Page 186 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

Emmeline

Four days. Four damn days since Roremar had been locked up, and they hadn’t figured out who was actually responsible for this.

With lessons paused for the week of the Revels, all of Emmeline’s attention was being put toward unraveling the truth of this case. She’d pried into the Fates, pestered Falliare, pulled books from the Accords, and revisited the Trade House and docks for official ledgers.

Nothing made sense.

Her magic had been colliding in her chest like stars tumbling from the sky for days now, restless and unhappy. She bounced in her seat at the table in Desmond’s basement as she dug through her research for what felt like the hundredth time, trying to stifle the feeling as she cross-referenced dates and locations of the victims.

“You’re doing it again,” Desmond muttered as he pulled himself from a reading.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Emmeline apologized, stilling her bouncing leg. “I can’t help it.”

“Is it because you need a session?” Desmond asked, waving at the kitchen counter. “We’ve got just about every tincture or herb you could want here, thanks to you.”

He’d been more welcoming to her as the week went on, their shared desperation to save Roremar smoothing over their previous issues. Emmeline had been bringing over more and more supplies every day, anxious for something that would unlock a path of the stars to help them.

Nothing worked.

“No, it’s not a reading,” she confessed. “Just…pressure.” Emmeline rubbed her chest to dispel it. “Falliare said they’re likely to make a decision about Roremar’s fate at the end of the Remembrance Revels, and they’re already halfway over.”

Three more days. The encroaching deadline was a knife poised at her throat, and she was sure whoever held that blade wanted her to bleed out. Fates, if she couldn’t save Roremar, she may as well.

Desmond rubbed his eyes, the hazy dove-blue cloud of smoke turning them red. “Reading is clearly not the way to find any answer. All its doing is revealing the same fucking useless information over and over. Anphrosia this, revenge that.” He scoffed. “Roremar’s right, the Fates are a bunch of witless fools.”

“Don’t insult them now,” Emmeline chided, but she couldn’t bring herself to disagree. All her life, her magic had been her lone companion. The thing she knew and trusted more than anyone. Now, when it mattered, it was useless.

“Did your friend’s notes on the Warders of Selene give any insight?” Desmond asked.

“Not that I can see. It talks about an ancient ritual where the Warders promised themselves to Selene, but that’s all that’s clear. The rest was a mix of ancient languages and half-legends.” She rubbed her eyes. “The only thing it confirms is that the Warders existed—could still exist—but I don’t see how it connects to Roremar.”

Flipping through another book on Anphrosia—this one on myths of her life—she asked, “What’s Roremar’s Fate tie, again?”

Emmeline didn’t make a habit of asking people what celestial being they were aligned to lest they pry into her own secrets, and she didn’t recall Roremar every mentioning his.

“Pheasantos,” Desmond said, rising to refresh their cups of tea.

Emmeline perked up at the name of the Fate of Passion and Exile. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“I’ve known him a lot longer than you have,” Desmond retorted, his impatience surfacing. “I know what his Fate tie is.”

“I’m not denying that, but Roremar was born at the end of the sixth month thirty-two years ago, correct?”

“Yes?” Desmond intoned as he set the kettle on the mystlight stove.

Hurriedly, Emmeline shoved aside the books she was digging through, pulling over the piles of star charts. There were a few ancient scrolls borrowed from the Accords, their corners tattered and ink fading. She rifled through them, dropping to the floor and spreading them out alongside the ones she’d drawn in recent weeks until Desmond’s apartment was a map of the heavens itself, dotted with constellations that covered the Lyra sky at various times of year, and over years throughout history.

“Those born near the summer solstice can’t be aligned to Pheasantos.”

“They obviously can,” Desmond challenged.

“It is so rare, Desmond.” She looked up at him from her spot crouched on the floor, imploring him to understand. “Pheasantos historically goes silent for a week before and after the solstice every year to honor the Myth of the Lost Daughter.”

Desmond waved a hand, leaning back against the counter. “That’s an old legend.”

“Humor me for a moment, please,” Emmeline begged, dragging over Skies of the Fates, the book Nico pulled from the Academy library weeks ago, and flipping through it. She also opened the book on dark legends she’d gotten from Viperous Vices, locating the history of the Lost Daughter—one of the darker moments in Fate history.

Desmond nodded for her to continue.