Her gaze caught on that letter again.
She was curious to know what he had written to her, but she had this strange feeling that if she read it, she would encounter nothing more than his insistence that she reply. And if he knew she was striking out to become a war correspondent, he would try to talk her out of it.
Iris had made up her mind; there was no changing it, and she was too tired to argue with him.
She quit the flat.
She left his letter lying in a pool of sunlight on the floor.
PART TWO
News
from
Afar
{15}
The Third Alouette
The Oath Gazette was quiet.
Roman sat at his desk, notes spread before him. He stared at the blank page curling from his typewriter. He should be thrilled. He had solidified himself as the new columnist. He no longer had to worry about the things on his desk being rearranged. He no longer had to race to the bulletin board for assignments. He no longer had to pretend he was too busy for sandwiches.
If this was the life he wanted, then why did it feel so hollow?
He rose to get another cup of tea, avoiding the temptation to glance at Iris’s empty desk. But while he was spooning honey into his cup, one of the editors joined him at the sideboard.
“Feels strange here without her, doesn’t it?” she asked.
Roman arched his brow. “Who?”
The editor only smiled, as if she knew something Roman didn’t.
He was the last to leave the office that evening. He shrugged on his coat and turned off his lamp. He hadn’t written a word, and he was irritated.
On the tram ride home, he considered his options. His fingers thrummed over his thigh, anxious as he thought about the best way to handle the di lemma he was caught within. If he didn’t show any emotion, his father should hear him.
As soon as he reached home, he found Mr. Kitt in his study. On his desk was a strange crate, labeled with CAUTION and HANDLE WITH CARE.
“Roman,” his father greeted him, glancing up from a ledger he was reading. A cigar was clamped in his teeth. “How was your first day as columnist?”
“I’m not marrying her, Father.” The announcement rang in the air. Roman had never felt so relieved in his life until Mr. Kitt’s eyes narrowed. He took his time crushing his cigar into an ashtray and stood, his tall frame casting a crooked shadow.
“Come again, Roman?”
“I’m not marrying Elinor Little,” said Roman. He kept his inflection flat, his expression poised. As if he felt nothing and was merely stating a fact. “She and I are not a good match, but there are other ways I can serve the family. I would like to discuss them with you, if you have time tonight.”
His father smiled. It gleamed like a scythe in the lamplight. “What’s this really about, son?”
“It’s about my freedom.”
“Your freedom?”
Roman gritted his teeth. “Yes. I have already forgone one thing I wanted, based on your desires.”
“And what was that, Roman? Oh wait. I remember,” Mr. Kitt said with a chuckle. “You wanted to throw away years of your life studying literature at university. I’ve already told you once, but I suppose I should say it again: you can’t do anything with such a degree. But being columnist at the Oath Gazette? That will carry you far, son. I only want the best for you, even if you can’t see it now. And you’ll thank me one day when you understand better.”
It took everything within Roman to hold his temper in check. He ground the words he wanted to say between his molars and said, “I have gained columnist, as you wanted. At the very least, you should now agree that I have the right to choose who I want to marry, as you once chose Mother.”
“This is about that lowborn girl at the Gazette, isn’t it?” Mr. Kitt drawled. “She’s caught your eye, against all reason.”
Roman stiffened. He could feel the flush creep across his face, and he struggled to keep his voice calm, emotionless. “There’s no other girl.”
“Don’t lie to me, son. I caught wind of you having lunch with her the other day. And it was a bloody good thing your engagement hadn’t been announced yet, but what if the Littles had learned of it? What if they had seen you with her, the way you sat close beside her on a bench, sharing a sandwich, laughing at the things she said? How would you explain yourself?”
“It was strictly business,” Roman snapped. “We were discussing an article. And I didn’t pay for her lunch, just so you know.”
Mr. Kitt suddenly looked amused. Roman hated himself, especially when he remembered watching Iris reach for the coins in her purse at the deli. She almost hadn’t had enough, and she had chosen not to purchase a drink, as if she hadn’t wanted one.
He had paid for his sandwich, but not hers. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now he loathed himself for it.
Roman bit the inside of his cheek. Did his father also know that he had gone to Iris’s flat?
“I won’t see my grandchildren’s blood spoiled by the gutter,” Mr. Kitt said.
Then yes. He also knew about that visit, however brief it was, but Roman wouldn’t offer any explanations for it. Because no one had sent Roman but himself. Zeb Autry had been annoyed by Iris’s absence, and Sarah worried, but Roman was the one to grab her trench coat and look up her address and do something about it.
“Your prejudices are quite profound, Father,” he stated. “And you should stop having me followed.”
“I’ll call off my watch the moment you marry Miss Little,” Mr. Kitt countered. “And then you can sleep with whoever you want as long as you are discreet. You can sleep with your freckle-faced girl from the Gazette, but my one stipulation is you must not have pups with her. She’s far beneath you, son.”
“Enough, Father!” The words exploded from Roman. “I’m not marrying Miss Little, and your comments about my colleague are unfounded and uncalled-for!”
Mr. Kitt sighed. “I’m disappointed in you, Roman.”
Roman shut his eyes, suddenly drained. This conversation had taken a turn for the worse, and he didn’t know how to salvage it.
“Do you know what this is, son?” Mr. Kitt asked. Roman opened his eyes to see his father touching the crate. “This right here is our future. It’s going to save us in the war, because Dacre will one day reach us in Oath. And you breaking your commitment to Miss Little will jeopardize my plans to preserve our family.”
Roman stared at the crate. “What’s in it?”
Mr. Kitt lifted the lid. “Come take a look.”
Roman edged a few steps closer. Close enough so he could catch a glimpse of what rested within. Slender metal canisters the length of his forearm, resting like silver bullets in the crate.
“What are those?” he asked, frowning. “Are those bombs?”
His father only smiled and shut the lid. “Perhaps you should ask your fiancée. She helped her father create them.”