Iris was still reeling from the things Roman had said to her when she dragged herself into the flat. She didn’t notice that all the candles had been lit or the fragrance of dinner until her mother appeared wearing her best dress, hair curled and lips painted red.
“There you are, sweetheart. I was getting worried. You’re home an hour late!”
Iris merely gaped for a moment, her eyes flickering from her mother to the dinner set on the kitchen table. “Are we expecting company?”
“No. It’s just you and me tonight,” Aster said, stepping forward to help Iris from her coat. “I thought we could have a special dinner. Like we used to, in the past.”
When Forest was still with them.
Iris nodded, her stomach rumbling when she realized her mother had bought dinner from her favorite restaurant. A roast with vegetables sat on a platter, accompanied by rolls that gleamed with butter. Her mouth watered as she took her seat, Aster fixing her plate.
It had been a long time since her mother had cooked or bought dinner. And while Iris wanted to be cautious, she was so hungry. For warm, nourishing food. For sober conversations with her mother. For the days of the past, before Forest had left and Aster had turned to the bottle.
“Tell me about work, sweetheart,” her mother said, settling across the table from her.
Iris took a bite. How had her mother paid for such a feast? And then it hit her; the money from Nan’s radio must have bought this meal—and alcohol, most likely—and the food suddenly tasted like ash.
“I’ve been working on obituaries lately,” she confessed.
“That’s lovely, darling.”
Lovely was not how Iris would describe her obituary work, and she paused, studying Aster.
Her mother had always been beautiful in Iris’s mind, with her heart-shaped face, russet-colored hair, and wide, charming smile. But there was a glaze in her eyes that night, as if she could look at things but not truly see them. Iris winced when she realized Aster wasn’t sober.
“Tell me more about the Tribune,” Aster said.
“It’s actually the Gazette, Mum.”
“Ah, that’s right. The Gazette.”
Iris proceeded to tell her bits and pieces, leaving Roman out of it. As if he didn’t exist, but his words continued to haunt her. You’re sloppy.
“Mum?” Iris began, hesitating when Aster glanced up at her. “Do you think you could help me curl my hair tonight?”
“I’d love to,” her mother said, rising from the table. “In fact, I bought a new shampoo for my hair. We’ll wash yours and set it with my rollers. Here, come into the lavatory.”
Iris picked up one of the candles and followed her. It took a little bit of effort, but Aster was able to wash her hair over the side of the tub with the bucket of rainwater they had. And then it was back to her mother’s bedroom, where Iris sat before the mirror.
She closed her eyes as Aster combed the tangles from her hair. For a moment, there were no blisters on her heels or heavy sorrows in her heart. Forest would be home soon from the horology shop, and her mother would turn on the radio and they would listen to late-night talk shows and music.
“Is there someone you’re interested in at work?” Aster asked, beginning to section Iris’s long hair.
Iris’s eyes flew open. “No. Why would you ask, Mum?”
Aster shrugged. “Just wondering why you want me to curl your hair.”
“It’s for me,” Iris replied. “I’m sick of looking like a slob.”
“I’ve never thought of you as a slob, Iris. Not once.” She began to clip the first roller into place. “Did a boy say that to you?”
Iris sighed, watching Aster’s reflection in the speckled mirror.
“Perhaps,” she finally confessed. “He’s my competition. We both want the same position.”
“Let me guess. He’s young, handsome, suave, and knows you write better than him, so he’s doing all he can to distract and worry you.”
Iris nearly laughed. “How do you know that, Mum?”
“Mothers know everything, sweetheart,” Aster said with a wink. “And I’m casting my bet on you.”
Iris smiled, surprised by how much her mother’s reassurance bolstered her.
“Now then. If your brother knew a boy said such a thing to you…” Aster clucked her tongue. “There would be no hope for him. Forest was always so protective over you.”
Iris blinked back a surge of tears. Perhaps it was because this was the first true conversation she had had with her mother in a long time. Perhaps it was because Aster’s fingers were gentle, coaxing memories to the surface. Perhaps it was because Iris finally had a full belly and clean hair. But she could almost see her brother again, as if the mirror had caught a flash of him.
Sometimes she relived the moment that had changed everything. The moment when Enva had stopped him on his walk home. A goddess in disguise. He had chosen to listen to her music, and that music welled in his heart, propelling him to enlist that night.
It had all happened so quickly. Iris had scarcely had the chance to catch her breath as Forest explained his rash decision. He had been packing, bright-eyed and feverish. She had never seen him so excited.
I have to go, Little Flower, he had said, touching her hair. I need to answer the calling.
And she had wanted to ask him, What about me? What about Mum? How can you love this goddess more than us? But she hadn’t. She had been too scared to raise those questions to him.
“Mum?” Iris asked, tremulous. “Mum, do you think Forest is—”
“He’s alive, sweetheart,” Aster said, fixing the last roller. “I’m his mother. And I would know if he had left this realm.”
Iris released a shaky breath. She met her mother’s gaze in the mirror.
“It’s going to be all right, Iris,” Aster said, hands on her shoulders. “I’m going to be better too, from now on. I promise. And I’m sure Forest will return in the next month or so. Things will get better soon.”
