Iris opened her eyes, uncertain what had woken her. Her head was propped on Forest’s shoulder, his breathing heavy with sleep.
They were sitting on the couch, and it was dark beyond the window curtains. The tea was still on the table, and the book was open on Forest’s lap. Only one lamp was lit, and its light was a hazy amber, casting streaks on the walls.
It was quiet until Iris heard the water running in the kitchen. There was the unmistakable clink of a kettle being set on the cooker. Someone was in the flat with them, and Iris rose to her feet, gooseflesh rippling over her skin.
She walked toward the kitchen, rounding the corner to see the intruder.
Long dark hair. A homespun dress. A belt made of woven flowers.
“Enva?” Iris said, unable to hide her shock.
Enva turned to regard her. “Hello, Iris.”
“Are you truly here, or am I dreaming?”
The goddess didn’t reply in words, but when she reached for the steaming kettle, the pot melted in her hands.
A dream, then, Iris thought. “Why have you come to visit me again?”
Enva straightened, as if she suddenly felt uncomfortable in a kitchen, seeking to do mortal tasks. “I wanted to see you again. Before you made the descent below.”
Iris studied her a long moment. “How many other dreams have you walked?”
“More than I could count.”
“You’ve visited Attie.”
“Yes,” Enva replied carefully. “I wanted you both to hear the lullaby.”
“What about Forest?”
“A few times.”
“And Kitt?” Iris asked. “Have you visited his dreams?”
“Not in the way you think.”
“How, then?”
Enva waved her hand over the cooker. The kettle reappeared and remained solid as she gripped it, pouring hot water into a teacup. “I helped him remember who he was.”
Iris was silent, recalling the words Roman had typed to her. Every night when I dreamt, I was trying to bring all the pieces back together. I was trying to find my way back to you.
“By which you undermined Dacre,” said Iris.
Enva kept her gaze on her teacup as she doled out a spoonful of honey. “There were a number of soldiers from Oath who I inspired to fight. Your brother was one of them. I hoped they would give enough aid to the west so that Dacre could be killed by a mortal’s hand. But many of these soldiers died in graves I have yet to sing over, and some my husband healed and used for his forces in a twisted way. I could not leave the city in my corporeal form, but I could use Alva’s magic to reach these soldiers in dreams. To help them remember who they were.”
“Why didn’t you kill him when you had the chance?” Iris asked quietly. “If you killed Mir, Alva, and Luz in their graves, why not Dacre?”
At this, Enva turned away. Her posture was rigid as she breathed, and Iris wondered if she was about to dissolve from the dream, choosing to wane rather than answer.
“Have you ever given someone a vow, Iris?”
Enva’s question was so unexpected that Iris merely blinked. But when she closed her eyes, she could still hear an echo of herself, speaking vows to Roman in a twilit garden.
Even then, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.
“Yes,” Iris said.
“When I went below to rule beside him, I gave him my vow as he gave me his. But I didn’t realize that Skyward promises are vastly different from those of Underlings. With my words, I vowed to never end his immortality, but he didn’t grant the same to me. I didn’t fear that he would kill me in those honeymoon days, even as I wandered deep in his domain. I knew that he was charmed by my presence, but one day he would grow weary of me. One day, I would find him holding a blade to my throat, hungry to steal my magic and be rid of me.” Enva drank the tea and set the cup on the counter. She looked over her shoulder and held Iris’s gaze. “I could wound him, though. Humiliate him. Leave his realm if I could outsmart him. But I could not break my vows and kill him.”
Iris let the words sink in. She wondered if upholding immortality was woven into Skyward vows to prevent spouses from marrying and then killing each other. To prevent gods from stealing more power from the ones they were closest to. The ones they were supposed to love.
“I lied to my husband many times,” Enva continued. “And I lied to Alzane, your mortal king, when he asked me to kill the other four divines. We had an agreement that I could be the last goddess in the realm—the last vessel of magic—but I needed to give another vow and stay in Oath so the king could keep me within his clutches. The song I sang over Mir, Alva, and Luz was like a blade to their sleeping throats. They were trouble, and it was good to see them gone. But Dacre? I could not kill him, and so I sang for as long as I could, to hold him in a grave for centuries. Alzane never knew it; he thought all the gods dead save for me, and he spun a story that we were all sleeping, so his people could continue to worship and live in blissful magic and peace.”
Iris studied Enva’s face. She wondered what it would be like to hold a lie for so long. To be sworn to a husband who yearned for bloodshed. To be immeasurably powerful but trapped in a city. To find only anguish in magic that had once been incandescent with joy.
“He’s in Oath,” Iris said. “At the Kitt estate.”
“I know.” Enva glanced away. “I found him in a dream. It was then I knew he would stop at nothing until he held my severed head in his hands.”
“Iris.”
