It was the parlor.
Roman stood and soaked in the familiar blue-and-gold features: the ornate rug that muffled footsteps, the marble hearth on the wall, the floor-to-ceiling windows with the brocade drapes, the piano that sat quietly in the corner, the gilded wainscotting, and the framed oil paintings that had been in their family for generations.
Clothes, he thought just as the grandfather clock in the foyer struck the seventh hour. His father would already be up, smoking in the study with a hearty dose of brandy in his coffee. His nan was cloistered in the western wing of the estate with her dogs and her books, but his mother liked to rise after the sun, which meant she would be moving through the house soon. And she had always been more in tune with ghosts than his father. If anyone sensed his presence, it would be his mum.
Roman raked his fingers through his dark hair and quit the parlor.
Up the grand staircase and down the hallway, his boots hardly making noise on the plush runner. He slipped into his old bedroom, quietly locking the door behind him. Everything was just as he had left it. Everything but the vase of flowers on his desk.
Frowning, Roman walked to them, touching the small but fierce blue petals. Forget-me-nots. They grew in abundance in spring, brightening the garden and the woodlands on their property.
His mother had been here, then. How often did she come to his room?
He felt a welt of shame for how he had left things with his parents weeks ago. His father not so much, but his mother? Roman hated to think of causing her any more grief and anguish.
There will be time for this later, he thought, stepping away from the flowers. Don’t get distracted.
He removed his map, Iris’s wedding ring, the two letters from Dacre. That was all he had carried from below to above, and he quickly changed into a crisp white button-down and a pair of black trousers before clipping leather braces over his shoulders. His trench coat, because the morning looked like rain, and then a fresh set of socks that made him wiggle his toes in relief. Lastly, his favorite pair of brogues.
He returned all four items to his inner pocket, although he held on to Iris’s ring for a moment, watching it gleam in the morning light.
Val had instructed him to meet her at Gould’s Café. Roman had no doubt that Val would follow him up the stairs to watch him the entire time he was out in the open, moving from place to place. Above all, Dacre would want eyes on Roman.
The most important thing was to keep Iris as safe as possible. Which meant Val couldn’t know that they were married or had any sort of affection for each other. They needed to fall back to their old patterns during the café meeting, just to be careful.
Roman sat at his desk. He wrote a quick message and then folded it into thirds, tucking it behind Dacre’s envelope. Without his typewriter, there was no way to give her a warning. She was going to be blindsided, and he could only hope that she would know to play along.
Roman stood and glanced around his room a final time. He hid his Underling jumpsuit and worn boots in his wardrobe and then realized he needed one more thing before he headed downtown.
A telephone.
Iris hadn’t heard from Roman in over a day.
This wasn’t exactly unusual, but ever since that moment in Hawk Shire when his memories had come flooding back, he had written to her at night when he was safe in his room. She didn’t want to let worry overcome her thoughts, but she also couldn’t help but feel like fate had shifted, like a star falling from a constellation.
Something must have happened.
She paced her bedroom, glancing sidelong at the wardrobe door. It was always best if he wrote first, since he was mobile with his typewriter, spending hours in Dacre’s presence. But there was still a way for her to initiate the contact. She had taken advantage of it multiple times before and didn’t see why it couldn’t be used now.
Part of her bid herself patience. But the other side, the one that was smoldering like coals, told her to do something. Don’t just sit back and wait.
Iris sat on the floor and typed out:
This is a test to see if the strike bars E & R are in working condition.
EREEERRRRR
E
She kept it brief this time, sliding the paper under the wardrobe door. She waited, but as the minutes spread into a dark hour, she settled on the edge of her bed, her hands icy.
Iris slept very little that night. But when she woke in the morning, she didn’t feel any better. Her heart felt bruised when she saw there was no letter on the floor for her to read.
There was no word from Roman, and it was time for her to go to work.
Iris washed her face and combed the tangles from her hair. She found a clean sweater in her wardrobe, a pale blush color that made her feel brave, and a brown plaid skirt. She drew on her knee-high stockings and boots and left for the Inkridden Tribune.
Forest was already at work, but he had left her a scrawled note on the kitchen table: Sarah is coming for dinner tonight. Help me decide what to make? She doesn’t like olives or mushrooms. Also, please don’t be out past dark.
It was the only bright spot in Iris’s morning, making her worry dwindle during the tram ride. Imagining her brother cooking dinner for the woman he fancied was amusing. But by the time Iris stepped into the Tribune’s office, her fears had returned tenfold. It felt like a brick had settled in her stomach when she wondered where Roman was, and why he had gone silent.
Attie was already at their desk, looking over notes. She glanced up when Iris collapsed into her chair.
“You’re here early,” Attie remarked.
