When Roman realized the Inkridden Tribune was the only newspaper being printed in Oath, he began to request it every morning from his hospital bed. The first thing he did was read through the list of names on the front page. Names of all the people who had been killed and people who were still unaccounted for. He then read news on the war trials, which had started under the new chancellor and a panel of judges.
It was within the Inkridden Tribune that Roman read the fate of his father, who was one of the first citizens to be put on trial.
Mr. Ronald M. Kitt has been found guilty on three charges: First, for being a willing accomplice in the transportation of hazardous gas. Second, for conspiring with the enemy and harboring them without proper counsel or boundaries. Third, for knowing of the plan for mass destruction, and for doing nothing. His sentence is seventy years in prison, with no chance of parole.
Roman shivered when he realized his father would die in prison. He also read the fate of two other people of interest:
Dr. Herman O. Little, Professor of Chemistry at Oath University, and his daughter, Elinor A. Little, are hereby proclaimed guilty of war crimes and sentenced to life in prison, for the creation and production of hazardous gas and bombs that were used as a weapon against civilians and soldiers.
Roman turned the page. He could almost see his former fiancée again, how guarded her demeanor had been on the one lunch date they had been forced to share.
On his fourth morning waking in the hospital, the patient beside him succumbed to his wounds, unable to breathe through the scarring of his lungs. Everyone on the third floor was a victim of the gas, and Roman stared at the empty bed for a while before fresh sheets were spread and a new patient was admitted.
The nurse brought him the Inkridden Tribune along with his watered-down coffee and breakfast, and he went through the routine he had created, hungrier for words and knowledge than for food. First he read the names of the deceased and the missing, then the trial reports.
He wasn’t expecting to see a name he recognized among the dead, and he froze. Not one name but two, close together as if linked by invisible threads.
Sarah L. Prindle
Forest M. Winnow
Roman stared at them until the words blurred. He could taste pond water; he could feel his sister’s limp weight in his arms. The way his stomach had ached like it had been sliced open. How his heart had beat itself numb as he carried her home.
The grief tore through him, just as sharp as it had been that day four years ago.
Roman hurled the blankets off his legs, the newspaper scattering. He overturned his breakfast tray. Coffee and eggs spilled across the bedsheets, but he hardly noticed. His bare feet hit the floor as he yanked the intravenous needle from the back of his hand.
He was leaving this place. These walls couldn’t hold him any longer, and he strode to the doors, halting only when a security guard intercepted him.
“Get back in bed.”
“I need to see my wife,” Roman said.
“You can see her when the doctor clears you.”
Be rational to convince him, Roman thought, but his next breath was a string of curses. His voice rose until the doctor appeared. She firmly took hold of Roman’s arm, escorting him back to bed.
“Take a deep breath,” she said, securing the needle to his hand again. “Have you forgotten what I told you? It’s not just your lungs you need to worry about.”
“I don’t care anymore,” he said through his teeth.
“Is that so?”
“You need to let me out. My wife … she lost her brother. I need to see her.”
The doctor sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that, but we’ve all lost someone in this war.”
“Will you at least let me call her?”
“I can’t make any exceptions now that the trials are in progress.”
Roman let out a scathing laugh. “And how long do you plan to hold me here?”
The doctor merely stared at him until he flushed and glanced away. He could only imagine how wild he seemed, screaming obscenities at the guard, insisting on being released.
“That,” the doctor said, “depends on you.”
Roman sat back. If there was one thing he was good at, it was accepting a challenge.
Two days later, the doctor discharged Roman with a list of prescriptions and strict instructions to rest. A soft rain was falling when he emerged from the hospital in borrowed clothes. He walked over broken cobblestones and piles of rubble, passing only a few people who darted past with umbrellas or newspapers tented over their heads. But Roman didn’t mind the rain, and he began to head east, toward Iris’s flat.
When he came to an intersection, he paused. He wondered if Enva was close by, coaxing the storm clouds with her magic, and a shiver raced over his skin. It was odd to be standing in a place that only days ago had been vibrant and full of life. Motorcars and buggies and wagons and bicycles. Now he seemed to be the only one breathing its air, remembering how it had once been.
“Roman!”
He turned and saw Iris farther up the street. She was drenched through, her dress nearly translucent, hair plastered to her face. But he knew then that she had been waiting for him to emerge from the hospital.
He ran to her.
They collided in the center of the bomb-torn street. Roman stumbled backward, clinging to her. He would have lost his balance if she hadn’t used her strength to hold him upright.
“I believe I’m quite good at this,” Iris said. She pressed her face to his neck, chuckling to hide the sob in her words.
Roman held her close, feeling her chest rise and fall with her breath. He remembered the golden field of Avalon Bluff. The way she had sprinted to him, pressing him down to the earth. Covering his body with her own to protect him.
“And what’s that, Winnow?” he said. “I have an entire laundry list of things you’re good at doing.”
Iris laughed again. A beat later, she leaned back to meet his gaze, rain gleaming on her face.
“At taking you by surprise, Kitt.”
