Dear R.,
I made it safely to my next destination, and I can only wonder about your own.
Let me confess now by candlelight, in the embrace of a new town, that I look forward to your letters. And just for one moonrise, let us act as if there are no burdens weighing us down. No responsibilities or tomorrows. No gods and no war.
I want
Iris stopped typing.
She was sitting on the floor of her new room, a small chamber on the main level of Bitteryne’s B and B. Iris had chosen this room because there was a wardrobe and a small brick hearth and a rug on the floor, which would suit her just fine for writing. But because she was sitting on the floor, she felt something odd.
Her hands drifted from her typewriter, resting on the threadbare rug. Perhaps she had only imagined it, but for a few moments, it had almost seemed as if something was clinking far below her. A slight rumble, deep in the earth.
She waited, palms to the rug. Just before she pulled them away, she felt it again. There was a rhythm of vibrations, as if a pick was striking stone. Was there a mine beneath Bitteryne? Her breath snagged when she remembered the myth Roman had once shared with her. The one that told how Dacre had left his realm below to capture Enva. The tunnels, the underground hall, the realm made of limestone and blue-veined rock.
Something isn’t right, Iris thought, waiting to see if she felt it again. The clinking seemed to grow stronger, then fainter. Perhaps I’m only tired and imagining it.
She let her fingertips find their places on the keys again, staring at her half-written letter.
Never mind. I am too full of wants and it has made me heady and bold.
I shouldn’t send this letter to you. I shouldn’t, but only because I fear what you may think. And in the same breath … I fear that it will never reach you.
And that is why I am surrendering it. To prove myself wrong and to prove myself right.
—E.
Roman wanted nothing more than to close himself up into his new room and peel away his jumpsuit. To scrub his skin until it felt raw. To unlace his boots and lie on the bed. To reread Elizabeth’s letters until he lost himself in her words.
He wanted to forget—just for an evening—what had transpired that day.
No matter how many of us you turn … we’ll abandon you, eventually. When we remember.
The sniper’s words continued to echo through him. Roman wondered if the man was fully healed now, somewhere far below. If he would remember what had transpired when he woke. How he had dared to assassinate a god.
“Roman?” Dacre’s voice suddenly boomed from the floor below. “Bring your typewriter down to the parlor.”
Roman froze with a grimace. He glanced around the room he had chosen for the night—a small but cozy chamber, with a slice of a wardrobe door—and he decided a letter to Elizabeth would have to wait. He still hadn’t heard from her, and he tried to tamp down his worries as he gathered up his typewriter. Down the stairs he went, returning to the parlor where the sniper’s blood still stained the floor and the doorway still led to the underground.
Dacre had turned the parlor into a makeshift office, pushing away the settee and dragging in the kitchen table. A fire now roared in the hearth, although family photographs remained on the mantel, their brass frames gleaming in the light.
“Sit down,” Dacre said. “I need you to type out missives for me.”
Roman found a bare spot on the table to set his typewriter. But he took note of the papers that were scattered around him—maps, letters, documents—as was a plate of half-eaten dinner, a bottle of wine, and an earthenware cup.
“What would you like me to write, sir?” Roman asked as he drew out his chair.
Dacre was quiet, his eyes on the map spread before him. It was a drawing of Cambria and its five boroughs. Every town and city. Every river and forest. The roads that connected them all like veins.
As Dacre began to speak, Roman listened and typed:
Captain Hoffman,
In six days’ time, your forces need to join us at Hawk Shire. If you have not succeeded in your northern mission, you will have to resume it after the battle. My brigade will begin the assault from within by utilizing my doorways, as previously discussed, and your troops should be prepared to assist in the undertaking if the sacking takes longer than I expect. I am also low on supplies; prepare to bring whatever food rations and canteens you have.
Dacre Underling
Lord Commander of Cambria
Roman drew the paper free and handed it to Dacre. As the god signed his name and pressed a wax seal to the letter, Roman’s gaze coasted over the map. He located Hawk Shire, a large town not far from where they were currently camped in Merrow. It had a figurine of a woman set upon it. A representation of Enva’s forces, Roman knew. But then his attention drifted to another map, tucked beneath the one of Cambria. He could only see the edges of it, but it looked like a drawing of gnarled tree roots. Winding, slithering passages. Some were marked in blue, others in green.
It was a map of the underworld.
He forced his eyes to shift before Dacre noticed.
“Now ready another,” Dacre said, and Roman dutifully rolled a new page into the typewriter.
Mr. Ronald Kitt
Roman stopped typing, staring at the words Dacre had just uttered. The words he had just inked on paper.
“You’re writing to my father?” he asked.
“Did I not mention that he has been a faithful servant?” Dacre countered. “Don’t worry. Your family is fine. Your father knows you’re safe. He’s proud of you, in fact.”
Roman didn’t know what to make of that statement. It seemed to glance off him, as if he was enclosed in steel.
“What message do you want to send to my father, sir?”
