Roman woke to sunlight dancing across his face.
He didn’t know where he was for a moment. His breaths shuddered through him and his mind was foggy from a dream he couldn’t remember. But he began to piece together his surroundings.
He was looking at his typewriter. A nearby candlestick had burned down to a wax puddle on the wood. His cheek was pressed to the hard surface of his desk, and a loose sheet of paper stuck to his skin as he lifted his head.
I’m in the room they assigned me. I’m safe.
He must have fallen asleep at his desk last night, and he rubbed the crick in his neck before standing with a groan.
That was when he noticed it.
A piece of paper rested on the floor, just before the wardrobe.
Roman frowned. He had no memory of putting it there, and he approached the closet, sweeping the page up with his hands. Shocked, he read:
- What was the name of my pet snail?
- What is my middle name?
- Which season is my favorite and why?
He stared at the words until the type seemed to bleed together.
“What is this?” he whispered, reaching for the wardrobe door. He opened it, prepared to find anything. To both his disappointment and relief, the closet was empty save for the trio of hanging coats and the folded quilt, musty on a shelf.
There was absolutely nothing magical about it.
Roman shut the door, reading the message again. He could feel a faint tug in his chest. One that made him wary as well as ravenous.
Should I know these answers? he thought, staring at the words.
How could he mourn something that he couldn’t remember? Roman wondered if there was a word to describe such a feeling, for the way it gathered on his shoulders like snow. Cold and soft and infinite, melting as soon as he touched it.
He was still grappling with his emotions and the three riddles when he heard a heavy tread beyond the walls. Someone was approaching his room. Roman shoved the paper in his pocket, the corner of it jabbing his palm just as the door blew open.
“Pack your things,” Lieutenant Shane said. “We’re finally leaving this shithole. You have five minutes to meet me downstairs.”
As abruptly as he had arrived, the lieutenant left, leaving the door cracked.
Roman exhaled, but he felt stiff with unease. He could hear Dacre conversing with someone a floor below. Boots were clomping on the hardwood. Out on the streets, there was a chorus of rumbles as lorries were cranked.
They were leaving this sad town, and Roman could only dread where they would go next.
He packed his belongings. He didn’t have much, but as he was locking his typewriter in its case, he drew out the strange message again and studied it. Was it a code? Who would ever have a pet snail?
He dropped the letter into the rubbish bin and walked to the door. But something within him stretched tight, like skin about to split. Roman went back to the bin and withdrew the note. It returned to his pocket as he made his way down the stairs, thinking Dacre might be interested in the message.
The front door was open; the foyer was sunlit, smelling of lorry exhaust, cigarette smoke, and burned bacon from the kitchen. Shane stood on the threshold, hands linked behind his back as he gave orders to a private on the porch. Roman took that moment to study the adjacent parlor.
The door he had once passed through, the one that connected the world above to the realm below, was wide open.
He was still staring at the shadowed passageway, gooseflesh creeping over his skin, when Dacre emerged from it. The god shut the door behind him and took hold of a key that hung from a long chain around his neck. Roman had never noticed it in their previous meetings, but Dacre must have always worn the necklace, concealing it beneath his uniform.
He locked the door and let the key slide back beneath his clothes, turning when he sensed Roman’s attention.
Their gazes aligned and held, like predator and prey.
Dacre began to close the distance between them. Roman had the sudden urge to back away, but he forced himself to remain upright and unmoving.
“I would like you to ride with me,” Dacre said when he reached the foyer.
“Yes, sir,” Roman replied. “May I ask where we’re heading?”
Dacre smiled. The sunlight flashed on his teeth as he said, “We’re going east.”
Iris stepped out of her bedroom, surprised to find Forest sitting at the table with a cup of tea. Her brother looked disheveled and glum, his eyes bloodshot, his chestnut hair tangled across his forehead. Had he heard her sneaking in and out last night? Had he heard her typing, pacing?
If he had, he would say something, Iris thought. She imagined Forest hearing about how the First Alouette had been stolen from the museum. It was only a few more hours until that news would break but Attie and Iris would be long gone by then. Her brother didn’t know about the magic of the Alouettes like she did, so he might not connect the crime to her. Yet the thought of shaming him with her thievery, or realizing he was disappointed in her, made her feel small, breathless.
For a tense moment, their gazes held. Neither of them spoke, but Iris watched as Forest noticed her jumpsuit with the INKRIDDEN TRIBUNE PRESS badge stitched over the heart. She also wore her boots with new, sturdy laces, and held her typewriter case in one hand and a leather duffel bag in the other.
“You’re leaving,” he said in a flat tone.
“I told you I was.”
