Page 19 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“Where are you going?” she called.

“To the library?” Roremar said it as if it was a question.

“Why?”

Pausing beneath the arch, Roremar glanced over his shoulder, his sword proud at his back. “When doing research, I find books to be helpful.”

“But what kind of research can we even do?” Emmeline pointed out. “We have no leads to go off of.”

Roremar offered a crooked smile, as if he was amused by her. Such a contrast to his guarded demeanor of a few moments ago. “What do you suggest, then?”

“Breakfast.”

He shook his head, raven-black waves brushing the tops of his ears. “The kitchens aren’t open yet, and I learned in my time as a student here not to mess with the cooks between hours.”

“Got many a scolding from Miss Bethany, did you?” Emmeline asked after the elderly woman who had headed the kitchens for sixteen decades. A long time, even by warrior standards.

“She once whacked my knuckles so hard with a wooden spoon, I couldn’t hold my sword without wincing for three days,” Roremar answered.

Now it was Emmeline’s turn to raise a brow. “Deserve it?”

Roremar shrugged, turning to face her fully and crossing his arms, but he couldn’t hide the spark in those piercing steel-grey eyes. “Depends who you ask.”

Light streamed through the stained-glass arches carving the windows, painting his smug appearance with a medley of soft hues, draping olive branches and twisted thorns that made him seem like he was of a different realm. A delicate crown of shooting stars arched over his head and a slice of crimson reflected across his chest. A man steeped in dreams and nightmares.

The colors accented his defined jawline, muscled arms pulling against soft black fabric. Everything about him appeared to be hewn through hard work and careful attention, from the pressed tunic and polished weapons to the perfectly disarrayed hair and shaved jaw.

The Reckless’s own type of mask, Emmeline told herself. One to be wary of.

“Mm-hmm,” she tutted, entirely serious. “I’ll have to discuss it with Miss Bethany next time I see her. Perhaps she can give me some pointers about keeping you in line.”

This time when Roremar’s gaze swept over her, there was something different in his stare. A ripple of molten steel that warmed her bones. “I’m sure you can think of a few clever ways to ensure I’m on my best behavior, Miss DeLeoste.”

She narrowed her eyes, ignoring the innuendo thickening his voice. “As riveting as those ideas are,” she drawled, though she tightened her grip on her satchel, her heart certainly not beating a bit faster than it had been a moment go, “we need to get started. I only have until nine, and we’re already wasting time.”

He chuckled as he followed her down the corridor, stepping out of that stardamned array of ethereal color. They hurried toward the front entrance of the Academy. “Well, if we aren’t going somewhere that’s going to end in my getting scolded, where are we going?”

“Augustus’s Inn,” Emmeline answered.

And, of course, Roremar scoffed. “Augustus’s? Their cooks are certainly daft. They have the blandest food I’ve ever tasted in my life.”

“They do not!” she protested as they left the Academy grounds. The ancient stone structure was built atop the hills in the Scholar’s Quarter, jungle sprawling to the south. “And their tea is the widest variety of blends on any of the Constellation Isles. They import it from all seven warrior territories on the continent monthly.”

It was one of the few imports that were still easy to acquire, more rare things like liquor and game harder to get across the stretch of sea that separated them from the mainland. Tea at least could be packed in hordes on the ships Falliare was able to get here.

“So you’d rather try a new tea than have food with flavor?” Roremar asked, aghast.

“Their food does have flavor! You just have no taste.”

“Well, that’s simply untrue,” he responded. “At least insult me properly if you’re going to try.”

Exasperated, Emmeline continued on the path that wound out the ornate silver gates and down through the narrow streets in the hills. “If you’re a dining expert, where would you suggest?”

“The Mezzanine.”

She jolted to a stop, her blood chilling at the mention of the grand, two-story club that boasted food, performances, and a gambling den on the first level with private offices on the second.

“Not the Mezzanine.”