The Oath Gazette was quiet.
Roman sat at his desk, notes spread before him. He stared at the blank page curling from his typewriter. He should be thrilled. He had solidified himself as the new columnist. He no longer had to worry about the things on his desk being rearranged. He no longer had to race to the bulletin board for assignments. He no longer had to pretend he was too busy for sandwiches.
If this was the life he wanted, then why did it feel so hollow?
He rose to get another cup of tea, avoiding the temptation to glance at Iris’s empty desk. But while he was spooning honey into his cup, one of the editors joined him at the sideboard.
“Feels strange here without her, doesn’t it?” she asked. Roman arched his brow. “Who?”
The editor only smiled, as if she knew something Roman didn’t.
He was the last to leave the office that evening. He shrugged on his coat and turned off his lamp. He hadn’t written a word, and he was irritated.
On the tram ride home, he considered his options. His fingers thrummed over his thigh, anxious as he thought about the best way to handle the dilemma he was caught within. If he didn’t show any emotion, his father should hear him.
As soon as he reached home, he found Mr. Kitt in his study. On his desk was a strange crate, labeled with CAUTION and HANDLE WITH CARE.
“Roman,” his father greeted him, glancing up from a ledger he was reading. A cigar was clamped in his teeth. “How was your first day as columnist?”
“I’m not marrying her, Father.” The announcement rang in the air. Roman had never felt so relieved in his life until Mr. Kitt’s eyes narrowed. He took his time crushing his cigar into an ashtray and stood, his tall frame casting a crooked shadow.
“Come again, Roman?”
“I’m not marrying Elinor Little,” said Roman. He kept his inflection flat, his expression poised. As if he felt nothing and was merely stating a fact. “She and I are not a good match, but there are other ways I can serve the family. I would like to discuss them with you, if you have time tonight.”
His father smiled. It gleamed like a scythe in the lamplight. “What’s this really about, son?”
“It’s about my freedom.” “Your freedom?”
Roman gritted his teeth. “Yes. I have already forgone one thing I wanted, based on your desires.”
“And what was that, Roman? Oh wait. I remember,” Mr. Kitt said with a chuckle. “You wanted to throw away years of your life studying literature at university. I’ve already told you once, but I suppose I should say it again: you can’t do anything with such a degree. But being columnist at the Oath Gazette? That will carry you far, son. I only want the best for you, even if you can’t see it now. And you’ll thank me one day when you understand better.”
It took everything within Roman to hold his temper in check. He ground the words he wanted to say between his molars and said, “I have gained columnist, as you wanted. At the very least, you should now agree that I have the right to choose who I want to marry, as you once chose Mother.”
“This is about that lowborn girl at the Gazette, isn’t it?” Mr. Kitt drawled. “She’s caught your eye, against all reason.”
Roman stiffened. He could feel the flush creep across his face, and he struggled to keep his voice calm, emotionless. “There’s no other girl.”
“Don’t lie to me, son. I caught wind of you having lunch with her the other day. And it was a bloody good thing your engagement hadn’t been announced yet, but what if the Littles had learned of it? What if they had seen you with her, the way you sat close beside her on a bench, sharing a sandwich, laughing at the things she said? How would you explain yourself?”
“It was strictly business,” Roman snapped. “We were discussing an article. And I didn’t pay for her lunch, just so you know.”
Mr. Kitt suddenly looked amused. Roman hated himself, especially when he remembered watching Iris reach for the coins in her purse at the deli. She almost hadn’t had enough, and she had chosen not to purchase a drink, as if she hadn’t wanted one.
He had paid for his sandwich, but not hers. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now he loathed himself for it.
Roman bit the inside of his cheek. Did his father also know that he had gone to Iris’s flat?
“I won’t see my grandchildren’s blood spoiled by the gutter,” Mr. Kitt said.
Then yes. He also knew about that visit, however brief it was, but Roman wouldn’t offer any explanations for it. Because no one had sent Roman but himself. Zeb Autry had been annoyed by Iris’s absence, and Sarah worried, but Roman was the one to grab her trench coat and look up her address and do something about it.
“Your prejudices are quite profound, Father,” he stated. “And you should stop having me followed.”
“I’ll call off my watch the moment you marry Miss Little,” Mr. Kitt countered. “And then you can sleep with whoever you want as long as you are discreet. You can sleep with your freckle-faced girl from the Gazette, but my one stipulation is you must not have pups with her. She’s far beneath you, son.”
“Enough, Father!” The words exploded from Roman. “I’m not marrying Miss Little, and your comments about my colleague are unfounded and uncalled-for!”
Mr. Kitt sighed. “I’m disappointed in you, Roman.”
Roman shut his eyes, suddenly drained. This conversation had taken a turn for the worse, and he didn’t know how to salvage it.
