Page 107 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

The bars between them were a stark reminder of the Presentation, of his silver gilt cage, a symbol to them both before all of Valyn.

“I thought you didn’t want to know details of what we’re doing in case Dryvius hears it,” Emmeline said.

“When the alternative is you creeping through a graveyard at night, I decided it’s worth the risk.”

Her heart pattered faster. “And the risk of sneaking out of the barracks?”

“Eston’s brother arranged it. He likes Desmond a little too much and was happy to help.”

“Reckless.”

“That’s what I’m told.”

Too close. They were venturing to close to their easy banter, the comfort that would get him killed.

He was taking unnecessary risks to get to her, but she couldn’t deny the way she steadied in his presence, the pull toward the bars.

“We aren’t good for one another,” Emmeline reminded herself more than him, tilting her chin up.

If she pressed onto her toes, her lips would brush his.

If he ducked his head, he could claim her. A selfish part of her wished he would, but she couldn’t give in with his life at stake.

Fates, did she want him, though.

Her entire body came alive, a hum of starfire crackling through her blood, her bones, along the very heart of her fate, like it had atop the ruined seeing chamber.

It ripped her apart to fight it, an internal war about which musicians would write ballads, poets would pen epics. That was what she thought she and Roremar were made of: The magic of legends, or star-crossed tragedies perhaps.

As if seeing the pain that thought wrought in her expression, Roremar exhaled. She wasn’t sure if it was a disbelieving scoff or an accepting sigh, but the breath stoked the starfire within her as it ghosted her lips.

He stepped back, and Emmeline’s chest squeezed with the distance, the longing of those legends threatening to bring tears to her eyes. But Roremar said, “What exactly are we here for?”

“Desmond told you about my readings?” she presumed as she walked along the fence searching for the entrance. Her leather-clad fingers drifted over the ivy. She was stuck in her simple cotton dress, but at least she’d been able to bring her gloves and wear sturdy boots. “I needed to come here, but that’s all I know.”

Roremar studied her, following every step. “And you don’t think it’s a trap?”

“No, I don’t.” She couldn’t explain it, but it boiled down to the instinctual trust she’d developed with her magic.

“Okay.” Roremar’s belief and support warmed her in the misty night, but when she hummed in frustration at the locked gate, he laughed. “You have to climb it, Huntress.”

Emmeline glared at him. “Did you climb it?”

“Very skillfully.” He grinned—a true one—and Fates, did she miss that smile. “Do you need me to show you how?”

Determined to keep that grin there, she joked, “Did you forget who you’re talking to? Stand back, Reckless.”

Roremar snickered as Emmeline gracefully scaled the bars, wedging her toes and fingers between vines. When she was over the other side, only feet from the ground, a pair of strong hands gripped her waist.

She froze, her words a fogged breath. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you down.” Roremar’s voice was gravelly.

“I can do it myself.” She didn’t move, couldn’t. His touch was searing right to the center of her, and she feared what would happen if she leaned back into him.

“I know you can,” Roremar whispered, closer now. His desperation bled through every word. His fingers curved into her skin. “But I’ll always help you.”

Exhaling slowly, Emmeline lowered one shaking foot to the damp earth, then the other. When she turned, she was looking into molten silver eyes, only inches away.