This is a test to check and see that the strike bars R & E are in working condition.
ERERRRRRRR EEEE RRRRR
R
E
E
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*
Iris!
What’s happened? Are you all right?
—Kitt
KITT!
There’s a DOOR to the UNDERWORLD in your HOUSE. Did you know this?!
xI
P.S. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.
P.P.S. And yes, I know I just broke a rule by writing you first today. You can scold me later. (In person … preferably.)
Gods, Iris. My heart is still racing, thinking you were about to write and tell me something horrible had happened.
(Note: I promise to scold you later. In person … as you’d like.)
And no, I didn’t know there was an active threshold in my parents’ estate, but it should have crossed my mind. I can also say that gsrmyl—wait, sorry but I need to go. I hear them summoning me. Until I can write you again, stay safe and well.
Love,
Kitt
It was Lieutenant Shane, knocking on Roman’s door.
“You’ve been summoned,” he said tersely through the wood.
“I’ll be right along,” Roman replied, his fingers flying over the keys as he rushed to finish typing to Iris. He bit his lip as he tore the paper from the typewriter, sliding his letter beneath the wardrobe.
He packed up his typewriter and stepped into the hall, expecting to find Shane waiting for him. But the dimly lit corridor was empty, and Roman walked to the factory alone through the rain, teeming with the same curiosities and questions as he had the day before at Luz’s graveside. He had wanted to speak to the lieutenant alone again but hadn’t been afforded the chance, and as he now ascended the stairs to the top floor of the factory, he mulled it over for the hundredth time: the key in the soil, creating a threshold. Dacre’s expression as he had emerged from the grave.
What did he see? Is Luz truly dead?
To Roman’s shock, two soldiers were guarding Dacre’s office, the door closed.
“The Lord Commander doesn’t wish to be bothered at the moment,” one of them said.
“I was just summoned by him,” Roman replied, coming to an unsteady halt. “Should I return later?”
The soldiers exchanged a glance. It was apparent they feared Dacre’s wrath in all its shades, whether that be by interrupting him or by sending away his pet of a correspondent.
“Go on, then,” the other said, inclining his head to the door.
Roman nodded and passed between them, slipping into the office.
The first thing he noticed was how dark it was in the room. Even with the wall of rain-streaked windows, afternoon storm shadows gathered deep in the corners and around the furniture. Only a few candles were lit on the desk, their flames wavering as if there were a draft.
Roman stood, stiff with uncertainty, his eyes cutting through the darkness. Dacre wasn’t here, and he wondered if the god had returned to Luz’s grave alone. He was turning to leave when he heard someone breathing. Deep and heavy, the rhythm of dreams.
Swallowing, Roman edged to the center of the room, where he could see a shine of golden hair draped over the arm of a divan. There was Dacre, sleeping on the cushions, his hands laced over his chest, his eyes shut and his mouth slack.
Dacre had once told him gods needed little to no sleep, which made Roman wonder why was he making himself vulnerable now.
He stepped closer, his heart beginning to pound.
I could kill him, Roman thought, staring down at Dacre’s placid face. I could kill him and end everything here and now.
The only weapon he held was his typewriter, enclosed in its case. Which made him swiftly realize that he didn’t know the most effective way to kill a divine, even if he had been granted a blade or a gun or a match to burn their immortal body down to ash.
Despite that stark reality, Roman glanced around the room, wondering if there were any weapons hiding in the shadows. There were none to be found, but his gaze landed on the candlelit desk, where maps were spread across the wood.
He had been eager to study the map of the underworld again, waiting for a moment when he could be alone with the drawings.
Roman walked to the table and laid his hand over the detailed drawing of Cambria, watching as the map beneath was illuminated. He studied it, his gaze racing along the active routes, all the way to Oath. This time he knew what to look for, and even as the city remained mostly dormant and dim, due to the routes still being repaired, there was a single, brilliant vein that ran beneath the city, straight through its heart, up to the northern side.
The current active route.
It ended in a blue flickering circle, marking the Kitt estate. Just as Iris had suspected, and Roman wished he had thought of his father’s potential involvement sooner. That he had recalled those magical quirks of the house he had grown up in, and how they might be connected to the under realm’s doorways.
Where are the other thresholds?
He leaned closer so he could study the details of the city. He scrutinized the active route, noticing there were other circles that were not lit in blue. Other magical doors, then? And this didn’t even account for the additional routes that he knew must run beneath Oath that still needed to be repaired. There could be hundreds of doorways, and Roman gave himself three more breaths to memorize the lit route and the circles before he lifted his hand and stepped away.
