“I don’t think he’s turned,” Iris said. “Roman is trying to stay alive.”
Helena arched a brow. “That very well could be. But that also means he’s unreliable and compromised. I can’t trust him anymore, and now he’s going to cause conflict for us by writing for our competitor.”
Iris returned her gaze to the Oath Gazette, still in hand. Her mind was spinning, but she focused on Roman’s article. She could almost hear him reading it to her, his cadence sharp, cold. Almost unfamiliar. Until her eyes caught on one word, easily overlooked in his sixth sentence: A story not just confined to a museum or a history tome that many of us will never touch, but a story that is in the process of being written.
“Museum,” Iris whispered.
“What’s that?” Helena asked.
Iris blinked. Her heart was suddenly racing. “Nothing. Just a thought.”
Helena sighed, hands on her hips. “Is this going to interfere with your ability to report, kid?”
“No. On the contrary,” Iris said, striding to the telephone. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.” She held up the Oath Gazette and gave the newspaper a good shake, just to appease Helena and the editors who were still watching her. Then she picked up the earpiece and dialed for the operator.
A male voice crackled over the line. “How may I direct your call?”
“The Oath Gazette, please,” Iris said.
“Please hold.”
She waited, tapping her foot. She could hear the static on the line, the sound of switches being flipped, and then a steady ringing in her ear. She knew the Oath Gazette had multiple telephones. There was no telling which one her call had been directed to, and she counted in her mind, waiting, hoping, praying …
“Hello, this is Prindle speaking for the Oath Gazette.”
A smile broke across Iris’s face. It was just as she had hoped, and it took her a breath to gather her words.
“Hello?” Sarah Prindle said again, a touch impatient.
“Prindle.” Iris spoke in a low voice. “I have some important news for you. It must be delivered in person. Meet me at Gould’s Café in twenty.”
“Meet at—” Sarah sounded indignant but cut herself off. Her voice softened with a small gasp. “Wait a minute … Winnow, is this you? I recognize your voice.”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“But Autry … I don’t have off until my lunch break.”
“I know, but I need to see you as soon as possible. Can you slip away?”
It was quiet for a minute. Iris could nearly see Sarah in her mind’s eye, glancing furtively across the hustle of the Oath Gazette. No doubt Zeb Autry was in his office, pouring whiskey over ice with a stack of papers on his desk.
“Yes, I think I can,” she finally said, her voice tinged with excitement. “Twenty minutes, you say? At Gould’s?”
“Yes,” Iris replied. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Then I’ll see you in a bit.”
Iris hung up the receiver and turned. The Tribune was still watching her, wide-eyed with interest.
She tucked the Gazette under her trench coat, to protect the paper from the rain. With Roman’s traitorous words pressed to her heart, Iris departed the Tribune. She walked through the swirling gray mist to Gould’s Café.
Sarah Prindle was a few minutes late, but Iris didn’t mind. She had chosen a small round table in the corner of the café, between a bookshelf and a potted lemon tree. A perfect place for a surreptitious conversation, and Iris had just hung up her trench coat and ordered a pot of tea when she heard the bell ring above the café door.
Sarah looked just as Iris remembered. Although truth be told, it had only been a matter of months since they had worked together at the Gazette. But since then, the weeks had been full of strange, darkened days, and Iris’s breath snagged when she acknowledged that it truly felt like years had passed.
“Winnow!” Sarah whisper-cried in excitement, hurrying to the corner.
Iris rose with a smile. “It’s good to see you, Prindle.”
They embraced so tightly that Iris felt her spine pop, and she got a good mouthful of Sarah’s fine blond hair.
“Please, sit,” Iris said, easing back into her chair. “I just ordered us a pot of tea.”
“Which never gets cold. A nice perk of an enchanted building.” Sarah leaned her umbrella against the wall before she sat.
A waiter delivered a steaming pot of tea—it was true; it never got cold at Gould’s—along with a pitcher of creamer and honey and a plate of butter-glazed scones. The girls were quiet as they prepared their cups. But then Sarah must have felt the worry that had followed Iris into the café. She glanced up and said, “I take it you saw Kitt’s article this morning.”
