Iris set the sword down on her desk. In the mellow lamplight, the blade almost looked like it belonged next to the typewriter. But as she gazed at them, she felt as if two worlds and two vastly different times were colliding.
Her mind was distant as she retraced her dream.
The Inkridden Tribune was quiet and empty. Only a few desk lamps were on, making it feel like the dead of night when it was just after sunrise. Iris, sword in hand and wearing the clothes Enva had left behind for her, had gone directly to the Tribune as soon as the museum doors had unlocked. It was only a block away, and she didn’t want to try to fight the morning rush to her flat with a sword in tow that was most likely worth more than all the gold in Oath’s vault.
“Who’s there?” Helena’s voice rang from the office. She sounded haggard and irritable.
“It’s only me,” Iris replied. “Early for once.”
A beat later, Helena appeared in the doorway, wreathed in smoke. She took a long draw from her cigarette as she strode around the desks.
“You all right, kid? I heard there was a bomb last night in the Green Quarter.”
Iris’s mouth went dry as she pushed down the memories. Memories that made it seem like she still had glass trapped beneath her skin. “I’m not
hurt.”
Helena came to a stop, intently studying her. “You certain? I can take you to the hospital now, if—”
“I’m okay.” Iris smiled, even though her face felt stiff. “Truly.”
“Well, I smoked an entire pack last night, thinking you were dead and despising myself for letting you go alone to that jamboree.” She extinguished the cigarette in a nearby ashtray. “Do you know what happened?”
Iris released a deep breath. “Dacre was there. I assume it was an assassination attempt?”
“That’s what my informant told me. Fifty-three people killed, twenty more injured. Eleven still unaccounted for. The chancellor is in critical condition at the hospital. They don’t expect him to make it. Dacre, on the other hand, vanished. No one knows where he is, but a survivor said he looked completely unscathed from the blast. Not even gunfire could touch him.” Helena paused, reading Iris’s expression. “Here, sit down, kid. You look pale. Let me make you some coffee.” That was when she finally noticed the sword on Iris’s desk. “And that is King Draven’s sword. What in all the gods’ names is it doing here in my newsroom?”
“It was given to me,” Iris said. “And I need to hide it in your office. Just for a little while.”
“Hide? Iris, have you—” Helena cut herself off when they both heard footsteps, descending the stairs above. Someone was approaching the Tribune, even though it was only a quarter after six and work didn’t commence until eight.
“Please, Helena,” Iris whispered.
Helena sighed. “Fine. Quickly now, before someone sees it. I don’t want word to get around that I stole a priceless relic from the people of Oath.”
Iris took the hilt and hurried after Helena into her office. It wasn’t a large room, and they had no choice but to hide the sword beneath Helena’s desk.
“Ms. Hammond?”
Iris froze at the sound of Tobias’s voice. She turned to see him weaving around the desks, approaching the office door. He also seemed shocked to
find Iris there so early, his brows rising as he came to a stop. “Tobias,” Helena greeted him. “Something wrong?”
“I was given an urgent post.” “For the Tribune?”
“For Iris, to be delivered here at first light,” he said, holding out an envelope.
Iris stared at it. She went cold with dread when she recognized the spider-like handwriting. But she accepted the post from Tobias. Her nail bent as she broke the seal and read a succinctly typed request:
Dear Iris E. Winnow,
I would like to invite you to my estate for tea at half past four this afternoon. There are some important matters we need to finish discussing. Please come alone. You will be safe here.
Sincerely,
Mr. Ronald M. Kitt
“What is it, Iris?” Helena’s anxious voice broke the silence.
Iris folded the letter. It hadn’t occurred to her until then, and she almost felt foolish for it. But she should have known the moment she watched Dacre take the stage at the Green Quarter. She should have realized where the god had been hiding. What door he had used to reach Oath from the inside.
“Only an invitation for tea, from my father-in-law,” Iris said.
“Do you want me to send someone with you?” Helena asked. “Perhaps Attie?”
Iris knew Attie had asked for the day off. Her meeting with the music professor had been successful, and Attie planned to practice “Alzane’s Lullaby” in her basement, again and again until she could play the notes perfectly no matter her surroundings. In the dark, in the light, standing still, constantly moving.