“Do you know what this is, son?” Mr. Kitt asked. Roman opened his eyes to see his father touching the crate. “This right here is our future. It’s going to save us in the war, because Dacre will one day reach us in Oath. And you breaking your commitment to Miss Little will jeopardize my plans to preserve our family.”
Roman stared at the crate. “What’s in it?” Mr. Kitt lifted the lid. “Come take a look.”
Roman edged a few steps closer. Close enough so he could catch a glimpse of what rested within. Slender metal canisters the length of his forearm, resting like silver bullets in the crate.
“What are those?” he asked, frowning. “Are those bombs?”
His father only smiled and shut the lid. “Perhaps you should ask your fiancée. She helped her father create them.”
“This is evil,” Roman said, his voice wavering. “These bombs or whatever they are … you can’t return from something like this. They’re going to kill innocent people. I won’t—”
“No, this is ingenious,” Mr. Kitt interrupted. “All of the lords and ladies of Oath who are bowing to Enva … where do you think their titles will go when Dacre takes the city? Who do you think he will reward?”
Roman stared at his father, eyes wide in horror. “Is this all you care about? Where you stand among high society? How you can take advantage of others?” He began to step away, his breath hissing through his teeth. “I won’t be a part of this, Father.”
“You will do exactly what I tell you to do, Roman,” Mr. Kitt said. “Do you understand? If you won’t do it to save your own hide, then at least think of your mother, who is still grieving over your recklessness.”
Roman felt the blood drain from his face. The guilt over his sister’s death burned like acid in his mouth, and he lost all desire to fight, to speak.
“This is your duty, son,” his father said in a gentler voice. “I’m very proud of you for being promoted. You have a very bright future ahead of you. Don’t ruin it on a poor girl who no doubt wants to drain you of your inheritance.”
Roman turned and left.
He hardly remembered striding into his room. The door closed and locked behind him with a sigh of magic. Roman looked at his wardrobe, where the floor was bare. No letters waited for him. He expected there wouldn’t be any further correspondence with Iris from this point onward, since she had left to only the gods knew where. And he wasn’t sure if she had read his last letter or not, but he decided he could take no chances.
There was a loose floorboard beneath his desk. Roman knelt and gently worked it up, exposing a perfect hiding place. Once he had stashed candy and money and a home run baseball he had caught at a game and newspaper clippings here. Now, he took the shoebox full of Iris’s letters and he hid them, burying her words deep in the safety of darkness. He slid the floorboard back into place.
He couldn’t protect Del when she had needed him most, but he would try his best to protect Iris now.
Because he wasn’t sure how much his father truly knew about her. And Roman wasn’t about to let him discover anything more.
 |
The Inkridden Tribune was chaos.
To be fair, it was in the drafty basement of an ancient building downtown, in a room half the size of the Oath Gazette. Tables were haphazardly arranged as desks, exposed bulbs shed light from above, and it smelled like fresh-cut paper and mildew with a whirl of cigarette smoke. Editors were busy at their typewriters, and assistants moved back and forth as if they were on a track, delivering chipped cups of tea and strips of messages from the one telephone—which rang shrilly off its hook—to certain desks.
Iris stood at the foot of the stairs, staring into the hustle, waiting for someone to notice her.
No one did. There were only a handful of staff to do the same amount of work that the Oath Gazette did. And she couldn’t deny that while the working conditions here were vastly different from her old employer, the air teemed with something electric. There was excitement and passion and that
breathless feeling of creation, and Iris felt it catch in her lungs, as if she were falling ill to whatever fever was fueling these people.
She stepped deeper into the room and snagged the first assistant who passed by.
“Hi, I’m looking for Helena Hammond.”
The assistant, a girl a few years older than Iris with short black hair, halted as if she had just stepped into a wall. “Oh, you must be here to apply as a war correspondent! Here, see that door over there? That’s her office. She’ll be thrilled to meet you.”
Iris nodded her thanks and wove through the madness. Her breath felt shallow when she knocked on Helena Hammond’s door.
“Enter,” a gruff voice said.
Iris stepped into the office, surprised to see a trail of sunlight. There was a tiny square window high up on the wall, cracked to welcome fresh air and the distant sounds of the city. Helena Hammond, who couldn’t have been taller than five feet, stood puffing on a cigarette, staring into that beam of light. She had auburn hair that was cut into a bob and a fringe that brushed her eyelashes every time she blinked. Her cheeks were freckled, and a long scar graced her jaw, tugging on the corner of her lips. She was dressed in a set of high-waisted trousers and a black silk shirt, and a silver ring gleamed on her thumb.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice pitched deep and scratchy. She kept her focus on the sunlight, breathing out a long curl of smoke.