“Yes.” Iris reached down to where she had the paper waiting on the floor, setting it on the tabletop. Roman’s headline continued to draw her in, like an eddy in the ocean. “And I have some questions.”
“As do I,” Sarah said, removing her glasses to wipe the fog and speckled rain from them. “I’ve had questions ever since you left the Gazette, such as why did Kitt resign only a few weeks after you left? It all seems serendipitous, until I look at it closer.” She placed her glasses back on her nose, her eyes flaring wide. “And oh my gods, I just noticed you have a ring on your hand! Is that … did the two of you…?”
“Shh,” Iris said, noticing they had drawn a few glances. “And yes. Kitt and I are married.”
“When did this happen?”
“At the front.”
“Oh, you have so much explaining to do, Winnow. Or should I also call you Kitt now?”
“Winnow is fine,” Iris said, taking a sip of tea. “But it’s a long story and it’ll have to be shared later, I’m afraid. Right now, I need to know how Kitt’s words arrived at the Gazette. Did they come by letter? Was it addressed to Autry? Was it handwritten or was his article already typed?”
Sarah frowned. “You know, it was very odd. But two days ago, I was sitting in Autry’s office, taking down his lunch order, when a man knocked on the door.”
“Who was this man?” Iris demanded. “What did he look like? What was his name?”
“I … I don’t know who he was,” Sarah replied. “I honestly couldn’t see his face. He was tall, I remember. He wore a cloak, and the hood was up. His voice was rough and had a strange, almost languid lilt. Not unpleasant, but it made me feel cold when I heard it.”
Iris sat back in her chair, cracking her knuckles. This man must have been one of Dacre’s associates. One of Dacre’s most trusted servants had been in Oath, standing not far from where Iris and Sarah sat now, sharing tea in a café. How had the man moved so seamlessly, without detection? Had he taken the train to Oath? Had he walked from the war front to the city? Ridden in a vehicle?
It made the hair rise on Iris’s arms. The war was much closer to the city than she had once believed.
“So this man hand delivered Kitt’s article to Autry,” Iris surmised.
“He did. And he said it was something Autry would surely want for a price.”
“And what was the price?”
Sarah fiddled with the dainty handle of her teacup. “That Autry could have it, but only if he agreed to continue publishing all the articles that were delivered to him. He couldn’t pick and choose from that moment onward.”
“So more will be coming?”
Sarah nodded. “Autry was very pleased with it all. He sent me away from his office so he could open the delivery in private. Not two minutes later, he called me back in, and told me to carry the article to Benton’s desk, for proofing. So I did, and I got a glance at it, shocked to see it was Kitt’s writing.”
“His handwriting?” Iris asked.
“No. It was typed,” Sarah answered. “I only meant that I was taken aback to see his words again, and that he was to publish with the Gazette once more, especially after he quit and caused such a stir with Autry.”
Roman’s article had been typed, which meant he had access to a typewriter. Hopefully one of the Alouettes, Iris thought.
“Is Kitt … is he in trouble, Winnow?” Sarah asked.
“I believe he is,” Iris said. “And I’m about to ask you to do something very illegal and very dangerous.”
“Illegal?”
“Yes. And I wouldn’t put you in this position if I didn’t desperately need you to pull it off.”
Sarah’s mouth quirked to the side. She set down her teacup and laced her fingers together, leaning closer to Iris with a conspiratorial air. “I’m listening, then.”
“You’re still very familiar with the museum, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes. I go there every weekend with my dad.”
Iris chewed on her lip, knowing this was the moment of no return. And yet there was no other option. She was consumed by the thought of writing to Roman again. Of taking that magical connection into her hands once more, letting it slip over thresholds and cross war-torn kilometers.
“I need you to help me break into the museum, Prindle.”
Sarah, to her credit, only blinked. “All right. And why would we do that?”
“Because I need to steal a typewriter.”