But even if Attie had been available, Iris wouldn’t have asked her to go to the Kitt estate. Not with so much danger lurking in the corners.
“I can drive you there if you’d like,” Tobias offered. “I’ll wait for you at the curb, and then drive you back, when you’re done.”
Iris nodded, shoulders relaxing. “I’d be very thankful for that, Tobias.
And no, Helena. I should go alone. There’s no need to worry.” Helena didn’t seem convinced. Neither did Tobias.
Please come alone. You will be safe here.
Iris felt Mr. Kitt’s—Dacre’s—letter crinkle in her fist. No place in the city was safe anymore.
 |
At four twenty-eight in the afternoon, Iris stared at the iron gates of the Kitt mansion. They didn’t open for the roadster, which had led Iris to presume Dacre wanted her to approach the front doors on foot.
“I’ll be waiting right here if you need me,” Tobias said, parking at the curb.
Iris nodded and slipped from the vehicle. Just as she thought, the gates creaked open when she approached them.
She walked the long driveway alone, carrying nothing but her frayed tapestry purse, and she was struck by how quiet and still the yard was. No birds flittered amongst the perfectly trimmed shrubs. No damselflies or bees glided from one flower to the next. No wind touched the trees, no sunlight flickered through the clouds. It seemed a shadow had fallen over the estate, and Iris shivered as she ascended the stairs to the front door.
Her palms were damp as she lifted her hand to ring the bell.
She never had the chance. The door opened, revealing Mr. Kitt. He looked so disheveled that she was taken aback. His black hair looked greasy, his eyes were rimmed in red, and he reeked of cigar smoke.
Iris didn’t have a greeting prepared. She was stunned that he was receiving his own visitor. Where was his butler? The servants he no doubt had running this place? A breath later, she understood.
“Come in, Miss Winnow.” He welcomed her inside.
“Thank you,” Iris said, but her voice sounded small, easily swallowed by the grand foyer. As soon as the door latched behind her, she saw the soldiers, standing in the shadows. There were seven at this entrance alone, armed with rifles, and as she followed Mr. Kitt, she counted five more in the hallway.
The mansion had turned into a secret military compound. “Tea will be served in the parlor,” said Mr. Kitt.
Iris opened her mouth. She was about to ask where Roman was but caught the words. She had assumed he’d returned to his post, just as he told her, but that notion no longer made sense if Dacre was here.
Perhaps that was why he still hadn’t written to her. Perhaps something had happened to him.
Her pulse was thick in her throat as they reached the parlor doors. She couldn’t believe how shaky she felt, as if the ground were uneven. But she reached for the golden locket hiding beneath her blouse. The gold was an anchor, reminding her of Forest and her mother. The difficult things she had already come through.
The parlor doors opened.
Iris saw Dacre sitting at a long table set for tea, directly in her line of sight. Their gazes met and held like a spell had been cast. He was ageless, timeless, cut from sharp and terrible beauty. His appearance was difficult to look away from, both pleasing and deadly, as if one had stared too long at the sun. Iris could still see him when she closed her eyes, like his impression had been burned there.
“Iris Winnow,” he said with a friendly smile. It almost made him appear human. “Come, join me for tea.”
Iris stepped forward. She startled when Mr. Kitt closed the doors, leaving her alone with Dacre in the parlor.
“Sit,” the god insisted, pouring the first cup.
Iris eased herself down to the chair, tense. She watched the steam rise, wondering if the tea would be safe to drink, when Dacre interrupted her thoughts.
“You remember your former colleague?”
Iris frowned, but she sensed someone staring at her—she could feel it like starlight on the darkest of nights. Eyes that had traced her many times before.
Her breath hitched as she glanced over her shoulder.
Roman stood against the wall, gazing at her. His face was pale and lean, even more so than it had been the other night when she had slept in his bed.
She wondered if he was eating, if he was sleeping. His expression was impassive, his eyes cold as the winter sea. He looked just like he had in the Gazette days, professionally stitched together on the outside in his freshly starched clothes and slicked-back hair. But she could see a muscle tic in his jaw. She noticed his hands were bunched in his pockets, hiding his fists.
“Yes,” she breathed, returning her attention to Dacre. “I remember Kitt.” “He gave you my letter at the café, did he not?”
