Iris took the tram but decided to exit at the university stop. She walked along the street beneath a line of sycamore trees whose gnarled roots were pushing up through the cobblestones. The sun was still making its ascent, spangling the pavement as Iris brushed shoulders with students hurrying to class.
She turned a corner and approached Attie’s town house.
It was a three-story building, built of red brick, with navy shutters and an oakwood door embellished with carvings of the moon phases. Tendrils of ivy grew along its side, and flower boxes brightened the windows. Iris walked the stone path and up the porch stairs to ring the bell, noticing a few bicycles lying in the small grassy yard, as well as a kite with a knotted tail.
“I’ll get it!” someone cried from within, and Iris could hear the pattering of feet and the lock turning.
She smiled when she saw one of Attie’s younger sisters standing in the doorway. She wore a blue gingham dress and ribbons in her black hair.
“Hi,” the girl said. “You’re Thea’s friend, aren’t you?” “Yes,” Iris replied. “Is she home?”
“Thea! Thea! Your friend from the paper is here!”
There was the distant clink of dishes, a few more excited murmurs. “Invite her in, Ainsley!” Attie hollered back.
Ainsley opened the door wider. “Come in.”
“Thank you.” Iris stepped over the threshold, but she waited until Ainsley had closed the door before she followed her down the hall.
Attie’s family was gathered at the table, finishing breakfast. The dining room was painted a dark blue, with constellations dabbed in silver, all the way to the ceiling. Maps and photographs were framed on the walls, as were a few colorful drawings. Books were piled at the back of a china cabinet, which held teacups as well as multiple pairs of binoculars.
It was a welcoming room, and Iris soaked in in. She realized a beat later that Attie’s five siblings and her parents were gazing up at her, expectant. Attie was the only one who continued eating, draining her tea and scraping the last of the butter off her plate with her toast.
“Would you like to join us, Iris?” Attie’s mother asked. She was already dressed for the day in a plaid dress, her curly black hair brushing the tops of her shoulders.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Iris said. “I was passing by the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by to see if Attie would like to walk to work together.”
One of Attie’s little brothers, who had an identical twin sitting beside him, laughed until Attie shot him a warning glance. It looked like he might have also been kicked beneath the table. Iris had no idea what that meant, and didn’t have time to dwell on it, because Attie’s father spoke.
“You’re not interrupting, Iris!” Mr. Attwood shifted the glasses on his nose. He had a rich, deep voice and a gentle smile. He reached for the teapot and said, “We have more than enough if you’re hungry.”
“Thank you, Mr. Attwood. But, truly, I’m fine.”
Attie stood from her chair with her empty plate in hand. “I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to show you something before work. Follow me.”
Iris waved to the family before following Attie into the kitchen.
Attie set down her dirty dishes. “Are you all right?” she whispered. Iris blinked. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“You’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday.”
Iris opened her mouth, but before she could say a word, Ainsley came bursting into the kitchen carrying her own dishes. She took her time at the
sink, casting a surreptitious glance their way, as if she wanted to hear everything they said. Iris was thankful for the interruption, although Attie only cocked her brow at her little sister.
“You wanted to show me something?” Iris reminded her.
“Hmm.” Attie led her down to the basement. It was cooler here, but just as cozy as the ground floor, with plush furniture, a purring cat—which Iris fondly recognized as Lilac, the feline Attie had saved from Avalon Bluff— on one of the cushions, and a host of paintings crowding the wall. A few paper stars hung from the ceiling, and Iris gazed up at them while Attie removed one of the hanging frames.
“Do you remember that story I told you, weeks ago on Marisol’s roof?” Attie said, carefully setting the oil painting of the ocean to the side.
Iris remembered every word. “Yes. You told me about your violin.” “Would you like to see it?”
Wordless, Iris stepped closer to Attie, watching as she opened the door of a metal safe nestled into the wall. It was hard to believe that what they were doing was now illegal in Oath: being in the presence of a stringed instrument. It sent a shiver down Iris’s back when she saw Attie hold her violin out in the space between them, its chestnut-colored wood gleaming in the lamplight.
