Roman hadn’t been aware that there was a new watch in Oath and curfew was now at dusk. Not until his parents told him about it over a very awkward dinner. He now waited for Iris in the darkness beneath the oak boughs, a few minutes shy of ten thirty, and his worry was gathering like moonlight on the ground, making monstrous shadows out of harmless shrubs.
It had been an odd day altogether, and it almost felt like Roman had seen Iris at the café weeks ago, not mere hours. A memory that had already turned sepia in his mind. But when he had left her at Gould’s, he had walked the city until his emotions banked into coals and he could think clearly again.
He had remembered his hastily drawn map of the ley line, and the potential buildings that hosted magical doorways. Places that Dacre’s army could potentially use to invade the city. The map was in his pocket—he planned to hand it over to Iris that night—and while he wanted to pull it out and compare it to the street, he didn’t, sensing Val still trailing him. And so Roman had acted like he was casually walking, while in truth, he was studying the street and the buildings all the way back to his father’s estate.
He had wanted to spend time with his nan and his mother, and he arrived through the front gate and knocked on the bright red door, as if he
hadn’t been there earlier. His mother had been thrilled, hugging him tightly in her thin arms, smoothing back his hair, pulling him into the sunroom, her favorite place in the house because it overlooked the gardens and Del’s small grave. But most of all, Roman had been shocked that his father looked relieved to see him.
“How long are you here for?” Mr. Kitt had asked, puffing on his cigar.
The smoke tickled Roman’s nose. He tried not to breathe too deeply, feeling his lungs wither in response. “I leave first thing tomorrow. I’ll be staying here tonight, though. In my old room, if that’s all right.”
“Of course it is, Roman!” Mrs. Kitt had exclaimed, clasping her hands together. “We’ll have a nice family dinner together. Just like old times, my darling.”
It was not like old times. There was no going back to those days, as much as they might long to or fool themselves that time could be wound back like a clock. But Roman had only smiled, and when his mother called for tea and his favorite biscuits, he drank and ate again, as if he were empty. At dinner, he had expected the questions he could not fully answer.
Where have you been, why haven’t you contacted us, tell us more of what you’re doing. As instructed, Roman kept his replies vague, but two odd things happened while they were seated at the table.
The first had been his nan’s whippet. The fact that the dog was allowed to sit in the dining room told Roman that his father had started to cave, because in the past his grandmother wasn’t permitted to bring along any of her pets in this wing of the house. But the whippet sat, quiet and obedient, behind Nan’s chair, until a sudden draft could be felt in the dining room.
The crystals on the chandelier above clinked together as they trembled. There was a creak in the hardwood beneath the rug. Roman watched as the wine in his glass rippled like an invisible stone had been dropped into it.
Nan’s whippet barked.
“Hush that dog at once, Henrietta,” Mr. Kitt had snapped, his face flushing red.
Nan rolled her eyes—only she could get away with such defiance in his father’s presence—and set down her napkin. “Quiet, Theodore.”
Theodore quit his barking, but Roman noticed the dog’s nose was pointed to the eastern wall. The wall that the dining room shared with the parlor.
Roman returned his attention to his plate. Someone had just used the doorway. He wondered if it was Val, satisfied with Roman’s behavior.
“This house is nothing but drafts these days,” Nan had muttered, tossing a scrap of ham to the dog.
“Hmm” was how Mr. Kitt replied, but he met Roman’s gaze over the candle tapers.
They shared a knowing look. Roman could only wonder if his father had dared to tread below, or if he was only being a genteel host for Dacre, letting Val come and go as he pleased.
Not ten minutes later, when the waitstaff were bringing out the third course, the second odd thing had occurred.
A man Roman had never seen before slipped into the dining room and approached his father, bending low to whisper something to Mr. Kitt. The man was short and stocky, wearing a dark coat with its collar flipped upward to shield his neck. His left ear looked permanently swollen, betraying his past as a boxer, and there was a scar on his jaw.
Roman said nothing as he watched the brief exchange, surprised that his father wasn’t angry at the interruption. Whatever the man whispered to Mr. Kitt pleased him, because his scowl eased and he nodded.
Just as suddenly as the man had arrived, he left. He exited the manor out the front door, into the dusk, and Roman stared at his father until Mr. Kitt had no choice but to meet his gaze.
“Who was that?” Roman had asked tersely.
His father took his time in replying, taking a long sip of wine. “An associate of mine.”
“An associate?”
“Yes. Is that acceptable to you, Roman?”
Roman bit his tongue. That man was something more than a mere associate, and it made gooseflesh rise on his arms.
“He helps your father handle the business side of matters, Roman,” his mother said in her airy voice. “His name is Bruce. He sometimes joins us
for afternoon tea.”
“Some security,” Nan murmured beneath her breath.