“I’m here to apply as a war correspondent,” Iris said. Her shoulders were aching from lugging around her typewriter and valise, but she stood as tall and elegant as possible. Because she could tell that the moment Helena looked at her, the woman would be able to see through her and weigh her mettle.
“Two in one day,” Helena remarked, at last turning her face to Iris. “Whatever have they put in the water?”
Iris wasn’t sure what she implied. But she held still as Helena walked around her desk to scrutinize her.
“Why do you want to be a correspondent, Miss…?” “Iris. Iris Winnow.”
“Miss Iris Winnow,” Helena said, flicking ash off the end of her cigarette. “Why are you here?”
Iris shifted her weight, ignoring the pain in her wrists. “Because my brother is fighting.”
“Mm. That’s not a good enough answer for me to send you, kid. Do you have any idea how difficult it’ll be as a correspondent? Why should I send an innocent thing like you to see and digest and report such terrible things?” A bead of sweat trickled down Iris’s spine. “People in Oath think they’re safe. They think that because the war is far away, it will never reach us here. But I believe it will come to the city one day, sooner than later, and when it does … there will be a lot of people unprepared. Your choice to report the
news on the war front is going to help change that.”
Helena was staring up at her, and a lopsided smile crept over her lips. “You still didn’t answer why I should send you, Iris Winnow.”
“Because I want to write about things that matter. I want my words to be like a line, cast out into the darkness.”
“That’s rather poetic of you,” Helena said, eyes narrow. “What’s your previous experience?”
“I worked three months at the Oath Gazette,” Iris replied, belatedly hoping that wouldn’t dampen her chances.
“You worked for good ole Autry, did you? My, now that’s a surprise.” Helena chuckled, crushing her cigarette into an ashtray. “Why’d you leave such a splendid opportunity? Did he fire you for double spacing?”
“I resigned.”
“I like you more already,” Helena said. “When can you start?” “Immediately,” Iris replied.
Helena glanced at Iris’s valise and her typewriter case. “You came prepared, didn’t you? I like that in a person. Come, follow me.” She walked out the door, and Iris had to scramble to catch up with her, weaving through the chaos again.
They ascended the stairs, leaving behind the chill of the basement for a small room on one of the upper floors. It was well lit and clean, with a table and two chairs.
“Have a seat, Iris,” Helena said. “And fill this out for me. I’ll be back in a moment.” She set down a waiver and a pen before striding away, leaving Iris alone.
Iris glanced over it. The waiver was filled with things like I agree to not hold the Inkridden Tribune responsible for anything which may befall me, including but not limited to: dismemberment, sickness, perforated and ruined organs, starvation, long-lasting disease of any kind, broken bones, and even death. I will take full responsibility for whatever happens to me— bodily and mentally and emotionally—while I am on the campaign to report.
She read through the fine print; she signed where applicable, and she didn’t think twice about it. But Forest came to mind. She wondered how many scars the war had given him.
“Here we go,” Helena said, returning with an armload of supplies. She set down what looked to be a folded uniform and a narrow leather bag with a thick strap, to be carried across one’s back. “Your jumpsuit. There’s another one in the bag, for when you need to do laundry. Also socks, boots, menstrual supplies. I can’t stress enough how vital it is you wear the jumpsuit, because of this little thing right here…” She snapped the jumpsuit so it would unfold. It was gray and plain, with buttons up the front. But Helena pointed to a white badge stitched with the words INKRIDDEN TRIBUNE PRESS, just over the right breast pocket. “If you get into a hairy situation— which gods willing you won’t but we must prepare for anything—this proclaims you are neutral in the war—that you are only reporting what you see and should not be perceived as a threat. You understand?”
“Yes,” Iris said, but her mind was whirling.
“Food rations are also in the bag,” Helena said, tossing the jumpsuit onto the table again. “In case you need them, but you’ll be assigned to a house, which will feed you and give you a safe place to sleep. Now, may I look at your typewriter?”
Iris unlatched the locks and lifted the lid to the case. And she didn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t for Helena to go wide-eyed and let out a whistle.
“This is your typewriter?” she asked, inclining her head so her fringe would shift out of her eyes.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It was my grandmother’s.” “May I touch it?”
Iris nodded, puzzled. But she watched as Helena reverently traced the lines of her old typewriter. Touching the keys, the carriage return, the roller knob. She let out another disbelieving whistle.
“An Alouette! Do you even know what you have here, kid?” Iris held her tongue, uncertain how to answer.
“This typewriter is a very rare beast,” Helena said, leaning closer to admire it. “Only three were made just like it. Haven’t you heard the old story?”
“No.”