He walked to his appointed desk and drew a fresh sheet of paper from the pile. Closing his eyes, he saw the illuminated path again. It was burned into his vision, and he drew it as best he could on the page with a fountain pen.
The room suddenly felt colder.
Roman opened his eyes.
Dacre was beginning to stir on the divan. His breaths quickened as if he were in a nightmare, hands clenching into fists. Roman glanced at the door, measuring the distance. He wouldn’t have time to slip away before Dacre woke, which meant he needed a reason to be here. He noticed the Inkridden Tribune was still on his desk, Iris’s headline about Dacre’s doomed love with Enva wrinkled as if it had been roughly handled.
Roman marked three potential doors on his crudely drawn map, identifying general buildings in Oath that might be hosting magical thresholds. Then he forced himself to fold the paper and tuck it into his pocket. He had begun to unpack his typewriter as if it were any other afternoon work session when Dacre’s voice broke the silence, darkened by fury.
“Enva.”
The sound made Roman’s blood turn to ice. He froze, watching as Dacre sat forward on the divan. The god’s back was angled to him; Dacre still hadn’t seen him, and he covered his face with his hands—such a human gesture that Roman felt a pang in his chest.
“My lord,” Roman rasped, thinking he had better announce himself. “I’m here to finish our article.”
Dacre didn’t move. He could have been hewn from stone; there was no draw of breath, no reaction to Roman’s presence.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“Get out,” Dacre said in a low, sharp tone.
Roman didn’t need to be told twice. With a shiver, he took his typewriter and fled.
A few hours later, just before dusk, Dacre sent for him.
Lieutenant Shane once more came to fetch Roman, his eyes hooded as if he were bored.
“A true summoning this time?” Roman asked, a touch sardonic.
Shane held his stare, impassive. “And what of it? Did you not write a new article for him, as is the norm every afternoon?”
Roman frowned. He was about to ask if Shane had known Dacre was sleeping, or had suspected it and wanted confirmation, when the lieutenant said, “Leave the typewriter. You won’t need it.”
Roman paused, his hand reaching for the case handle. If he didn’t need his typewriter, then what did Dacre want with him? It couldn’t be good, given the private moment Roman had witnessed earlier.
He followed Shane without another word, leaving the Third Alouette behind in his room. He was too preoccupied with his worries to speak as Shane kept a brisk pace, weaving them through the damp streets of Hawk Shire. All Roman carried was Iris’s ring and the map he had drawn of Oath’s ley line, both tucked deep into his pocket. He was beginning to feel uneasy, keeping such items on his person.
He didn’t know what to expect, but sweat was trickling down his back and nausea was roiling through him by the time they reached the office.
Dacre wasn’t alone. There was a tall, pale man standing at the god’s side, a black cloak fastened at his collar. His face was angular, like the facets of cut rock, and his eyes were narrow and cold, glittering with judgment as he studied Roman.
“I’ve given some thought to the article we were planning to write, Roman,” said Dacre. His voice was languid. There was no trace of the nightmare or its lingering fury in his visage, although Roman could still feel an echo of the goddess’s name, hours after it had been spoken.
Enva.
Dacre had dreamt of her.
What did that mean for them, for the war? It felt like the tide had altered, and yet all Roman could feel was the sand shifting beneath him, uncertain of the new ebb and flow.
He laced his hands behind his back to hide how he trembled. “Which article, sir?”
“The one in response to Iris E. Winnow. To the article she wrote for the Tribune, championing Enva’s cleverness and deceit and victory over me.” Dacre took a few steps closer, the space between them shriking until his shadow touched Roman’s feet.
“And what have you decided, sir?”
“I’m sending you to Oath,” Dacre announced. “I would like you to meet with this Iris E. Winnow. You said that you once worked with her and have an acquaintance. Would she be willing to speak with you?”
“I … yes, I believe so, sir. But why—”
“Not only is she a skilled writer, but she has the ear of the Tribune, which is gaining more popularity by the day,” Dacre cut him off. “She is also writing for Enva. I can see the touch of the goddess on her, claiming her words, twisting them against me. For this reason alone, I would like to steal her from my wife. I would like Iris E. Winnow writing for me. If you agree to go on my behalf, then you must take this and meet with her in a public place.”