Another twinge of silence. Forest sighed, glancing away from her.
“I don’t approve of this.” His voice was rough but soft, as if it hurt to speak the words.
“I didn’t want you to leave either,” Iris said. “When you left to fight for Enva months ago. And yet I understood why you did. I knew I couldn’t stand in the way of it.”
When Forest remained quiet, Iris thought that was it. He wasn’t going to say another word to her, and she bit the inside of her cheek as she headed to the door.
“Wait, Iris.”
She paused, shoulders stiff. But she waited, listening as Forest rose from the chair. She felt him draw close to her. He smelled faintly of motor oil and petrol, from his new job at the mechanic shop down the road. No matter how much he washed his hands in the evenings, his nails remained stained with grease. Sometimes he scrubbed his knuckles so hard the skin broke.
“You’ll write to me?” he said, taking hold of her elbow. “You’ll keep me updated?”
“I promise.”
“If you don’t, then you can expect me to raise hell at the Tribune.”
That drew a small smile from her. “I’d like to see that.”
Forest snorted. “No, you wouldn’t.” It seemed like he wanted to say more but couldn’t. Instead, he reached for the golden locket hanging from his neck. The locket that had belonged to their mother.
“Wear this at all times,” he whispered, draping it over Iris’s head. “Promise me.”
“Forest, I can’t take this—”
“Promise me.”
Iris flinched at his harsh tone. But when she met his gaze, she saw only fear, burning like embers in his eyes.
Her fingers closed over the locket, holding to it like an anchor. She remembered what Forest had once told her: when he had found this locket in the trenches, his strength and determination had rekindled. He had rallied and slipped away from Dacre’s hold, remembering who he was and where he had come from. It was only when he held something tangible of home—a memory strung on a long chain—that he was able to break the god’s power over him.
“I won’t take it off,” she whispered. “At least, not until I return home and can give it back to you.”
Forest nodded, worry etched on his brow. His last words to Iris made her shiver.
“You’re going to need it, Little Flower.”
Roman gazed out the lorry window, catching a final glimpse of Avalon Bluff.
It was a landscape made of rubble and ghosts. A town spun with small testaments to the people who had once lived on this hill. They had left behind trampled gardens, crumbling stone fences, shadowed doorways, and walls that held abandoned belongings. Debris, burnt thatch, and glittering shards of glass. Roman wondered who had once lived in the homes they passed. He wondered where they were now. If they were safe.
That was what he wanted to write about. And he lowered his eyes when he realized he had lost his chance.
Dacre sat beside him on the bench, newspaper in his pale, elegant hands. The sight of the paper roused Roman’s curiosity.
“Sir?” he dared to ask. “How did you know my middle initial?”
Dacre shot a curious glance at him. “What do you mean?”
“My byline in the Gazette. You submitted it as ‘Roman C. Kitt.’”
“I only submitted what you gave me.”
“Then who—”
“In your life before your healing, you worked at the Oath Gazette. Your articles were published several times a month. You were striving to become a columnist.”
Roman’s mind wheeled, desperate to grasp hold of a memory. “I don’t remember.”
“Of course you don’t remember. Not yet. Your former employer was the one to resurrect your old byline.”
“I see.”
Dacre tilted his head to the side. “Do you, Roman?”
“You knew me before you found me dying in the field.”
“I knew of you,” Dacre corrected before his attention returned to his newspaper. Roman could see it wasn’t the Gazette but a paper called the Inkridden Tribune. “You have a prestigious family name. One that has been a great support to me and my efforts. And I will not forget those who have faithfully served me.”
Roman was frozen, silent. But his heart ached, desperate for home. For family.
He couldn’t deny that he wanted to feel like he belonged somewhere. He wanted to trust what he was seeing. To fight for something.
“Sir?” he said. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”
Dacre was quiet, but interest lit his eyes.
Roman began to reach for the paper in his pocket, to pull out the strange note. But something tugged within his chest, sharp as a fishing line cast out to sea.
Wait.
He flexed his hand, hesitant.
Who wrote this? What sort of magic delivered it to me? Will I ever truly know the answers if I give it to him?
“You wanted to show me something?” Dacre prompted.
“Yes.” Roman reached down to open his typewriter case instead, withdrawing his half-written article. “What I was last working on.”
“Save it for this evening when we reach camp,” Dacre said, his focus returning to the Inkridden Tribune.
Roman felt stung at first by Dacre’s lack of interest. But then he realized the Tribune must be dictating what Dacre wrote for the Gazette. It was like a game of chess. Roman tucked his article in the case.
He sat back in the seat and watched Avalon Bluff fade away as if it had never been, that strange letter heavy as iron in his pocket.