Iris nodded. Even though her mother’s eyes were hazy from the alcohol that distorted her reality, she believed her.
Roman stormed home. He was so preoccupied with thinking about how horribly awry his conversation with Iris had gone that he didn’t realize there was company in the drawing room. At least, not until he had slammed the front door and was striding through the foyer to the grand stairwell, and his mother’s delicate voice called out to him.
“Roman? Roman, dear, please come say hello to our guests.”
His foot froze on the step as he stifled a groan. Hopefully he could say hello to whoever it was and then retreat to his room and revise his essay on missing soldiers. An assignment that should have gone to Iris, he thought as he walked into the gilded drawing room.
His gaze went to his father first, as if all the gravity in the room was centered on him. Mr. Ronald Kitt had been handsome in his day, but years of grief, stress, cigars, and brandy had left their mark. He was tall but stooped, ruddy-faced with hard eyes that gleamed like blue gemstones. His raven hair was now streaked with thick lines of silver. His mouth was always pursed, as if nothing could ever please him or draw a smile.
Some days Roman was terrified he would turn into his father.
Mr. Kitt stood by the hearth, behind the chair Roman’s mother was gracing. And while his father’s presence was intimidating, his mother lent a gentleness to any room. In spite of that, she had become more and more distracted as the years passed, ever since Del had died. Conversations with her often didn’t quite make sense, as if Mrs. Kitt belonged more with ghosts than the living.
Roman swallowed when he met his father’s gaze.
“Roman, this is Dr. Herman Little, a chemist at Oath University, and his daughter, Elinor,” Mr. Kitt introduced, extending his glass of brandy to his left.
Roman’s eyes reluctantly traveled across the room, landing on an older gentleman with sandy brown hair and overly large spectacles on a small, crooked nose. Beside him on the divan was his daughter, a pale girl with blond hair crimped in a bob. Blue veins pulsed in her temples and on the backs of her clasped hands. She looked fragile, until Roman met her gaze and saw nothing but ice in her eyes.
“Dr. Little, Miss Elinor,” Mr. Kitt continued. “This is my son, Roman Kitt. He’s about to be promoted to columnist at the Oath Gazette.”
“How splendid!” Dr. Little said with a yellow-toothed smile. “To be columnist at the most prestigious paper in Oath is a rare feat. You’ll hold a great influence over your readers. Quite an achievement for one your age, which is…”
“I’m nineteen, sir,” Roman replied. He must have sounded too brisk, because his father scowled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both, but if you’ll excuse me, there is an article I need to wor—”
“Go and freshen up for dinner,” Mr. Kitt interrupted. “Meet us in the dining room in half an hour. Don’t be late, son.”
No. Roman knew better than to be late for anything when his father was involved. His mother smiled at him as he turned and left.
In the safety of his room, Roman dropped his messenger bag and his façade of dutiful son. He raked his fingers through his hair and hurled his coat across the room. And it was strange how his gaze went to his wardrobe. There was no paper on the floor. No letter from Iris. But of course, she probably wasn’t home yet. Roman had a terrible inkling that she didn’t take the tram but walked to and from work, and that was why she was late sometimes.
It wasn’t his problem, but he kept envisioning her limping. As if something was wrong with those godsawful boots she was wearing.
“Stop thinking about her!” he hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
He pushed Iris far from his thoughts. He washed and dressed in a black suit for dinner, descending to the dining hall. He was early by two minutes, but it didn’t matter. His parents and the Littles were waiting on him. He unfortunately saw that he was to take the chair directly across from Elinor. Her cold stare pierced him the moment he sat down.
That was when Roman felt his first sense of dread.
This wasn’t going to be a comfortable dinner.
His nan was also missing from the table, which meant his father was trying to control everything that was said tonight. Roman’s nan lived in the east wing of the mansion. She had a temper and spoke her mind, and Roman fiercely wished she were present.
He was silent for the first two courses. So was Elinor. Their fathers did most of the talking, and they spoke of the cost of certain chemicals, the method of extraction, the rate and catalysts of reactions, why a certain element called praxin turned green when it was combined with a salt and how only a certain type of metal could safely store it.
Roman watched his father, who was nodding and acting like he knew exactly what Dr. Little was talking about. All too soon, the conversation turned to the railroad.
“My grandfather chartered the first railroad out of Oath,” Mr. Kitt said. “Before that, it was horses and wagons and the stagecoach if you wanted to travel anywhere.”
“What foresight your ancestors had,” said Dr. Little.
Roman blocked out the rest of his father’s story and Dr. Little’s flattery, weary of hearing about how his family did this and that and made their fortune. None of it truly mattered when it came to the peers of Cambria, who were steeped in old wealth and often snubbed people like the Kitts, who were built from new, innovative money. Roman knew it bothered his father—how often their family was disregarded at social events—and Mr. Kitt was always plotting to change people’s minds. One of those plans was Roman’s gaining columnist instead of attending university and studying literature, as Roman wanted to do. Because if money couldn’t seal the Kitts’ prowess and respect in the city, then positions of power and esteem would.