Dacre continued:
I’m writing to remind you of our agreement. I’m still awaiting the next shipment you promised me, and, as the railroad has faced some difficulties lately, I wonder if we can devise an alternative for the deliveries to be made. I know you were previously concerned with Enva’s forces intercepting, but the worst of your worries should be
They were interrupted by a soldier, the same captain Roman had seen earlier that day. He abruptly entered the house through the front door. A waft of cool evening air swirled around him as he paused on the parlor threshold.
“Forgive my interruption, Commander,” the captain said, bowing his head. As he did so, an iron key slipped from beneath his collar, hanging on a chain. Roman stared at it, realizing it was one of the five keys Dacre had mentioned. “But I’ve urgent requests that need your immediate attention.”
Dacre sighed but raised his hand. “What do you want, Captain Landis?”
“The first concerns the hounds. They haven’t been fed in weeks, and they’re hungry. They mauled two different handlers this afternoon, and their constant baying is upsetting the workers. Forward progress, as a result, has been slower than we need.”
Roman’s fingers slid from the typewriter. His gaze inevitably went to the parlor’s wardrobe door, as if the hounds might burst through it at any moment. But all imaginings of Dacre’s deadly pets dissolved when Roman saw what was resting on the bloodstained floor.
A folded piece of paper.
“Do I have your permission to set the hounds free?” Captain Landis continued. “They can roam tonight and feed.”
“No,” Dacre replied. “My messengers are delivering time-sensitive missives, and I cannot have my hounds interfering with their routes.”
“Then what is to be done, my lord?”
Roman forced his gaze away from the paper on the floor. But his blood had gone cold. He could hardly hear the captain and Dacre over the roar of his pulse.
Elizabeth’s letter was lying before the door to the underworld, in plain sight of Dacre. Just four paces away from where Roman sat, frozen at the table.
If he sees it … Roman’s thoughts spun. If he reads her words …
It would be over. This strange correspondence would end, and there was no telling how far Dacre would go to ensure it never happened again.
Roman stood from the table, pretending like he was stretching. Dacre’s attention fixated on him, an irritated line in his brow, but he had more important things on his mind. The god looked to the captain and said, “Take the weakest of the workers and feed them to the hounds for now. That’ll hold them over.”
Those words should have chilled Roman, but his bones already felt coated in ice. He ambled to the wall, pretending to study the hanging portraits.
“I’ll personally see it done, Commander. As for the next matter … it has to do with the sniper you healed earlier today.”
“Yes, what of him?”
“He’s already woken. And his mind…”
Roman could sense Landis glancing at him. He acted like he hadn’t heard the captain’s comment, running his fingers along the portrait frames, catching up the dust. He noticed how white his knuckles were. The blue tinge of his nails.
“He’s not ready, then,” Dacre drawled.
“No, Commander. He’s currently trying to harm himself.”
“Then restrain him!”
“My lord, most of your forces are above, preparing for the assault. The others are kept busy overseeing the workers. I think if you could descend and put him back into a deep sleep…”
A loud screech of a chair sliding across the floor. The captain left his sentence hanging as Dacre stood, and Roman used that moment to approach the wardrobe, quickly covering Elizabeth’s letter with his boot. He drew it back with him a step, glancing down to make sure it was completely hidden. Only a corner of it shone, stark against the dirty floor. Carefully, he adjusted his stance.
“Roman?”
“Sir?” Roman glanced up to meet Dacre’s heavy stare.
“I’m needed elsewhere at the moment, but we’ll resume this when I return.”
“Yes, Commander.”
He held his breath as Dacre and Captain Landis strode past where he stood awkwardly against the wall. But he felt that cold, stone-moss air hit his face the moment the wardrobe door creaked open.
He waited until they were gone, the door closed in their wake.
Alone, Roman let his guard drop. He gasped, a shudder wracking his spine. It was ridiculous that he didn’t realize how much something meant to him until it was nearly taken. He remembered how, just the other day, he had been willing to give Dacre her first letter, and now he was desperate to hide them.
He could hardly explain it. But perhaps he didn’t need words.
Roman lifted his boot and picked Elizabeth’s letter up off the floor.
Dear Elizabeth,
(Or should I call you E. now?)
Your letter was almost discovered tonight by someone who would seek to come between us. I haven’t mentioned this yet, but you are my secret. I have kept you to myself; no one knows of you but me. No one knows of our connection and I want to keep it that way.
We must be careful.
—R.
Dear R.,
You’re right. I’m terribly sorry for putting you at risk. Perhaps we might establish a routine? Should you write to me first when you are safe to do so? And should we send a test message first?
—E.
P.S. Yes, maybe do call me “E.” from now on. It seems to suit me better.
Dear E.,
The problem is … I want to hear from you at all hours. I want to read your words. I am greedy for them. I am hungry for them.
You say you are moving locations day by day. Don’t answer if you don’t feel like it’s safe or right to do so. But I cannot help but ask … which direction are you heading?
Yours,
R.
Dear R.,
Let me be your secret, then. Tuck my words into your pocket. Let them be your armor.
I am heading westward.
Love,
E.
Roman held Elizabeth’s letter in his hands, staring at the one word that made him ache. Westward.
She must be fighting for the other side. For Enva.
She was moving toward danger.
Toward him.