“It’s beautiful,” Iris whispered, tracing the cold strings. “I’d love to hear you play it someday.”
A nostalgic expression crossed Attie’s face, but she gave her violin a soft caress before returning it to its case and closing the safe’s door. Once the painting was back on the wall, Iris would have never known a violin was there, hiding behind the rolling waves of a painted sea.
“Only your parents know where it hides?” Iris said.
Attie nodded. “I used to play down here when the siblings were in class. When no one was home to hear me but Papa. Sometimes my mum. I honestly haven’t played since I left for the front.” Another flicker of sadness passed in her eyes until she met Iris’s gaze, and something like steel flashed within her. “And I dreamt about ‘Alzane’s Lullaby’ last night.”
Iris’s heart quickened. “As did I. How is this happening? Why are we dreaming about the same song?”
Attie gave her a wry smile. “Magic, obviously.”
“You think a divine is trying to send us a message in dreams?”
“Yes. Which made me think about that myth you published in the paper. The one about Dacre being controlled by music in his realm.” Attie gathered the purring Lilac into her arms, scratching behind her ears. “If Enva’s harp could coax him to sleep with ‘Alzane’s Lullaby’ … why not a violin? Why not a cello? Why not any stringed instrument? Maybe that is the true reason why the chancellor outlawed everything with strings. Not out of fear of Enva recruiting us to war, but because we ourselves could tame a god with our music if we only knew how to reach the realm below.”
Iris was quiet, but her mind was racing. She knew where the active door was—in the Kitts’ parlor. Her best friend had a violin. They knew the power of “Alzane’s Lullaby.” The only thing they lacked was knowledge of Dacre’s exact location, or a way to coerce him underground. Roman could possibly help provide that information, though, and Iris suddenly felt shaky with apprehension.
“If we put Dacre to sleep…” Iris began. “Then we could kill him,” Attie concluded.
Lilac emitted a meow as if in agreement. Iris reached out to stroke the cat’s fur.
“This lullaby we’ve dreamt of. Could you play it on your violin?”
“I can, but I need the full composition.” Attie set the cat down on the couch. “I had a music professor a few years ago at university. I’m going to make an appointment with her, hopefully for tomorrow, and see if she can’t help me obtain it. Apparently there have been many iterations of the song over the decades, and I need to make sure I’m playing the right one. The one we’ve been hearing in our dreams.”
“Thea?” Her father suddenly called down to the basement. “Your ride is here.”
“Coming, Papa!” Attie replied. She led Iris back up the stairs. “Perhaps we can meet up for dinner somewhere and talk more about this? You still owe me and Prindle a fancy meal, by the way.”
Iris laughed as they reached the main floor. “You’re right. For breaking and entering.”
“Breaking and entering where?” Ainsley asked. She seemed to have come from thin air, her lunch pail in one hand, slate tablet in the other.
“Nothing,” Attie replied quickly. “You ready for school, Ains?” She nodded, her blue ribbons bobbing.
“Good. He’s waiting for you on the curb.” Attie guided Iris to the front door in Ainsley’s wake, grabbing her purse and coat from the foyer rack. “Now listen. Don’t get any grand ideas about this.”
Iris gave her a bewildered look. “About what?”
Attie motioned to the open doorway. Iris looked to see none other than Tobias Bexley and his roadster, parked just outside the town house. Attie’s siblings were gathered in the back seat, and Tobias was standing by the vehicle’s dented door, laughing at something her brother was saying.
“He drives them to school, even though it’s only five minutes away, and then me to work,” said Attie.
“Since when?” Iris asked, smiling.
“Since yesterday.” Attie began the walk to the curb, drawing Tobias’s attention. “But we’ll see how long he lasts with my siblings in tow.”
