Page 72 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

But last night, she’d had another idea. If this was something from cave drawings on Lyra, she may as well ask the people who knew the most about the isle’s history.

Regina and Harttorn leaned over the paper, the latter asking, “What are we looking at?”

Her heart sank at their lack of recognition. “It’s a symbol I found painted somewhere. I’m trying to find out if it means anything.”

“It looks a bit like some cave drawings I’ve seen out in the jungle,” Regina answered, and Emmeline perked up. “I think it was when I was hiking west of the Scholar’s Quarter looking for ruins of an Angelic Temple that had never been properly excavated.”

“An Angelic Temple,” Emmeline murmured. “Do you know what the drawing meant? Is there anything historic about them related to…maybe cult activity?”

Regina and Harttorn exchanged a glance, shrugging. “As far as I know,” Regina began, her dark curls bobbing as she tilted her head, “all the drawings in those caves have been there for centuries. Some are as old as the Fates. It’s second to Gemmi’s history.”

Gemmi, the isle known for its historic cave networks and the secrets bred and kept within them. Emmeline wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Harttorn brushed a hand over his jaw. “There are a fair number of legends surrounding the oldest cave drawings on the isles and the stories they’ve passed down. Want us to look into it?”

“Please,” she said.

And when she left the two history instructors, they each had an eager spark in their eye that promised her if there was an answer to be found, they would.

“Gideon wrote to me,” Roremar said by way of greeting when Emmeline found him outside the dining hall.

“Hello to you, too,” she answered. “Apparently everyone at the Academy is taking bets on when our affair crashes and burns. And who is Gideon?”

“The man from the docks,” Roremar reminded her. He blinked a few times as her words registered. “Wait, what did you say?”

“Never mind. Gideon, right.” She sighed. Her mind had been so frazzled since the attack, she could hardly keep their information organized. Roremar had been extremely patient with her.

Now, he seemed a little less so, clearly wanting to return to the gossip she’d mentioned. She couldn’t help the thrill that went through her as he studied her, ultimately moving on.

“He said he has ‘something worthwhile to share.’” He quoted those words in what Emmeline assumed was his best impression of the older warrior, the voice deep and gravelly.

A light she hadn’t felt within herself for days ignited at the prospect. Purpose. Hope. “Did he hint what it might be?”

Roremar shook his head. “I think he understood the gravity of this case, wants to keep it out of writing. I’m going to meet him now. Did you want to come with, or should I walk you back to Fated Ink first?”

Emmeline bit her lip. She didn’t want to be alone at Desmond’s more than she had to—not until she figured out how suspicious of him she should be—but she also wasn’t prepared to admit that to Roremar.

Truthfully, what she needed tonight was to get out. To don her mask and leathers and take to the rooftops.

She should just feign sick and use the time Roremar was absent to sneak out. He wasn’t sleeping at the apartment; wouldn’t even know she was gone. But they’d reached a truce in the days since the attack.

Since he’d sat on the floor of her dormitory with her, waiting for her to move at her own pace.

Since he’d carried her to somewhere safe.

Since she’d woken to find him worried and coddling her, his proximity a strength, not a hinderance.

After all of that, it felt wrong to sneak out behind his back.

She checked their surroundings, ensuring no small nosy ears were listening around the stone corridors. Dropping her voice, she said, “You remember what I was doing the night of the first murder?”

It only took Roremar a moment to follow what she meant. As if remembering the leathers she wore in the shadows that night, his eyes dragged down her body, then back up. “Yes, Huntress. I certainly do.”

“I have things to take care of tonight.” She bit her lip again. “Of that nature. You can visit Gideon, and I’ll attend to my business. We can reconvene at midnight to discuss.”

“Are you serious?” Yellow mystlight wavered over Roremar’s disbelieving features, the scar above his eyebrow deepening when his brows pinched.

“Yes,” she said defensively. “Why?”