“Then I should tell you, so you know exactly how precious this relic is. Decades ago, there was a rich man in the city named Richard Stone. He was a widower and had only one daughter, who was his pride and joy. Her name was Alouette, and she loved to write. Well, she fell sick with tuberculosis when she was only fifteen. Because of that, her two dearest friends could no longer visit her. Alouette was despondent. And Mr. Stone was driven to find a way for his daughter to communicate with her chums, and he found an old, cranky inventor who specialized in typewriters. Mr. Stone went into debt to allow three to be uniquely assembled. The legends claim the typewriters were constructed in a magical house on a magical street of Oath by a man with a magical monocle that could discern magical bonds—who soon vanished, by the way. But regardless … the typewriters were named after Alouette. She was given one, of course. And then her father gifted the other two to her friends. They sent letters and stories and poetry to each other for a full year, up until the night Alouette passed away. Shortly after that, Mr. Stone donated her typewriter to the museum, to be displayed with a few of her letters.”
“And the other two typewriters?” Iris asked quietly.
Helena cocked her brow. “They remained with her two friends, of course.” She lifted the typewriter and found the silver engraving. The one that Iris had spent years tracing and wondering about. “You said this belonged to your nan, correct? And were her initials by any chance D.E.W.?”
“They were,” Iris said.
Daisy Elizabeth Winnow had been a reserved woman, but she had often told Iris stories her of childhood. The saga of her typewriter, however, had never been shared, and Iris was struck by the whimsy of it, imagining her nan being friends with two other girls. How the three of them had written to each other, through their separation and sadness and joy.
“It makes you wonder where the third one is, doesn’t it?” Helena said, carefully setting the typewriter back down. “Or should I say, the second one, since this is technically the third.”
Iris had an inkling. She said nothing, but her mind wandered to the letters that were hiding in her bag. Her heart quickened as she thought, It isn’t the wardrobes connecting us. It’s our typewriters.
“So, Iris,” Helena said. “I have to ask this: are you sure you want to take your nan’s typewriter to war? Because you could sell it to the museum. They would probably pay you a fortune and be downright giddy at the opportunity, displaying it with The First Alouette.”
“I’m not selling it,” Iris replied curtly. “And it goes wherever I go.”
“I figured you’d say that,” Helena replied. “But I digress. This is how your correspondence will work: you’ll take the next train out of Oath, which leaves in half an hour. So we don’t have much time. You’re going to Avalon Bluff, a town six hundred kilometers west of here, close to the war front. Keep in mind you’ll be under a new chancellor and their jurisdiction, and that the laws you once knew in Oath and the Eastern Borough might not apply in the west. Things also change drastically in war, so pay close attention to the rules of daily life, so you remain safe.
“Your contact is Marisol Torres. She runs a bed and breakfast, and she’ll give you food and lodgings while you work. She doesn’t know you’re coming, but mention my name and she’ll take good care of you.
“The train runs through Avalon every sixth day. I expect you to have your reports typed, edited, and ready for me to publish. I want facts and I want stories. It’s the only way I’ll be able to get around the chancellor’s restriction on how much I can publish about the war—he can’t deny us a soldier’s story every now and then, nor the facts, all right? So make sure you cite your stuff so he can’t claim it’s propaganda. You’ll then slip and seal your typed articles in the brown classified envelopes that you’ll find in your bag, and you’ll hand them directly to the conductor. Supplies will also come in on the train, so if you need something, let me know. Do you understand everything I’ve told you, Iris?”
“Yes Ms. Hammond,” Iris said. But her mouth was dry, her palms sweaty.
Was she really doing this?
“Good,” Helena said. “Now, get dressed. You can’t take your valise, only the approved leather bag and your typewriter. Meet me out front on the pavement in five minutes.” She began to step out the door but tarried on the threshold. “Oh, what name are you writing under?”
Iris paused, uncertain. At the Oath Gazette, her articles had been published under Iris Winnow. She wondered if she should add her middle initial, like Roman did, but thought it sounded a bit pretentious. Roman Cocky Kitt.
As soon as she thought of him, her chest ached. The feeling surprised her because it was sharp and undeniable.
I miss him.
She missed irritating him by rearranging his desk. She missed stealing glances at his horribly handsome face, the rare sight of his smile and the fleeting sound of his laughter. She missed striking up banter with him, even if it was most often to see who could outsnark whom.
“Iris?” Helena prompted.
Iris shivered. That bewitching moment of longing for him faded as she set her resolve. She was about to go to the war front and she didn’t have time to wallow in … whatever these feelings were.
“Iris Winnow is fine,” she said, reaching for the jumpsuit.
“Just ‘fine’?” Helena looked pensive for a second, her mouth twisting. And then she winked at Iris and said, “I bet I can come up with something better.”
She slipped out the door before Iris could reply.