Iris accepted the teacup and saucer from Dacre. She was mortified by how her hand trembled. How small and weak she seemed, compared to the divine.
“He did,” she said, resisting the urge to look at Roman.
Act like you hate him again. Despise him. Like he isn’t the other half of you.
Dacre studied her as she poured milk and honey into her cup, taking her time as if it would delay the inevitable.
“I saw you last night at the Green Quarter,” he said. Iris set down her spoon. “Yes, I was there.”
“I was the one who put your name on the invitation list. I wanted to meet you.” Dacre leaned closer, dropping his voice to a deep rumble. “Why did you run from me, Iris?”
“Sir?”
“I saw you through the smoke. I was coming to heal you, to help you.
And you ran.”
“I didn’t feel safe there.” “Are you afraid of me?”
Yes, she wanted to say. She was afraid of him. But she held his stare, her tongue pressed against her teeth.
“What did you think of my speech?” Dacre asked. “Before it was … interrupted?”
“Truthfully? You said everything those people wanted to hear. You were selling them a dream, not a reality.”
“You disapprove, then?”
“It simply doesn’t align with what I’ve heard of you.”
“And what, Iris Winnow, have you heard? And from where?”
Iris hesitated. She wasn’t sure how to answer. She felt like she was playing a game of chess with him, and there was no chance of her winning.
“I’ve heard plenty of stories,” she said, tracing the porcelain handle of her teacup. “From my time reporting on the front lines.”
Dacre was pensive, but it seemed he knew exactly what she implied. Had she not seen his destruction with her own eyes? Sometimes she still couldn’t sleep at night, for fear of seeing those memories again. The panic and blood of trenches under fire. The Bluff, broken after the bombings.
The silence stretched thin, uncomfortable. Iris forced herself to take a sip of tea, now lukewarm and far too sweet. She could hear the faint draw of Roman’s breath behind her.
We are trapped here, she thought, her stomach aching. We are trapped within his web, and I don’t know how to free us, Kitt.
“Why have you summoned me?” Iris asked.
“You know why, Iris.” Dacre’s lackadaisical demeanor was infuriating. And yet the tension was brewing between them, pulling taut as a rope that had almost reached its limit.
“If you want my answer from your previous query,” Iris said, “it’s no.” “No…?”
“I will not write for you.”
“But you’ll write for Enva? That’s quite the, oh, what do you mortals call it? Roman, what word am I searching for?”
Roman was quiet, a beat too long. When he spoke, his voice was a rasp. “Hypocrisy, sir.”
“Hypocrisy,” Dacre repeated with a sharp-edged smile.
“I don’t see how that’s so,” Iris said. “We mortals have the freedom to choose who or what we worship, if we worship at all.”
“So you worship her?” His eyes narrowed, taking in Iris’s garments. The dark green shirt, the pearl buttons. Clothes that Enva had left behind for her.
Iris didn’t move. Could he sense it? That she had been with Enva through the night?
“What do you know of the divines?” Dacre said, his gaze returning to hers. Even then, Iris could hardly breathe. “Do you know that all of us, even the Skywards—Enva’s self-righteous kin—seek our own gains? We are
selfish by nature. We will do anything, even kill our own children, our siblings, our spouses to survive. Why do you think so few of us remain after there had once been hundreds of us, above and below?”
Dacre continued, oblivious to the thoughts cascading through Iris’s mind.
“We care not for you and your kind other than to see what you may do for us, whether that is serving as a ward or dying glorious deaths. Or entertaining us with your silly songs and your craft, or even warming our beds if we desire it. And as the war has shown me … you long to worship something greater than yourselves, and you’ll die for it if you must. You are fragile yet you are resilient. You hope even when there should be none.”
He paused, watching Iris’s face. Her mind was whirling, and he seemed to enjoy the bewildered gleam in her eyes.
“But most of all, you are fighting for a goddess who is a coward. She hides in plain sight. If war broke out in the streets of Oath, she would remain in the shadows. She will never offer you her aid, and she will gladly let you and your people die in her stead. Would you rather write for her, a goddess who has used her magic to lure me here, destroying your land in the process, or would you rather write for me, who walks shoulder to shoulder with you? Who has shown you that yes, a god can be cruel, but he can also be merciful?”