“Security?” Roman echoed. A chill touched his spine when he wondered if his father was in too deep with Dacre and felt like he needed a guard. But then he thought of Iris, sneaking in through the back garden to meet him that night. “He guards the property?”
Mr. Kitt chuckled. “No, although I don’t see why it interests you, son.
You never cared much for familial matters, or this house you’ll inherit.”
A jab. Roman’s face flushed, and he decided to leave it at that until his mother mentioned the Graveyard and how thankful she was that these unnamed citizens were striving to keep Oath safe. The Graveyard, who had enforced a strict curfew. With Iris about to venture through the night-stained streets to meet him.
Roman’s stomach churned as he had delivered the letter to his father after the final course, dismissing himself to his room.
He was halfway up the stairs when Mr. Kitt called up to him from the foyer.
“Do you know when you’ll be visiting again, son?” Roman paused on the stair. “No, sir.”
Mr. Kitt nodded, but his eyes narrowed. “He must be quite pleased with you, letting you come home for a spell.”
Roman ground his teeth together. Yes, he had done plenty for Dacre. All those words he had typed for him. All that propaganda.
It made him feel sick.
“Keep it that way.” Mr. Kitt spoke in a hushed tone. “At least, for a little while longer.”
That chilling phrase had followed Roman up the remainder of the stairs. His family was entangled with the dealings of a god, and he didn’t know how they would be able to free themselves when the war was over. If Dacre won … they would be forever beholden to him. And if Enva won … the Kitts would be branded as traitors.
Roman slipped into his room and locked the door. He leaned against the wood, checking the time.
It was only half past nine.
He had one more hour until Iris arrived. He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the adjacent lavatory, turning on the shower.
He let the hot water hit his chest until his skin looked burned. He scrubbed with a bar of pine soap and washed his hair, his fingertips pruned by the time he shut off the valve and dried himself. After wiping fog from the mirror, he combed back his dark hair and shaved, then studied his reflection.
He looked hollow and far older than he should be.
He glanced away, heart quickening when he checked the time again. It was nearly ten o’clock.
Roman had padded from the lavatory and opened his wardrobe. He put on his best clothes, cuffing the button-down’s sleeves to his elbows, leaving the neck open. Another pair of trousers, held in place with his leather braces. Well-worn shoes that would help him move quietly.
He sat on his bed and bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting.
When ten twenty finally hit, he rose and opened his window. He had done this a few times when he was younger, the thrill of defying his father’s strict rules sweet as a piece of hard candy. But after Del had died, Roman had stopped doing things like this. Roman had stopped living in many ways, his guilt a smothering phantom.
But he eased his way out onto the roof, his muscles remembering the old motions. He moved to the edge, where the trellis was bolted to the side of the house, fragrant with blooming vines. Roman climbed down, relieved when his shoes hit the grass.
He had moved from shadow to shadow, keeping low and silent, pausing a few times to scan his surroundings. He sought any sign of Val. Any sign of his father’s associate Bruce. But there was only a gentle breeze and the freshly bloomed flowers. The willows and the hawthorns and cherry trees. The perfectly manicured shrubs and the dance of a few sly weeds.
Roman continued on his way, reaching the appointed spot. He waited, pacing over the roots. He distracted himself with recounting the events of the day, over and over. But he checked his wristwatch in the moonlight, a knot of worry tightening his chest.
It was now ten forty-seven, and there was no sign of Iris.
Eventually, he was so anxious that he had to sit. He coughed until the pain sharpened and his eyes watered, and he closed them, focusing on his breathing. Slow and deep and meaningful.
He checked his watch again, unable to resist. It was ten fifty-eight.
How long until I give up?
The problem was that Roman didn’t like to quit, and he would wait all night for Iris. Until the moon set and the sun broke the horizon, melting all the stars. Until he had no choice but to return to the parlor door.
It was twelve past eleven when he finally heard a branch snap.
Roman stood. He strained his eyes in the shadows, his worry dissolving when he recognized Iris’s shape, moving through the brambles.
“Confound it all, Kitt!” she whispered. “You weren’t kidding about the thorns.”
Roman smiled into the darkness. He took her hand, drawing her from the brambles until she stood before him, so close he could feel her breathe. Moonlight spangled her face, catching in her eyes like stars.
“It’s good to see you again too, Winnow,” he said, watching a smirk spread across her lips. It evoked a pleasant pang in him, one that made him think of the old days, when he would stand at her desk and pester her. “And I’d give anything to know your thoughts at the moment, and what I’ve done to earn such a look from you.”
“I’m here to call in the favor you owe me,” Iris said. “A favor you granted me on a windowsill, far far away.”
Roman had been waiting for this moment. How many times had he lain on his bed in the darkness, alone and sleepless, haunted by the longing?
He wove his fingers into Iris’s hair and brought his mouth down to hers.