“Are you sure I can’t feed you three?” Marisol asked for the third time. Her black hair was wound into a low bun, and she was stirring a huge pot of porridge over a campfire. Lucy was beside her, stoic as usual and dressed in coveralls, pouring coffee for the soldiers who came by with their metal cups.
“I just ate, but thank you,” Attie said.
Iris and Tobias also declined, although Iris could feel her stomach growl. After Tobias had driven around the block to drop Attie’s siblings off at school, Iris had asked him if he could drive her to what had been dubbed the Drill Field—which in Iris’s mind was better known as the-field-where- the-chancellor-barred-Enva’s-army—just outside of Oath.
“How have things been here?” Iris asked.
“Good,” Marisol replied in a cheerful tone. “The rain finally eased off and the ground has dried out, as you can see. Still a bit muddy in places, but much improved. And your article has been very helpful. So many people
are now coming from the city to deliver food and other resources to us here. The support has been heartening. Thank you for writing it.”
It was the article that had upset the Graveyard. The wounded had still been barred entrance to Oath, but support had trickled out from the city gates. Citizens had delivered food, clean water, blankets, medical supplies, laundry, and even things as simple as a pair of socks. Doctors and nurses from the hospital had brought medicine, cots, and relief to the field surgeons.
“Of course,” Attie said, drawing out a small pad of paper from her back pocket. “Any further updates or needs I can write about today?”
While Marisol and Lucy both listed more requests for the soldiers, Keegan finally appeared, walking up a well-worn path between tents.
“Good morning, Brigadier,” Iris greeted her. “Do you have a moment to speak with me?”
“Iris.” Keegan nodded a hello. “Yes, come in.” She ducked into one of the bigger tents, Iris close behind.
It was surprisingly homey inside, with rugs laid down over the ground, lamps hanging from above, and a few pieces of furniture. There was a table with a map of the city unrolled on it, the paper’s edges held down by small stones. Iris stopped before it, her eyes racing over the intricate drawing of each street, until she found the Kitts’ estate in the northern part of the city.
“How can I help you, Iris?” Keegan asked.
“I have something. From Roman.” She produced the sketch, laying it down on the table.
Keegan leaned closer with a frown, not understanding until Iris explained it to her, pointing to the corresponding street on the map of the city.
“This is very helpful to know,” Keegan said, placing coins over the buildings they suspected had the magical doorways. “But there’s nothing I can do about this, Iris. My forces have been barred from the city. If an attack occurs, I can only provide support from the outside while the chancellor’s law still holds. Lucy has also informed us of the existence of the Graveyard, who seem dedicated to seeing no one fight for either god. I
can only imagine what might happen if we were to enter Oath under Enva’s banner, even as protection for the people.”
Iris bit her lip. There were many things she wanted to say, but she held them back, refolding Roman’s drawing. “I understand, Brigadier.”
Keegan must have sensed her disappointment. She leaned on the table, lowering her voice as she said, “Do you remember when Dacre bombed the Bluff? How some houses fell while others remained upright?”
Iris was quiet, but she remembered everything about that day. How she had stood on the hillside, dazed and overwhelmed by the suffering and destruction. How when she had looked back at the town, it had seemed like a web had been cast. Lines of protection amidst utter demolition.
“Yes,” Iris whispered. “I remember seeing that.” Marisol’s B and B had been on one of those lines, its walls refusing to crumble even as its windows had shattered and the doorways had settled into strange angles.
Keegan pointed to the street of Oath that Roman had drawn. The street that they knew was also an under realm pathway. A ley line.
“I think houses that are built atop these passages can withstand Dacre’s bombs. His own magic, working against him. They will be the safest places to take shelter, should another attack happen.”
Chills swept down Iris’s arms. “Safe places from the bombs, but what of the doorways that lead below?”
Keegan grimaced. “Yes, it’s a dilemma. The safest place from one thing can be dangerous for another. But how are the doorways changed?”
“Roman mentioned keys being able to make the thresholds shift.”