“So are you,” Iris said, but before she could say another word, her attention was drawn to Helena, who strode from her office to pour a cup of tea from the sideboard.
Their boss looked haggard, as if she hadn’t been sleeping. Her shoulders were stooped, her auburn hair lank and dull. Purple smudges marked her eyes as she took a sip of the scalding hot tea, but Helena didn’t even wince. She returned to her office, not saying a word to anyone, and Iris exchanged a worried look with Attie.
“Two things,” Attie whispered, leaning close. “The first? I hear Helena has finally given up smoking. The second? The Graveyard doesn’t want her reporting on the war or the gods unless they approve.”
“They can get in line, then,” Iris said, but she shivered when she remembered that gunshot the other night. Sarah had to spend the night with them after dinner, because it was too risky for her to walk the streets at night. “What use is the press if we can’t write about what we witness? If we can’t share the local news?”
Attie sighed, taking her teacup in hand. “They didn’t like our report on Enva’s soldiers and wounded being barred from entering the city.”
That article had just been printed yesterday morning. Iris gnawed on her lip. “How do you know this?”
“Here.” Attie tossed an envelope across the table. “This was waiting on Helena’s desk first thing this morning.”
Iris slid a letter from the envelope, startled when flowers spilled free. Two anemones, one red and one white, pressed flat. “Flowers?”
“I think it’s their leader’s calling card,” Attie replied. “A way to express the importance of an order, maybe? Although I have a theory.”
“Which is?”
“The flowers represent Dacre and Enva, and how the Graveyard hopes to bury them both eternally.”
Iris studied the anemones before she unfolded the letter and read:
To Ms. Hammond of the Inkridden Tribune,
From this day forward, we ask that you run all articles pertaining to gods and soldiers by us first for approval. Failure to do so will result in undesirable consequences to your paper. Let us remind you that we have the good of the people in mind, first and foremost, and as such we must ensure all avenues are united in that ideal. You can send any future articles care of the chancellor for approval.
Sincerely,
The Graveyard
“This is absurd.” Iris shoved the letter back into its envelope with the flowers. “I don’t see how they can give Helena orders.”
“Oath is changing, Iris,” Attie said. “My mum says it’s the same at university. The dean has given her a long list of things to avoid saying, for fear it will get back to the Graveyard.”
“This bloody Graveyard,” Iris murmured. “We leave the city for less than two weeks, and they take over. I don’t understand why—”
“Excuse me, Winnow?”
Iris cut herself off and glanced to her left. One of the assistants had approached her and Attie’s table, a pot of coffee in one hand, a notepad in the other.
“Is something wrong, Treanne?” Iris asked, but she bit her tongue. She needed to be careful. She shouldn’t be spouting her irritation about the Graveyard in the office, or any public place. There was no telling who was a part of that group, as Sarah had explained.
“You have a phone call. It’s waiting on you.”
“Oh.” Iris stood with a frown. She wasn’t expecting a call, and she resisted the urge to glance at Attie before she walked to where the lone telephone sat on the wall.
Iris cleared her throat and took hold of the receiver, raising it to her ear.
“This is Iris Winnow speaking.”
A crackle of static. Iris thought whoever it was must have hung up, but then she heard them breathing. A slow, deep exhale on the line.
“Hello?” she said. “Who is this?”
Another beat of stilted silence, and then a familiar voice said, “Iris E. Winnow?”
Iris felt the breath freeze in her lungs. Her eyes went wide as she stared at news clippings on the bulletin board, gripping the receiver until it felt like the blood had drained from her hand.
Kitt.
She made herself swallow his name until it sat like a stone in her throat. Something was wrong. She had sensed it last night, and she could hear it in the way he spoke now.
“Yes,” she said, unable to hide the softness in her voice. “This is Iris.”
“I have a message for you,” Roman said. “It must be delivered in person. Are you familiar with Gould’s Café?”
Iris was quiet, her mind reeling. She was trying to pick apart every word he was saying in hopes she could understand what was happening. She was trying to glean the words he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—say.
“Winnow?” he prompted.
He hadn’t called her that in a long while. It took her back in time, as if they had flipped pages in a volume, returning to those Gazette chapters.
She said in a careful tone, “Yes, I know Gould’s.”
“When can you meet me there?”
“I can come now.”
“Good,” Roman said, but it sounded more like a sigh. Iris couldn’t tell if it was spun from relief or longing. “I’ll see you there in twenty.”
He hung up the receiver.
It was so abrupt that Iris stood for a minute more, gazing at nothing.
But her heart was like thunder in her chest as she kept the receiver by her ear. As she listened to the empty waves of static.
The realization hit her with a gasp. Roman was in Oath. She was about to drink tea with him.
Iris set the receiver down on its hook with a clatter.
She rushed to the door and left the Inkridden Tribune without a backward glance.