Iris broke their gaze. Her bones were humming, her doubt swarmed like a flood.
She thought back on the night before. Enva had been kind and gentle to Iris. She had aided her, sheltered her, given her knowledge like breadcrumbs to sustain her in the coming days. But Enva was still a divine. She wasn’t human and she didn’t understand the full breadth of mortality.
“I’ve never been devout,” Iris said, meeting Dacre’s stare. “And I write for no one but myself.”
“A lonely mountain to claim,” Dacre responded with a hint of derision.
“Is it? You say that I know nothing of your kind, but even after all this time walking among us, I don’t think you truly understand us either, sir.”
“Do not challenge me, Iris,” he said. “Unless you think you will win.” His warning chilled her.
“Roman?” Dacre glanced at him. “Will you bring the typewriter to Iris?” Iris swallowed as she felt Roman step closer. She could smell his cologne; it made her want to weep, to think of those old days when they had sparred with words and assignments. To remember how young they had
seemed then, and to acknowledge where they both were now.
He moved her teacup aside, his hand pale, elegant. A hand that had touched her, explored her every line and bend. Fingertips that had once traced her lips when she gasped. Then he brought the typewriter over. He set it down carefully before her. The Third Alouette.
She studied it, blinking away the sting in her eyes. How many words had she written on this typewriter, a loyal companion through lonely nights? How many ideas had it taken of hers, turning them into eternal ink on paper? How many poems and letters had her nan typed upon it, years before Iris was born? How many hours had it comforted Roman, an anchor for him in the darkest days of his captivity?
It was immeasurable. Infinite. The magic still gathered, and it called to her.
And yet Iris refused to touch the keys.
Dacre stared at her, waiting. His patience was like ice in spring, breaking swiftly. A dark expression flickered across his face.
“Paper, Roman?”
Iris bit her lip as Roman obediently reached for a fresh page. He had to stand behind her, leaning over her shoulders, to roll the paper into the typewriter. She could feel the heat of him. She could feel his breath in her hair. He was careful not to touch her, even as his hands fell away and he straightened. He was mindful, like he knew his own limits, as well as hers.
If they touched now, it would shatter the story they had written to survive.
“Now can we discuss what I called you here to write?” Dacre asked. “I have an important article that I would—”
“I will not write for you,” Iris cut him off.
Dacre arched a brow. He appeared surprised at first, as if her defiance was a burst of unexpected rain. But then his annoyance was evident as he pressed his lips into a thin line.
“You answer without even knowing the words I would ask you to type?” Dacre asked. “What sort of journalist are you, refusing to listen when knowledge is offered up to you? Knowledge that would save thousands of your own kind?”
Iris gritted her teeth, but she was shaking now. It felt like she had been set out in the snow and the wind, and no fire or sunlight could ever thaw her bones again. She was terrified, and her stomach was churning, threatening to heave up the meager toast and soup she had eaten that day.
Dacre snapped his fingers. “Roman? Set her hands upon the keys since Iris has forgotten how to type.”
“Lord Commander,” Roman said, but his voice was hoarse, like it hurt to speak. “I—”
“Or have you lost all your sense as well?”
“No, sir.” He dutifully stepped forward again. Iris could feel him gazing at the fingers she had laced tightly on her lap. The shine of her wedding ring.
Roman hesitated.
If he touches me, I will sunder in two, she thought, fire in her blood. If he touches me, I will come undone.
Iris set her hands on the keys before Roman could reach down. But she still felt him, his presence close behind her. She could hear the sigh that unspooled from him.
“There now,” Dacre said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it, Iris?”
She couldn’t answer. Her head ached when she realized how he had coerced her. How she had acquiesced to writing for him. Something she never wanted to do.
“Tell me when you’re ready,” he said, triumph gleaming in his eyes.
She sat there for a few more minutes, her hands frozen on the keys, her gaze on the strike bars. She wrestled with her vast disappointment, the slippery ghost of her fear, the anger, the longing, the words that had gathered and formed a painful dam in her chest.
But was she truly surrendering if she was staying alive? If she only gave him her hands?
Iris lifted her eyes. She looked at Dacre’s neck, the cords of his throat that moved when he drank the last of the tea.
“I’m ready,” she said.