“Then find out more about these keys,” Keegan said. “How do they work? How many exist? And if your Kitt can provide any further guidance on the ley lines … then we could build our own map. Of places to shelter in the city should it come to the worst.”
Iris nodded, but her heart pounded at the thought.
It wasn’t until she was walking back to the parked roadster with Attie and Tobias that she sensed it.
“Looks like we’re going to be late to work,” Attie was saying. “I can still get you there on time,” Tobias replied.
Iris stopped abruptly in the grass. There was a slight rumble in the ground; she could feel it through the soles of her boots.
“Wait…” Attie also sensed it, coming to a halt. “Is that what I think it is?”
Iris couldn’t speak. Time suddenly felt like it was rushing along too quickly, as if a clock had lost a gear, losing minutes by the hour.
But it was exactly what Attie thought.
Dacre’s forces had almost reached Oath from below.
It had been a long, surreal day. One that had seen Roman essentially under house arrest, with Dacre, his select officers, and his best soldiers milling through the rooms, invading all the spaces that had once felt safe to Roman. His typewriter remained on the war table in the transformed parlor, as if
Dacre had decided it was his. Everything in the estate, actually, seemed to be his now, and Roman’s father had let him take that ownership without batting an eye. Even the books that had been on Roman’s shelves, Dacre had confiscated to leaf through.
All morning, Roman had watched as Dacre tore some pages out, tossing them to burn in the fire. Pages of myths that could never be reclaimed. Pages that Dacre didn’t like because their ink limned his true nature.
It made Roman’s head ache. All those pages, lost to ash. His grandfather’s books ruined.
Dacre had only been interrupted when a covered motorcar with black drapes shielding its windows pulled into the Kitts’ drive. It was the chancellor, covertly arriving for a meeting, as Dacre’s presence in Oath was still a heavily guarded secret. Roman was sent away from the room then, to sit with his mother and nan in the west wing of the estate. As far from the god and the war as his father could put the women.
But by sundown, Roman had still failed to come up with a clever way to get the typewriter back in his possession.
Exhausted, he retreated to his room.
It was dark, save for the moonlight that flooded in through the windows. Roman stared at the very window he and Iris had crawled through—had it
only been that morning?—before he sighed and stepped deeper into the chamber.
From the corner of his eye, he could see a patch of white on the floor, just before the wardrobe.
It caught his attention; his breath hissed through his teeth as he realized what it was. A letter, from Iris. He rushed to it, his knees hitting the hardwood as he gathered the paper into his hands.
“Light the lamp,” he whispered hoarsely, and the house obeyed. His desk lamp flickered on, washing the room in golden light.
Roman trembled as he unfolded the paper. It looked creased, worn. There were smudges of dirt on it, but he was so relieved that he couldn’t think straight. He didn’t wonder how this impossibility had happened, since his typewriter was still in the parlor and not his room. He didn’t wonder why this letter looked so tattered, and he read as if starved for the words:
I’ll return most likely when the war is over.
I want to see you. I want to hear your voice.
P.S. I most certainly don’t have wings.
Roman froze.
He knew these words, intimately. He had read them, over and over. He had carried them in his pocket; he had borne them in the trenches. Iris had both tossed these words at him in the infirmary, and then breathed life into them on their wedding night, giving the ink her voice.
This was an old letter. A letter she had written to him weeks ago, and one he had believed to be lost.
“How?” he marveled aloud, sitting back on his heels. His knees twinged in protest, but the pain turned into crackling static when he heard footsteps. When he saw a figure emerge from the lavatory.
Roman gazed up at Lieutenant Shane. Wide-eyed. Unable to breathe.
Clutching Iris’s letter to his chest like it was a shield.
Shane held up a stack of paper. Worn and crinkled and full of typed words. He threw the letters down; they spread across the rug. White as apple blossoms, as bone, as the first snowfall.
air.
Shane’s voice was pitched low, but his accusation burned through the “I know you’re the mole, correspondent.”
