Some days Roman was terrified he would turn into his father.
Mr. Kitt stood by the hearth, behind the chair Roman’s mother was gracing. And while his father’s presence was intimidating, his mother lent a gentleness to any room. In spite of that, she had become more and more distracted as the years passed, ever since Del had died. Conversations with her often didn’t quite make sense, as if Mrs. Kitt belonged more with ghosts than the living.
Roman swallowed when he met his father’s gaze.
“Roman, this is Dr. Herman Little, a chemist at Oath University, and his daughter, Elinor,” Mr. Kitt introduced, extending his glass of brandy to his left.
Roman’s eyes reluctantly traveled across the room, landing on an older gentleman with sandy brown hair and overly large spectacles on a small, crooked nose. Beside him on the divan was his daughter, a pale girl with blond hair crimped in a bob. Blue veins pulsed in her temples and on the backs of her clasped hands. She looked fragile, until Roman met her gaze and saw nothing but ice in her eyes.
“Dr. Little, Miss Elinor,” Mr. Kitt continued. “This is my son, Roman Kitt. He’s about to be promoted to columnist at the Oath Gazette.”
“How splendid!” Dr. Little said with a yellow-toothed smile. “To be columnist at the most prestigious paper in Oath is a rare feat. You’ll hold a great influence over your readers. Quite an achievement for one your age, which is…”
“I’m nineteen, sir,” Roman replied. He must have sounded too brisk, because his father scowled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both, but if you’ll excuse me, there is an article I need to wor—”
“Go and freshen up for dinner,” Mr. Kitt interrupted. “Meet us in the dining room in half an hour. Don’t be late, son.”
No. Roman knew better than to be late for anything when his father was involved. His mother smiled at him as he turned and left.
In the safety of his room, Roman dropped his messenger bag and his fa?ade of dutiful son. He raked his fingers through his hair and hurled his coat across the room. And it was strange how his gaze went to his wardrobe. There was no paper on the floor. No letter from Iris. But of course, she probably wasn’t home yet. Roman had a terrible inkling that she didn’t take the tram but walked to and from work, and that was why she was late sometimes.
It wasn’t his problem, but he kept envisioning her limping. As if something was wrong with those godsawful boots she was wearing.
“Stop thinking about her!” he hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
He pushed Iris far from his thoughts. He washed and dressed in a black suit for dinner, descending to the dining hall. He was early by two minutes, but it didn’t matter. His parents and the Littles were waiting on him. He unfortunately saw that he was to take the chair directly across from Elinor. Her cold stare pierced him the moment he sat down.
That was when Roman felt his first sense of dread.
This wasn’t going to be a comfortable dinner.
His nan was also missing from the table, which meant his father was trying to control everything that was said tonight. Roman’s nan lived in the east wing of the mansion. She had a temper and spoke her mind, and Roman fiercely wished she were present.
He was silent for the first two courses. So was Elinor. Their fathers did most of the talking, and they spoke of the cost of certain chemicals, the method of extraction, the rate and catalysts of reactions, why a certain element called praxin turned green when it was combined with a salt and how only a certain type of metal could safely store it.
Roman watched his father, who was nodding and acting like he knew exactly what Dr. Little was talking about. All too soon, the conversation turned to the railroad.
“My grandfather chartered the first railroad out of Oath,” Mr. Kitt said. “Before that, it was horses and wagons and the stagecoach if you wanted to travel anywhere.”
“What foresight your ancestors had,” said Dr. Little.
Roman blocked out the rest of his father’s story and Dr. Little’s flattery, weary of hearing about how his family did this and that and made their fortune. None of it truly mattered when it came to the peers of Cambria, who were steeped in old wealth and often snubbed people like the Kitts, who were built from new, innovative money. Roman knew it bothered his father—how often their family was disregarded at social events—and Mr. Kitt was always plotting to change people’s minds. One of those plans was Roman’s gaining columnist instead of attending university and studying literature, as Roman wanted to do. Because if money couldn’t seal the Kitts’ prowess and respect in the city, then positions of power and esteem would.
Roman was hoping he could escape the table before the last course when his mother turned to Elinor.
“Your father says you are an accomplished pianist,” Mrs. Kitt said. “Roman loves to listen to the piano.”
He did? Roman had to bite back a retort.
Elinor didn’t spare him a glance. “I was, but I prefer to spend my hours in my father’s laboratory now. In fact, I don’t play anymore.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear of it.”
“Don’t be, Mrs. Kitt. Papa asked me to stop, since music is aligned with Enva these days,” Elinor said. Her voice was monotone, as if she felt nothing.
Roman watched her push the food around her plate. He suddenly had a creeping suspicion that the Littles were Dacre sympathizers, and his stomach churned. Those who favored Dacre in the war tended to be people who were one of three things: zealously devout, ignorant of the mythology where Dacre’s true and terrifying nature was depicted, or, like Zeb Autry, afraid of Enva’s musical powers.
“Enva’s music was never something to be afraid of,” Roman said before he could stop himself. “In myths, she strummed her harp over the graves of mortals who died, and her songs guided souls from their bodies to the next realm, whether it was to live above with the Skywards or below with the Underlings. Her songs are woven with truth and knowledge.”
The table had fallen deathly quiet. Roman didn’t dare glance at his father, whose eyes were boring into him.
“Excuse my son,” Mr. Kitt said with a nervous chuckle. “He read one too many myths as a boy.”
“Why don’t you tell us more of the Gazette, Roman?” Dr. Little suggested. “I’ve heard Chancellor Verlice has limited the newspapers in Oath on how much they can report on the war. Is this true?”
Roman froze. He wasn’t sure—he was so focused on trying to outwrite Iris these days—but then he thought about how little he had written about the war, and how Zeb’s assignments had drifted to other things. The fact that he was writing about missing soldiers was surprising, although perhaps even that was a ploy to turn people against Enva.