though he hadn’t told anyone, he was keeping note of the Temple Master’s whereabouts.

“Is Miss DeLeoste with you?”

“No.” The word tasted sour.

He couldn’t identify the emotion that flashed behind his uncle’s eyes, but it almost seemed satisfied. A talon raked down Roremar’s chest in response, and he added, “She’s still in lessons.”

She was. He had that schedule memorized despite their fight. Still, his uncle eyed him with an expression that dug under Roremar’s skin.

“I see,” Aldryn said. “Well, tell Nico I said hello. I’ve got a meeting with the head of the Trade House, and I’m already late.”

He disappeared down the stairs. Roremar waited for his steps to fade—counting to ten afterward to be certain—before ducking into the records room. And he tried not to puzzle over the fact that his uncle had hurried off instead of asking why, if Roremar was here to see Nico, was he on this floor instead of the first.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Emmeline

After the night she accused Desmond, Emmeline kept finding herself returning to the one place on the isle that felt as though it belonged to her. It didn’t—she knew that. The ruins beyond the vineyards belonged to no one save the Fate it once worshiped perhaps.

But when everything had gone wrong with Roremar and Desmond, the cords she’d slowly been braiding snapped. She hadn’t even realized she’d been doing it—allowing herself to belong somewhere—but the desire she’d smothered for eighteen years had taken over.

She’d known what her accusation would do to Roremar—to the friendship they’d built. Yet she did it anyway. And while it was because she truly had believed Desmond was guilty, she knew a part of her used that excuse when in reality it was also a way to drive Roremar away, which was a lot easier than letting him in. For Emmeline, it was more comfortable to bask in known solitude than share foreign warmth. She may be looking over her own shoulder now, but at least it kept a knife from sinking into her back.

Or her heart.

One would have been inevitable if she’d stayed.

Now, as much as she longed for him back, she pushed them all away.

Roremar wasn’t speaking to her, but Myrella kept trying. Even Nico insisted his brother would come around. Emmeline hadn’t returned to the apartment to find out. She spent her spare time either working on the murder case or searching for the men who spoke of the trading second-in-command, the Averian. They’d abandoned their spot beneath the Rogue Spirit, and she had yet to track them again.