Dacre extended an envelope. It was a faint blue, like the color of a robin’s egg, shimmering in the late-afternoon light. Iris E. Winnow was scrawled in elegant penmanship—the mere sight of her name made Roman’s heart quicken—and he reached out to take the envelope.
He was about to go home.
He was about to see Iris again.
“When should I go, sir?” he asked, glancing up to meet Dacre’s steady gaze.
“You’ll go now.”
“Now?”
“Val is here and can escort you to the city.” Dacre indicated the strange, cloaked man in the room, who continued to watch Roman like a hawk does a mouse. “If you depart this evening, you’ll reach Oath by sunrise.”
Oath was still a good distance away, but here was the chance to see how Val was coming and going. Here was the opportunity to confirm where the door was in his family’s estate, and for Roman to see the active route with his own eyes.
He only wished that he had his typewriter in hand. Iris wouldn’t know he was coming. He would catch her by surprise and, as Dacre had said, their meeting would have to be in a public place. Most likely because Val would be watching them to ensure nothing suspicious occurred.
It felt risky, seeing her without warning. It felt liberating, as if Roman was being set loose from a gilded cage.
Don’t let this freedom fool you. The warning shivered through him. At once, Roman sobered.
“I’m ready, my lord,” he said. “But my clothes … should I go to the city like this?” He looked down at the dark red jumpsuit that boldly proclaimed he was an UNDERLING CORRESPONDENT.
“You’ll have the chance to change your clothes upon arrival.” Dacre cast a glance at Val, who only arched a brow in response. “And I want you to deliver a second message for me while you’re in Oath.”
“Of course, sir. What is it?”
Dacre extended another envelope, the same color as the first. The addressee was different but just as meaningful, and Roman merely stared at it for a beat.
Mr. Ronald M. Kitt.
“A letter for my father?” Roman asked in a wavering tone.
“Indeed,” Dacre replied, amused. “You’ll be seeing him.”
Without another word, Roman took the envelope. He felt stiff, like he was covered in frost, when he imagined seeing his father. The last words they had shared had not been kind, gentle ones. Roman didn’t like to remember them, to retrace the day he had left his father angry and his mother weeping. The day he had struck out to follow Iris westward. He had quit his job at the Gazette. He had broken his engagement to Elinor Little, whom his father had arranged for him to marry in order to keep the Kitts in Dacre’s good graces as the war progressed.
Roman had left it all behind without a backward glance.
It felt strange that Dacre would now trust him blithely; the divine was sending him home, knowing the last of his memories would click into place. Something didn’t quite feel right, and Roman wondered if this was a test. Dacre knew someone amongst his forces had betrayed him. Perhaps this was his way of proving Roman’s innocence or, at the very worst, seeing if Roman was that treacherous link.
If so, then Roman couldn’t afford to let the truth rise to the surface.
And yet he dared to look Dacre in the eye and make one final request. “May I spend a night with my family? It’s been so long since I’ve seen my parents and I’d like to have more time with them before I return to you, sir.”
Dacre was silent. It felt tenuous—the way air crackled before lightning struck. Roman inwardly braced himself, waiting for the lash.
“Yes,” Dacre said at last with a smile. “I don’t see why not. Spend a night with your family. Remember what is true, and what is false, and all that I have done for you. Val will be waiting the following sunrise to bring you back to me.”
This was indeed a test, then. If he failed to convince Dacre of his dedication and allegiance, post memory repair, then Roman might find himself waking in another cold chamber below, unable to recall his name. Unable to remember Iris.
The thought was agonizing. A sting between his ribs.
“Thank you, sir,” Roman managed to say.
He was ready to leave, even without his typewriter, but Dacre drew close to murmur, “It’s always best to say less, to let others wonder where you’ve been and what you’ve seen and what you think. Let them imagine what could be. There’s great power in a mystery. Don’t spoil yours.”
A sharp response gathered in Roman’s lungs, but he only cleared his throat. Be submissive. Convince him of your loyalty. He felt the ache in his chest as he said, “Yes, my lord. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Dismissed, he followed Val past Lieutenant Shane, who stood quiet as a statue, taking account of everything with shrewd eyes. Roman left the office, descending the long, circling stairwell.
I’m going home, he thought, and the excitement carried him through the pain in his stride, the shortness of his breaths. Iris, I’m coming to you.
But just before he and Val slipped through a door to the under realm, the warning came again like a whisper.
Don’t let this freedom fool you.
