This isn’t Forest.
The words echoed through Iris as she walked down Broad Street the next morning. She was in the heart of the city, the buildings rising high around her, trapping cold air and the last of dawn’s shadows and the distant ring of the trams. She was almost to work, following her normal routine as if nothing strange had happened the night before.
This isn’t Forest.
“Then who are you?” she whispered, hands fisted deep in her pockets. She slowly came to a halt in the street.
The truth was she had been too intimidated to write them back. Instead, she had spent the dark hours in an eddy of worry, remembering all the things she had said in her previous letters. She had told Forest she’d dropped out of school. It would be a blow to him—a broken promise—so she had quickly followed it up with her coveted job at the Gazette, where she was most likely going to earn columnist. Despite that personal information, she had never given away her true name; all her letters to Forest ended with her moniker. Little Flower. And she was most certainly relieved that—
“Winnow? Winnow!”
A hand grabbed her upper arm like a vise. She was suddenly yanked backward with such force that her teeth pierced her lower lip. Iris stumbled but found her bearings just as the oiled whoosh of a tram passed by, so close she could taste metal in her mouth.
She had almost been hit.
The realization made her knees quake.
And someone was still holding her arm.
She glanced up to behold Roman Kitt with his fashionable fawn-colored jacket and shined leather brogues and slicked-back hair. He was staring at her as if she had sprouted a second head.
“You should pay attention to where you’re going!” he snapped, releasing her as if the contact had scorched him. “I was one second away from watching you be smashed on the cobblestones.”
“I saw the tram,” she replied, straightening her trench coat. He had nearly ripped it, and she would have been devastated if he had.
“I beg to differ,” Roman said.
Iris pretended she hadn’t heard him. She carefully stepped over the tram rails and hurried up the stairs into the lobby, blisters blooming on her heels. She was wearing her mother’s dainty ankle boots, which were a size too small, but they would have to do until Iris could purchase a new set of heels. And because her feet were throbbing … she decided she needed to take the lift.
Roman was unfortunately on her trail, and she realized with an inward groan that they would have to ride the elevator together.
They stood waiting for it, shoulder to shoulder.
“You’re here early,” Roman finally said.
Iris touched her sore lower lip. “So are you.”
“Autry give you an assignment I don’t know about?”
The lift doors opened. Iris only smiled as she stepped inside, positioning herself as far away from Roman as possible when he joined her. But his cologne filled the small space; she tried not to breathe too deeply.
“Would it matter to you if he did?” she countered as the lift began to rumble upward.
“You were here late yesterday, working on something.” Roman’s voice was measured, but she swore she heard a hint of worry in him. He leaned on the wood paneling, staring at her. She kept her gaze averted, but she was suddenly aware of the scuffs on her mother’s shoes, the wrinkles in her plaid skirt. The stray hairs escaping her tightly wound bun. The stains on Forest’s old coat that she wore every day like armor.
“You didn’t work all night in the office, did you, Winnow?”
His question jarred her. She brought her gaze back to his with a glare. “What? Of course not! You saw me leave, right after I offered to buy you a sandwich.”
“I was busy,” he said.
She sighed, glancing away.
They were just now approaching the third floor. The lift was slow, and it paused as if it sensed Iris’s distress, let out a clang, and then opened the doors. A man dressed in a derby suit with a briefcase in hand glanced from Iris to Roman and the vast space between them before he gingerly stepped inside.
Iris relaxed a fraction. Having a stranger join them would make Roman hold his tongue. Or so she thought. The lift continued its laborious ascent. And Roman broke elevator etiquette, asking, “What assignment did he give you, Winnow?”
“It’s none of your concern, Kitt.”
“It actually does concern me. You and I want the same thing, in case you forgot.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” she said tersely.
The derby-suited man fidgeted, caught in the middle of their argument. He cleared his throat and reached for his pocket watch. The sight of it made Iris think of Forest, which made her dwell once more on her current dilemma of the mysterious correspondent.
“I don’t see how it’s fair if Autry gives you assignments without my knowledge,” Roman carried on. “This is supposed to be an even draw between you and me. We play by the rules. There shouldn’t be any special favors.”
Special favors?
They were almost to the fifth floor. Iris tapped her fingers against her thigh.
