Page 106 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“There are vineyards beyond the Eleventh and Twelfth Districts at the edge of the city. There’s a graveyard there. It’s large, so it will probably take a while to get through it.”

“Lovely,” Desmond hummed.

Lola went on, ignoring him, “Based on what Serchus showed, I’d start on the edge bordering the vineyards.”

Desmond dropped his feet to the floor, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden boards, and addressed Emmeline. “Tonight. We find whatever the Fates are pointing you toward during the horse and chariot races.”

“Yes, but we can’t all go. I’m expected to attend the event, so I’ll need to slip away from my guards at some point. Graves has been extra attentive since the murder.”

She hadn’t told her friends about him following her to the temple and saving her from those men. It wasn’t worth the argument, and she was perfectly fine other than the rage the whole situation ignited in her.

“I’ll stay in tonight. I’m suddenly feeling very ill.” Lola winked. “Eston will stay to guard the perimeter. You come up with a reason to ditch Graves at the race, and if he comes looking, I’ll say you came home and turned in early, afraid you’re catching whatever illness I have. Then, I can keep sorting through these books, and we can get information to Roremar tomorrow.”

“I’ll go to the races with you,” Myrella offered. “I’ll distract Graves. It will give us a chance to talk to Rocarri’s supporters and see who we can sway. And I can keep an eye on Falliare, too, since all Rocarri’s guests will be in attendance.”

If any of Rocarri’s council would even bother to listen to them, but Emmeline didn’t add that obstacle aloud.

“Graves is going to take some convincing,” she emphasized.

“It was a sudden illness, and I saw you off with one of Rocarri’s advisors because Graves was patrolling the corridor.” The lie slipped so easily from Myrella’s tongue, Emmeline was inclined to believe her. It wouldn’t keep Graves long, but it would get her away, and that was what mattered. She’d figure out the rest later.

She flicked a glance at Desmond, who was staring daggers at Lola. He sighed and said, “Looks like I’m in the creepy graveyard with you.” Standing, he stretched his arms overhead. “I’m due to visit Roremar soon. He’s not going to the chariot races tonight, but I’ll fill him and meet you at the graveyard as soon as you can get away.”

“See you then,” Emmeline said, and she forced down the longing that tugged at her chest. The desire to go with him and see Roremar herself.

But as Desmond left, that yearning became a fainter beat, as if her heart were on its way to giving out with each passing second without him.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Emmeline

Escaping Graves turned out to be the easy part. With the crowds flooding into the arena and her dark cloak draped around her shoulders so she could blend in, plus having Myrella to insist she walked back to the manor with one of the councilmen, the initial slip went off smoothly.

Renting a horse to get her across the city without anyone seeing her was more concerning. Emmeline left more than double the payment rate on the window ledge and hopped atop a bay horse at the crossroads of the Sixth and Seventh Districts, hurrying for the vineyards.

Time wouldn’t be her friend—there was only so long before Graves insisted he return to the manor and barged into her suite—but she had to do this. Her magic beat demandingly in her veins the entire ride, rioting as she took extra turns to ensure no one who worked for Rocarri was following her.

Emmeline hurried down the rows of grapevines beyond the Twelfth District, her horse’s hooves pounding against the dirt path, each of her silent breaths visible in the night. Moonlight blurred around the edges of thick grey storm clouds, the air heavy and icy after a sudden storm this afternoon. The world was masked in mist.

Finally, beyond the vines, ornate iron gates and stone pillars marked the entrance to the cemetery. Pointed spokes rose like sharpened teeth, threatening and piercing the moon-dusted fog.

Chills rose up Emmeline’s arms under her cloak as she dismounted and tied her horse beneath a pergola at the edge of the vineyard. She stepped over fallen grapevines, creeping toward the gate.

Dew-covered ivy clung to the bars like it had been there for centuries, practically welded into the metal itself. She leaned closer, studying the statues, monuments, and tombs through the fog, their faces masked in the night but haunting echoes of warriors’ lives hugging each stone. She could almost hear them, their stories that were buried here beneath the earth.

“About time,” a voice said from the shadows of a mausoleum beyond the gate.

He was cloaked as he stepped toward her, but she knew him down to her bones. His voice, his gait, his presence that hummed along her skin. Roremar was woven through her soul—that need more evident with each day she stayed away—and when he stopped beneath the blue, foggy glow of the mystlight lamp atop the pillar, Emmeline held back a sob.

Followed by burning anger. “What are you doing here?” she growled, clutching the iron bars, frosted ivy crunching beneath her glove.

“Desmond told me where you’d be.”

“Desmond was supposed to attend to me himself.”

Roremar’s chin dipped, and he took a threatening step forward, face nearly pressed to the bars. Silver eyes burned beneath his hood. “The only man who is going to attend to you, Emmeline, will be me.”

Her throat dried out at the tone of his voice, at the combination of undeniable desire and fear that twisted through her. Fear for him and what he’d suffer if they were found together. Fear for them and the possibility of what waited beyond this tournament.