Page 81 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“Did it get left unlocked last night?” she asked, trying to force down the encroaching session.

“Must have, though I’ve never done that before.” Desmond dragged a hand through his honey hair, and though Emmeline was on edge, she couldn’t help but feel bad at how forlorn he looked. It was a different situation, but they’d both had their personal property violated.

“What’s missing?” Roremar asked Desmond.

“I don’t know what’s missing, Rore, I can’t even tell what’s here!”

“Then let’s go through it,” Roremar said, unfazed by his friend’s outburst. “One thing at a time.”

His grey eyes took on that hyper-observant stare Emmeline was becoming very familiar with. It was the way he often studied her—though she was almost certain he didn’t realize that—and the way he assessed the murder scenes.

Emmeline carefully stepped over shards of glass, the hem of her skirt dragging across the mess. Pointing to the artwork from the walls, she asked, “Can I pick these up?”

Jaw tight, Desmond nodded. One by one, Emmeline lifted the sheets of paper from the ground, discarding the broken frames in a pile of trash. Roremar and Desmond got to work lifting the heavier pieces of furniture, reassembling what they could or at least getting it into a position where it would make do. Emmeline steadfastly ignored the way Roremar’s capable hands repaired the delicate scraps, his long fingers both nimble and strong.

The art she gathered was all intact, at least. As she collected the last piece, she had to admit the work was exquisite. Graceful brushstrokes and precise lines, lifelike mythological creatures. One beautiful portrait of a woman from behind, a sheet wrapped around the curves of her waist and a waterfall of dark hair tumbling down her shoulders. Her profile was barely visible, moonlight gilding it.

“There’s definitely ink missing,” Desmond commented after he and Roremar finished organizing his station, most of the broken glass swept up. “I had a new shipment the other day.”

“Was it all out here?” Roremar asked as Emmeline approached.

Only a few unopened vials remained. She didn’t know what it took to draw even one piece, but they weren’t any larger than honey jars. She had to imagine Desmond had more on hand, especially if he imported it in bulk from somewhere off the isle.

“Some is in the back, but I had at least six extras on this shelf.” Desmond gestured to the empty space above the mirror.

“Who would steal ink?” Emmeline asked.

But Roremar gave her a knowing stare. “Someone who needed it desperately, without a practiced enough hand to run their own parlor for conspicuous access?”

“You think it’s whoever is responsible for the murders? That they needed ink for their ritual?”

“It makes sense,” Roremar said as Desmond began restacking his design books on their usual shelf near the front entrance. “And especially if we think that person is watching you. They’d have known Des’s shop was here and when he wasn’t in it.”

Emmeline inhaled sharply, her gaze slicing to Desmond. She couldn’t see his face, but this was either a very convincing, elaborate ruse, or he wasn’t the murderer after all. Staging a break in at his shop would be a good cover. This alone didn’t erase her suspicion.

Still, if he wasn’t involved and was merely an innocent bystander…

“I’m sorry, Desmond,” she said sincerely. “If someone did this because I’m here, I’m so sorry.”

Desmond shook his head, sliding another book onto the shelf. “It’s as much Rore as it is you.”

“Hey!” Roremar barked.

“You’d have been here anyway!” Desmond argued half-heartedly. “I’m not blaming either of you, just letting your girl know it’s not her fault.”

“I’m not his girl,” Emmeline said, brows creasing.

“Yeah, yeah,” Desmond chided as he placed the last book. He froze. “There’s one missing.” He slid his tattooed hand between two leather volumes. “Right here.”

Point forgotten, Emmeline scampered over. She didn’t know how Desmond could tell where the missing book belonged, given that there was nothing discernible on the outside of any of them, but she asked, “Do you know what it was?”

He shrugged. “That one has half of my constellation designs and a couple of the Fates.”

“Which Fates?” Roremar asked.

Desmond scanned the rest of the books. “Arenothos and Aevollon.”

Not Anphrosia and Serchus, the Fates most associated with cults, but…