Page 50 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“She seemed normal. Outside of work she went to an apothecary to purchase reading supplies. Began sewing a new dress to gift my daughter on her birthday. Visited with friends for tea or wine. Nothing I know of that was different.”

He chose his next words very carefully. “Nothing that would hint she was maybe planning to leave?”

Nesiree eyed him, snapping, “No.”

He figured that was the case. Who began a new sewing project if they were planning to disappear, let alone one that was a gift?

Roremar redirected his line of questioning, asking Nesiree more about where her mother worked, what kind of clientele the place got, and what her usual schedule was like. He recorded every detail the woman gave him.

“We’ve been trying to convince her to quit her job at the gambling den for years, but she loves playing cards with patrons each night. Her magic isn’t strong, so it makes her a good competitor. She can’t cheat, but she’s determined. She really loves it.” She smiled softly as she dragged a finger around the rim of her teacup, and Roremar didn’t miss that she said loves, not loved, and the hope that implied.

And though he didn’t believe they’d listen, he begged any Fate to help him find this woman before loved became necessary.

None of the information aligned with anything the last family had said. Frustration with himself for not spotting a pattern had him doubling down on the inquiries, squeezing out every last drop he could think of.

Soon, with a promise to write if she thought of anything and a small vial of Mystique Ink from Darcy just as he’d given the last family, Nesiree was walking them out.

At the door, she gripped the knob firmly before opening it. “I have to ask. My family…my children…are we in danger, too?”

Roremar looked over his shoulder toward the sitting room where those tiny voices echoed. “Not if I do my job.”

Chapter Seventeen

Emmeline

“Miss DeLeoste?”

Emmeline lifted her head at the hesitant voice wafting through her office, the door just off her classroom propped open half a foot both to allow air flow and to let students know she was available. Emmeline tried to spend at least an hour in her office each afternoon to offer the chance to ask private questions, though many of those hours had been given to Roremar recently.

She shuffled the papers she’d been reviewing on cult rituals into the journal she was scratching notes in and gently closed it. Since they found the body on the beach a few days ago, she’d been glued to the research, exchanging Mystique ink letters or brief conversations in the halls of the Academy with Roremar to review theories. Today, it was about seasonal ritual patterns and why some occurred at certain times of day or year.

“Aviana,” she greeted. The young girl gripped tight to the brass knob. With a quick flurry of confusion at those white-knuckled nerves, Emmeline gestured to the seat across the desk. “Come on in.”

Aviana’s steps were wary, taking longer than necessary to cross the small space. With ramrod straight posture, she dropped onto the blue knit cushion, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“What’s wrong?” Emmeline asked, tone light and hopefully soothing.

Rather than meet her eyes, Aviana scanned the star map and books over Emmeline’s shoulder. She twisted her fingers, lips pulled tight between her teeth, and that insecure flicker across her features pinched something in Emmeline’s chest.

The longer the silence persisted, the more her hackles raised, but she forced an even smile. In her experience over the past six years, when a student came to her like this, no amount of questioning would pry the words out. A listening ear and inquiries at precisely the right moment worked wonders, though.

Finally, Aviana cracked. Releasing a huge breath, she admitted, “Something happened. During our lesson today.”

“What kind of something?” Emmeline asked, quickly reviewing the morning in her mind. Aviana had been one of the fastest progressing in Myrella’s class last year, but this term, she’d slowed down. Emmeline hadn’t wanted to draw attention to it—not unless it became a problem—but she’d be lying to say she hadn’t noticed.

“I was reading through my Fate tie with Anhala, using the sage and lemon as you suggested,” Aviana began, her lips twisting over the words as if each one was tough to pull out. Emmeline’s heart beat faster than a hummingbird’s wings, squeezing tight at the girl’s discomfort when she was usually so confident.

Once Aviana opened her mouth and closed it a few times, Emmeline asked, “Did Anhala say something unsettling?”

It wasn’t unheard of with the Fates. For her, it was more than usual. But Emmeline had been reading for over twenty years while Aviana had barely begun. It could be disturbing to see paths of the future. Overwhelming. Especially for a child like Aviana who was soothed by order and understanding. Her books were always neatly stacked, her assignments written with perfect penmanship.

Emmeline wasn’t prepared for what Aviana said next.

“It wasn’t Anhala.”

Those three words hung heavy on the air, even the birds outside the rippled glass window pausing their chirping. When their song resumed, it sounded like piercing shrieks instead of a calming melody.

It wasn’t Anhala, they all seemed to echo as they frolicked among the weeping cypher branches. But Emmeline pushed through the shock reverberating through her body, a breathless smile taking over her face.