It was Forest’s voice, distant but laced with urgency. Iris could feel his hand on her knee, shaking her.
The dream began to waver, threatening to break. Iris gritted her teeth, striving to keep it intact for a moment longer, even as the floor began to vanish in patches beneath her.
“Why did you come to me as my mother?” she dared to ask. “Why not show me who you were to begin with?”
Enva smiled. It was a sad crescent of a moon, and her hair began to whip around her as if she were being drawn into a storm.
“You mortals are slow to trust. And I needed you to trust me, Iris.”
The dream collapsed without warning.
Iris startled awake, light-headed and cold with sweat. Forest was shaking her knee again, and she straightened, feeling a crick pull in her neck. “What is it?”
“Do you hear that?” His voice was so low she almost couldn’t catch the words.
They both listened, unmoving, their breaths shallow. There, she heard it that time. It sounded like someone was picking the lock on the front door.
“Get up quietly,” said Forest. “Hide in the kitchen. If things turn bad, I want you to run. Go straight to Attie’s, all right?”
Iris couldn’t speak, her eyes flaring in fear.
“Go,” Forest urged, drawing her with him as he stood.
She did as he wanted, rushing into the shadows of the kitchen and crouching behind the row of cabinets. She didn’t have a vantage point of the living room from here, and that made her anxious. She couldn’t see Forest, and she didn’t understand why this was happening. Why would someone break into their flat in the dead of night?
The door creaked open.
For a moment, there was nothing but utter silence, so keen that Iris was afraid to draw breath. Then came the footsteps. The air suddenly smelled like mist, dank stone, and worn leather. The lamplight flickered.
Iris bit the palm of her hand, smothering a surge of terror.
The stranger came to a stop.
A beat later, there was a loud crash and a grunt. It sounded like a table had cracked, bodies rolling into furniture and bumping the wall so hard it made the lone picture frame rattle. The amber light flickered again as the lamp was overturned. The flat was overcome with darkness, and Iris panted, her muscles burning as she continued to crouch.
Someone cried out in pain. It went through Iris like a shock of electricity, and she knew it was Forest. She knew it like she had been struck herself.
He wanted her to run and leave him behind. But she gritted her teeth and rose, remembering the sword she had left on the sideboard.
She knew this flat intimately. She could walk it in utter darkness, and she moved without a sound. But as she entered the common room, a thread of light from the streetlamp bled inside. Iris saw the broken table, the teapot shattered across the floor. Forest’s medicine bottles were cracked, revealing a trail of pills. She could see two shadows wrestling each other up against the couch, the one on top punching the other relentlessly.
Forest cried out again, caught below the intruder.
“Where is she?” the unfamiliar voice asked. “Where is your sister?”
He wanted her, and Iris reached for the sword.
The jacket fell away as she unsheathed the blade. She was shaking as she eased forward. She wondered if her bones would come out of their sockets as she lifted the sword, belatedly remembering what Enva had told her about it.
It cuts through bone and flesh like a knife does butter, if only its wielder offers the blade and the hilt a taste of their blood first. A sacrifice, to weaken yourself and wound your own hand before striking.
Iris hesitated before she reached for the sword’s edge. She winced as the steel stung her palm, her blood beginning to flow and drip, hot and swift. It hurt to hold the hilt with both hands; the metal became slick, and she had never felt more awkward wielding something in her life.
But she stepped forward again, a piece of the broken pot crunching beneath her foot.
The intruder stopped striking her brother and turned to look at her, a sliver of light cutting across his face.
Iris recognized him. It was one of Dacre’s men. Val. The one who had been transporting Roman’s articles to the Gazette. The one who commanded eithrals and rode on their backs.
“Put the sword down, Iris,” he said as he stood and faced her. He held out his gloved hand. There were metal spikes on the backs of the knuckles. “Come with me, and I’ll let your brother live.”
Forest groaned on the floor. It distracted Iris, and she glanced at her brother. His face was bloodied; his nose looked broken.
Val darted forward, taking advantage of her split attention.
He intended to knock the sword away from her, no doubt believing it would be an easy feat. But Iris lowered her hands so that the pommel was braced against her waist, the point of the sword angled up. Val walked directly into it, the steel sinking into his chest.
He let out a strangled gasp, staring at Iris in shock. She saw the recognition flash though him, a moment too late. Which blade she held.
As he fell, the sword continued to slice upward, catching on two silver necklaces that hung beneath his clothes. A flute and an iron key. The chains broke beneath the steel’s enchantment, clinking to the floor like chimes as the blade continued to cut until it had divided his heart, his sternum, the branch of his ribs.
I just killed him.
Iris whimpered, but she didn’t let go of the hilt. She watched as Val collapsed on the floor, blood pooling beneath him. She stared at the key and the small flute, islands in a growing red lake. Her skin prickled as her gorge rose, a bitter taste haunting her mouth.