Roman was hoping he could escape the table before the last course when his mother turned to Elinor.
“Your father says you are an accomplished pianist,” Mrs. Kitt said. “Roman loves to listen to the piano.”
He did? Roman had to bite back a retort.
Elinor didn’t spare him a glance. “I was, but I prefer to spend my hours in my father’s laboratory now. In fact, I don’t play anymore.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear of it.”
“Don’t be, Mrs. Kitt. Papa asked me to stop, since music is aligned with Enva these days,” Elinor said. Her voice was monotone, as if she felt nothing.
Roman watched her push the food around her plate. He suddenly had a creeping suspicion that the Littles were Dacre sympathizers, and his stomach churned. Those who favored Dacre in the war tended to be people who were one of three things: zealously devout, ignorant of the mythology where Dacre’s true and terrifying nature was depicted, or, like Zeb Autry, afraid of Enva’s musical powers.
“Enva’s music was never something to be afraid of,” Roman said before he could stop himself. “In myths, she strummed her harp over the graves of mortals who died, and her songs guided souls from their bodies to the next realm, whether it was to live above with the Skywards or below with the Underlings. Her songs are woven with truth and knowledge.”
The table had fallen deathly quiet. Roman didn’t dare glance at his father, whose eyes were boring into him.
“Excuse my son,” Mr. Kitt said with a nervous chuckle. “He read one too many myths as a boy.”
“Why don’t you tell us more of the Gazette, Roman?” Dr. Little suggested. “I’ve heard Chancellor Verlice has limited the newspapers in Oath on how much they can report on the war. Is this true?”
Roman froze. He wasn’t sure—he was so focused on trying to outwrite Iris these days—but then he thought about how little he had written about the war, and how Zeb’s assignments had drifted to other things. The fact that he was writing about missing soldiers was surprising, although perhaps even that was a ploy to turn people against Enva.
“I haven’t heard of any restrictions,” Roman replied. But it suddenly felt possible, and he could envision the chancellor of Oath—a tall, beady-eyed man with a stern countenance—quietly enforcing such a thing, to keep the east out of the war’s destruction.
“When do you become columnist?” Dr. Little asked. “I’ll be sure to purchase the paper that day.”
“I’m not sure,” Roman said. “I’m currently being evaluated for the position.”
“But he will get it,” Mr. Kitt insisted. “Even if I have to bribe the old bloke who runs the joint.”
The men chuckled. Roman went rigid. Iris’s words returned to him like a slap to the face. If you get columnist, it will only be due to how much your rich father can bribe Autry to give it to you.
He rose, bumping the table in his haste. The plates rattled, the candlelight trembled.
“If you’ll pardon me,” he began to say, but his father’s voice overpowered his.
“Sit down, Roman. There’s something important we need to discuss.”
Slowly, Roman resumed his seat. The silence felt fraught. He wanted to melt through a crack in the floor.
“Oh, dearest,” his mother exclaimed. “It’ll be so exciting! To finally have something happy to celebrate.”
Roman glanced at her, brow arched. “What are you speaking about, Mother?”
Mrs. Kitt looked at Elinor, who was staring down at her hands, expressionless.
“We’ve arranged a marriage between you and Miss Little,” Mr. Kitt announced. “This joining of our families will not only be beneficial in our next endeavor but will also be just as your mother described: a joyous occasion. For too long, we have been in mourning. It’s time to celebrate.”
Roman exhaled through his teeth. It felt like he had fractured a rib as he struggled to fathom what his parents had done. Arranged marriages were still common in the upper class, amongst viscounts and countesses and anyone else still clinging to a dusty title. But the Kitts were not those sorts of people, no matter how determined his father was to elevate them into high society.
It also struck Roman as odd that his father was arranging a marriage with a professor’s daughter, not the daughter of a lord. He sensed that something else lurked beneath the surface of this conversation, and Roman was simply a pawn in a game.
Calmly, he said, “I regret to inform you that I cannot—”
“Don’t be a lad about this, Roman,” Mr. Kitt said. “You will marry this lovely young woman and unite our families. That is your duty as my sole heir. Do you understand?”
Roman stared at his plate. The half-eaten meat and potatoes, now gone cold. He realized that everyone at the table had known but him. Even Elinor must have known, because she was watching him closely now, as if measuring his reaction to her.
He swallowed his emotions, hiding them deep in his bones. The things that he wanted, the simmering anger. The grief that was still tender, like a wound half healed. He thought of the small grave in the garden, a headstone he could hardly endure to visit. He thought of the past four years, how dark and cold and miserable they had been. And his guilt whispered to him. Of course you must do this. You failed in your most paramount of duties once, and if this is for the good of your family, how could you not?
“Yes, sir,” he said in a flat tone.
“Excellent!” Dr. Little clapped his spindly hands. “Should we have a toast?”
Roman watched numbly as a servant filled a flute with champagne for him. His hand felt detached as he took hold of the glass; he was the last to raise it in a toast he didn’t even hear because he felt a roaring panic cascade through him.
But just before he deigned to sip the wine, he met Elinor’s eyes. He saw a flicker of fear in her, and he realized she was just as trapped as he was.