“If you have a problem with it, then go speak to Autry yourself,” she said, just as the doors yawned. “Although I don’t know why you’re so worried. In case you need to be reminded … ‘She’ll give me no competition. None at all. She dropped out of Windy Grove School in her final year.’”
“Excuse me?” Roman demanded, but Iris was already three steps away from the lift.
She hurried down the hall to the office, relieved to see that Sarah was already there, brewing the tea and emptying all the crumpled paper from dustbins. Iris let the heavy glass door swing closed behind her, right in Roman’s face, and she heard the squeak of his shoes and his grunt of annoyance.
She didn’t spare him another glance as she settled in at her desk.
This day had brought her far bigger problems than Roman Kitt.
“Are you happy here?”
Sarah Prindle seemed startled by Iris’s soft question. It was noon, and the two girls had found themselves on lunch break together in the small kitchen. Sarah was sitting at the table, eating a cheese and pickle sandwich, and Iris was leaning against the counter, nursing her fifth cup of tea.
“Of course I’m happy,” Sarah said. “Isn’t everyone who gets a job here? The Oath Gazette is the most prestigious paper in the city. It pays well, and we get every holiday. Here, Winnow, do you want half of my sandwich?”
Iris shook her head. Sarah cleaned and ran errands and took messages for Zeb. She organized the obituaries and the classifieds and the announcements that came in, setting them on either Iris’s or Roman’s desk to edit and type.
“I guess what I meant to say was … is this what you envisioned for yourself, Prindle? When you were a girl and anything seemed possible?”
Sarah swallowed, pensive. “I don’t know. I guess not.”
“What was your dream, then?”
“Well, I always wanted to work in the museum. My dad used to take me there on weekends. I remember loving all the old artifacts and stone tablets, teeming with lore. The gods were quite vicious in their time. There were the Skywards—Enva’s family—and then the Underlings—Dacre’s family. They’ve always hated each other. Did you know that?”
“I unfortunately don’t know much about the gods,” Iris said, reaching for the teapot. “They only taught us a few legends in school. Mainly about the gods we killed, centuries ago. But you could still do that, you know.”
“Kill gods?” Sarah’s voice cracked.
“No,” Iris said with a smile. “Although that would bring an exhilarating end to this bloody war. I meant you could go and work in a museum. Do what you love.”
Sarah sighed as a piece of chutney fell from her sandwich. “You have to be born into that profession, or be very, very old. But what about you, Winnow? What is your dream?”
Iris hesitated. It had been a long time since someone had asked her such a thing.
“I think I’m living it,” she replied, tracing the chipped edge of her teacup. “I’ve always wanted to write about things that matter. To write things that inspire or inform people.” She suddenly felt shy, and chuckled. “But I don’t really know.”
“That’s swell,” Sarah replied. “And you’re in the right place.”
A comfortable silence came between the girls. Sarah continued to eat her sandwich and Iris cradled her tea, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was nearly time to return to her desk when she dared to lean closer to Sarah and whisper, “Do you ever pay attention to what the Inkridden Tribune publishes?”
Sarah’s eyebrows shot upward. “The Inkridden Tribune? Why on earth would you—”
Iris held a finger to her lips, heart quickening. It would be her luck if Zeb happened to walk by and hear them.
Sarah lowered her voice, sheepish. “Well, no. Because I don’t want to get fired.”
“I saw the paper yesterday,” Iris continued. “On the street. They were reporting on monsters at the front.”
“Monsters?”
Iris began to describe the image from the paper—wings, talons, teeth. She couldn’t stifle her shudder as she did, nor could she untangle the image of Forest from it.
“Have you ever heard of one?” Iris asked.
“They’re called eithrals,” Sarah said. “We touched on them briefly in my mythology class, years ago. There are a few stories about them in some of the older tomes in the library…” She paused, a startled expression stealing across her face. “You’re not thinking to write your own report on them, are you, Winnow?”
“I’m debating. But why are you looking at me that way, Prindle?”
“Because I don’t think Autry would like it.”
And I don’t care what he thinks! Iris wanted to say, but it wasn’t completely true. She did care, but only because she couldn’t afford to lose to Roman. She needed to pay the electricity bill. She needed to purchase a nice set of shoes that fit. She needed to eat regularly. She needed to find her mother help.