I just killed a man.
“Iris.”
She dropped the blade and stepped over Val to reach her brother.
“Are you hurt?” he rasped.
“No,” Iris said, even as her palm burned. “But you are.” Focusing on him gave her a distraction. She reached for the blanket on the couch and gently wiped his face.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Forest said. “But who was that? What did he want with you?”
“He’s one of Dacre’s men,” she replied, helping Forest to his feet.
The two of them stared down at Val, uncertain what to do. Should they leave him here? Bury him somewhere? Burn him?
Iris bent to take the flute and the key, amidst Forest’s protests.
“Don’t, Iris!”
She didn’t answer, her fingers closing over the key. She reached for the sword next, and before Forest could demand any further answers from her, she spoke first.
“We can’t stay here tonight. We need to leave.”
I killed someone, Iris thought, clenching her eyes shut.
And she shivered when she acknowledged that he wouldn’t be the last.
Attie’s father didn’t appear shocked to find Iris and Forest on the front porch, quietly knocking on the door in the dead of night. The town house’s lights were on, illumination seeping through the shutters, and it had made Iris feel a little better about disturbing her friend’s family at such a late hour.
Mr. Attwood took one look at Iris, with her snarled hair and the sword sheathed at her back, and Forest, whose face was battered, and he opened the door wide.
“I’m so sorry,” Iris said, breathless from their harried trek over. “I … we didn’t know where else to go.”
The scent of treacle and sugar biscuits drifted from the house. It almost made Iris sink to her knees.
“Come in, come in,” said Mr. Attwood, reaching out to welcome them. “You look like you’ve had a rough night, and we just brewed some tea.”
“Sometimes I bake when I can’t sleep,” Attie said, setting the plate of warm biscuits on the dining room table. “A few nights in the Bluff, I baked with Marisol. She taught me a thing or two about scones, which I can never get right.”
Iris smiled, reaching for one of the sugar biscuits. She didn’t feel hungry, but there was something about the sweetness, melting on her tongue, that made her feel as if she had returned to her body. It cut through the numbness.
Forest sat beside her, thankful for Mrs. Attwood’s ministrations as she took a needle and thread and sutured his split eyebrow. Tobias sat on the other side of the table, next to Attie. Iris wasn’t surprised to see him there, or that Attie’s family had insisted he stay the night when the curfew had hit during his visit.
The Attwoods were all aware of what was coming. It was why they were still awake; sleep seemed impossible that night. Only Attie’s younger siblings were tucked away in their beds on the upper floor, oblivious to what would happen in the morning. Their parents had wanted it to feel like any normal night, so the children wouldn’t worry.
“We’ll go to the McNeils’ tomorrow,” Mrs. Attwood said, setting down a freshly brewed pot of tea. “I know their house is on a ley line. We’ll be safe there.”
Mr. Attwood nodded, although he seemed troubled.
Tobias had hardly spoken a word, lost in his thoughts as he munched on his fourth sugar biscuit. But Attie met Iris’s gaze over the table. Neither of them had mentioned their mission below, and they didn’t know how to break the news either.
By three in the morning, all the tea had been drained and the biscuits eaten. The group shifted to the living room, to sit in a more comfortable space. While Mr. Attwood stoked a fire in the hearth, Iris helped Attie carry the dishes to the sink in the kitchen.
“Does it even matter if we wash them?” Attie sighed. “This place might not be standing tomorrow. Although if anything of this house survives, watch it be the kitchen sink.”
Iris turned on the faucet and began to scrub anyway. “I need to tell you something.”
Attie’s attention sharpened. “What? You used the sword tonight, didn’t you? I saw that your hand is bandaged.”
Iris grimaced. “Yes, but there’s something else.” She paused, handing Attie one of the cups to dry. “I found a key.”
“To the realm below?” Attie whispered.
Iris nodded. “And I made plans with Kitt earlier tonight, that the two of us would meet him north of the river, so he could pass off a key to us or, at the very worst, smuggle us to his parlor door. He wants to accompany us below. But now that I have a key … I think we should just go to the closest door we can find tomorrow, after we have our families in a safe place. Because if we crossed the river and met up with Kitt with me carrying a sword and you a violin, it would be too risky.”
Attie was quiet, weighing Iris’s words.
“You’re sure, Iris?” she said, hanging the clean teacups on the rack hooks. “I can only imagine how much you’d like to see Kitt before everything happens. For him to go with us.”
For a moment, Iris couldn’t speak. The bandage around her hand was now damp, and the cut on her palm began to throb.
“Yes, I’m certain,” she finally said, handing Attie another cup. She forced a smile, to ease the sadness in Attie’s expression. “I’m sure I’ll see him tomorrow. When all of this is over and done with.”
