Page 176 of A Dance of Water

Against Merath’s nape, Graves whispered, "Your lover, Emarelia, where is she?"

"Why should I tell you that?" Her hands hung loosely by her side; she didn’t even try to defend herself.

The swirls of icy air in Tharen’s hands grew, cloudy tendrils reaching out for her. "Why shouldn’t you? After all, we all want to defeat the Tenebrae. It was an Umbra that killed your sister. Am I right?"

Merath stilled. Embers crackled at her fingertips. "What does the Tenebrae have to do with this?"

"Release her." Tharen jerked his head, ordering Graves to step back.

He did so silently.

Merath straightened her skirts with a huff, as if the whole thing was an annoyance. As she turned to look at them, the low flames in the room made her dark skin awash with golden undertones. Her curls hung to her waist, tickling her elbows, as she crossed her arms over her chest. She cast a glance at an overturned hourglass on the bartop. She took it and flipped it with deft hands. White sand began steadily streaming.

"You have until this empties." Her lips twitched. "But be warned, it isn’t the most reliable. Sometimes it tells the time as an hour past, and other times only half as much. Finicky thing."

Beneath his cowl, Graves smirked.

"Now, what does Emarelia have to do with this?" She stared them both down unflinchingly.

With guarded eyes, Tharen looked to Graves. "We believe that Emarelia placed a very powerful glamor on someone… important."

"And…" Merath waved a hand. "As the prior Prima, Emarelia did much that I was not privy to. If you mean to use me to hurt her or gain information, you are mistaken. She never shared those types of things with me. Even if she did, I would never tell you. Torture me, kill me, I don’t care. I’ll never give her up." Her words were filled with protectiveness.

The sand in the hourglass dwindled.

"The one we ask after, she is"—Graves cut a look to Tharen, seeing resignation in his eyes—"a Vincire." Graves knew that would mean much to someone as pious as a fae.

Merath’s eyes grew wide. "A Vincire. I haven’t heard that word in centuries. Yours?"

Graves held her gaze.

"His?" Merath tipped her head toward Tharen.

"It doesn’t matter," Tharen gritted out. "She had a glamor, a very powerful one. The only being powerful enough to enact such a glamor would be a Prima. It sure as fuck wasn’t me. Reasonably, I presumed it was my predecessor."

Merath inspected her nails. "Do you know when?"

Tharen’s lip curled. "About two decades ago."

Graves saw the exact moment Merath realized.

She had been lying. Shedidknow.

"You know who we’re talking about," Graves stated.

Merath braced a hand on the bartop behind her. "Has he taken her?"

"Who?" Tharen snarled.

"The Tenebrae," Merath replied.

Graves shook his head.

"Then she’s been found," she said.

"Found, stolen. Same difference," Tharen said. "What matters is why Emarelia put a glamor on her."

Merath raised a brow. "I never said she did."

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