And yet she wanted to write about what was happening in the west. She wanted to write the truth.
She wanted to know what Forest was facing at the front.
“Don’t you think Oath needs to know what’s truly happening out there?” she whispered.
“Of course,” Sarah replied, pushing her glasses up her nose. “But who knows if eithrals are truly at the front or not. I mean, what if—” She abruptly cut herself off, her eyes flickering beyond Iris.
Iris straightened and turned, wincing when she saw Roman standing on the kitchen threshold. He was leaning on the doorframe, watching her with hooded eyes. She didn’t know how much he had overheard, and she attempted a smile, even as her stomach dropped.
“Conspiring, are we?” he drawled.
“Course we are,” Iris countered brightly, holding her teacup like a toast. “Thank you for the tip, Prindle. I need to get back to work.”
“But you haven’t eaten anything, Winnow!” Sarah protested.
“I’m not hungry,” Iris said as she approached the doorway. “Pardon me, Kitt.”
Roman didn’t move. His gaze was fixed on her as if he wanted to read her mind, and Iris fought the temptation to smooth the stray tendrils of her hair, to anxiously roll her lips together.
He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it, his teeth clinking shut as he shifted sideways.
Iris stepped over the threshold. Her arm brushed his chest; she heard him exhale, a hiss as if she had burned him, and she wanted to laugh. She wanted to taunt him, but she felt scraped clean of words.
Iris strode back to her desk and set down her lukewarm tea. She shrugged on her coat and grabbed her notepad and pencil, feeling the draw of Roman’s suspicious gaze from across the room.
Let him wonder where she was going, she thought with a snort.
And she slipped away from the office.
Iris wandered deep into the library, where the oldest books sat on heavily guarded shelves. None of these volumes could be checked out, but they could be read at one of the library desks, and Iris choose a promising tome and carried it to a small table.
She flicked on the desk lamp and carefully turned the pages, which were so old they were speckled with mold and felt like silk beneath her fingertips. Pages that smelled like dust and tombs and places that could be reached only in the dark. Pages full of stories of gods and goddesses from a time long ago. Before the humans had slain them or bound them deep into the earth. Before magic had begun to bloom from the soil, rising from divine bones, charming certain doorways and buildings and settling into the rare object.
But now Enva and Dacre had woken from their prisons. Eithrals had been spotted near the front.
Iris wanted to know more about them.
She began to write down the lore she had never been taught in school. The Skywards, who had ruled Cambria from above, and the Underlings, who had reigned below. Once, there had been a hundred gods between the two families, their individual powers fanning across the firmament, land, and water. But over time they had killed each other, one by one, until only five remained. And those five had been overcome by humankind and given as spoils to the boroughs of Cambria. Dacre had been buried in the west, Enva in the east, Mir in the north, Alva in the south, and Luz in Central Borough. They were never to wake from their enchanted sleep; their graves were markers of mortal strength and resilience, but perhaps most of all were rumored to be places of great enchantment, drawing the ill, the faithful, the curious.
Iris herself had never visited Enva’s grave in the east. It was kilometers from Oath, in a remote valley. We’ll go one day, Little Flower, Forest had said to her only last year, even though they had never been a devout family. Perhaps we’ll be able to taste Enva’s magic in the air.
Iris bent over the book, continuing to search for the answers she craved.
How does one god draw another?
Dacre had started the war by burning the village of Sparrow to the ground, killing the farmers and their families. And yet such devastation had failed to attract Enva to him, as he thought it would. Even after seven months of conflict, she remained hidden in Oath save for the moments when she strummed her harp, inspiring young people to enlist and fight against her nemesis.
Why do you hate each other? Iris wondered. What was the history behind Dacre and Enva?
She sifted through the book’s leaves, but page after page had been removed, torn away from the volume. There were a few myths about Enva and Alva, but no detailed records of Dacre. His name was mentioned only in passing from legend to legend, and never connected to Enva. There was also nothing about eithrals—where they came from, what controlled them. How dangerous they were to humans.
Iris sat back in her chair, rubbing her shoulder.
It was as if someone wanted to steal the knowledge of the past. All the myths about Dacre, his magic and power. Why he was furious with Enva. Why he was instigating a war with her, dragging mortal kind into the bloodshed.
And it filled Iris with cold dismay.
