Page 92 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“Remind me when it first appeared?” Desmond asked.

“I don’t know, I was a little preoccupied fighting off an attacker.” Emmeline sighed, trying to think back. She squeezed her eyes tight. “I’d thrown a dagger at him. Missed. Readings were pummeling me, and he tried to pull me back, so I clawed at him, and when he staggered away, I saw it.”

It could have already been there. Maybe the light hadn’t hit it until then.

“Assuming the murder and this symbol are related, it isn’t Roremar and Dryvius,” Myrella said. She’d shaken the entire way here but was gathering herself now, Desmond’s cloak around her shoulders. “We’re looking for someone who knows exactly what Dryvius was doing on Lyra and how he was doing it. Emmeline, they knew what he wrote on your wall.”

TO TEMPT THE FATES, AND REALMS WILL WREST⁠—

HE WILL HAVE HER.

The first part was exactly what had been written in blood on her dormitory wall.

Emmeline shook her head, drifting toward Angel Brew to get away from wandering warriors.

They claimed a table in the back corner—Eston seated at the bar, much to his annoyance and Desmond’s satisfaction—and Emmeline sank into her chair, bones and mind exhausted from all the readings she’d conducted today. The stiff wooden back creaked as she leaned against it.

“I don’t know who’s doing this,” she said, spinning her drink between her hands. “You’re right, though. They’re recreating Dryvius’s steps and have very intimate case details. What if…” Emmeline leaned forward. “What if it’s Falliare?”

“But…why?” Desmond asked. “He willingly sent Roremar to his death. If he was trying to use Dryvius’s killings for some reason, why not fight to let Roremar free?”

“Because the problem grew too big for him not to respond? You saw him in that sanctuary yourself a few nights ago. You said he didn’t seem disturbed by the ritualistic killing.”

“He didn’t,” Myrella agreed, worry wavering through her expression.

“I’ve got no love lost with the Temple Master,” Desmond said, “but I don’t see the motive.”

“When I read Anphrosia yesterday, she said ‘he is lying in wait,’ and something about ‘remedying a past scorned daring.’” Emmeline brushed her palms over the scratchy cushion beneath her, the rough material piercing through her nerves. “I think she meant Dryvius. That he isn’t done with whatever he planned—the ritual must not have worked correctly on Lyra, right? That’s why he’s trying again. With an accomplice other than Roremar. It could be Falliare.”

“You think Falliare has a Dryvius Fate tie, too?” Desmond said skeptically.

“No, I stand by my theory that Roremar is the only one. Falliare could be…taking over the mission.”

“What about a fanatic mimicking what Dryvius did?” Myrella suggested. “One of the people betting on Roremar in the tournament?”

“Who knew every detail? Including the words written on my dormitory wall?” Emmeline asked, shaking her head. “No one on the continent pays attention to the isles like that. This feels like a personal message. For me.”

HE HILL HAVE HER.

Desmond drummed his fingers on the wood. “We don’t—” A couple sat at a nearby table, and Desmond dropped his voice. “We don’t want to go accusing Falliare of anything unless we’re sure. Trust me.”

Emmeline’s gut soured as she remembered how wrong everything went when she’d accused Desmond. No, she couldn’t do anything that rash again.

But she would never trust Aldryn Falliare after how he’d treated her.

“Whatever ritual Falliare is a part of, there’s going to be a second attempt. We need to keep an eye on him.” She sighed, her entire body heavy. “As bad of an idea as it is, I think I need to see Roremar.” To speak with him and lay out all the facts they knew so they could work through them piece by piece.

“You won’t be able to for the next few days,” Myrella reminded her. “He’s likely being watched closely, and the Chancellor has you in back-to-back meetings with each suitor.”

“Fates,” she swore. “He wants me to be seen socializing with them all. Each suitor except Roremar.” As she determined a way around that, Emmeline pulled his ring from beneath the neck of her gown and slid it along its chain.

Myrella shot upright, slapping Desmond’s shoulder. “Look at that,” she blurted as he complained, “You’re stronger than I’d think, little dreamer.”

“What?” Emmeline looked behind her, but it was only an empty wooden wall, a few holes from where frames had previously hung dotting the paneling. When she turned back, Myrella was looking at the ring hanging between her fingers.

Desmond rubbed his shoulder, but when his eyes landed on the ring, he froze.

“That’s Roremar’s, isn’t it?” He looked at Myrella. “Fuck, I never realized, but it looks the same.”