“This is evil,” Roman said, his voice wavering. “These bombs or whatever they are … you can’t return from something like this. They’re going to kill innocent people. I won’t—”
“No, this is ingenious,” Mr. Kitt interrupted. “All of the lords and ladies of Oath who are bowing to Enva … where do you think their titles will go when Dacre takes the city? Who do you think he will reward?”
Roman stared at his father, eyes wide in horror. “Is this all you care about? Where you stand among high society? How you can take advantage of others?” He began to step away, his breath hissing through his teeth. “I won’t be a part of this, Father.”
“You will do exactly what I tell you to do, Roman,” Mr. Kitt said. “Do you understand? If you won’t do it to save your own hide, then at least think of your mother, who is still grieving over your recklessness.”
Roman felt the blood drain from his face. The guilt over his sister’s death burned like acid in his mouth, and he lost all desire to fight, to speak.
“This is your duty, son,” his father said in a gentler voice. “I’m very proud of you for being promoted. You have a very bright future ahead of you. Don’t ruin it on a poor girl who no doubt wants to drain you of your inheritance.”
Roman turned and left.
He hardly remembered striding into his room. The door closed and locked behind him with a sigh of magic. Roman looked at his wardrobe, where the floor was bare. No letters waited for him. He expected there wouldn’t be any further correspondence with Iris from this point onward, since she had left to only the gods knew where. And he wasn’t sure if she had read his last letter or not, but he decided he could take no chances.
There was a loose floorboard beneath his desk. Roman knelt and gently worked it up, exposing a perfect hiding place. Once he had stashed candy and money and a home run baseball he had caught at a game and newspaper clippings here. Now, he took the shoebox full of Iris’s letters and he hid them, burying her words deep in the safety of darkness. He slid the floorboard back into place.
He couldn’t protect Del when she had needed him most, but he would try his best to protect Iris now.
Because he wasn’t sure how much his father truly knew about her. And Roman wasn’t about to let him discover anything more.
* * *
The Inkridden Tribune was chaos.
To be fair, it was in the drafty basement of an ancient building downtown, in a room half the size of the Oath Gazette. Tables were haphazardly arranged as desks, exposed bulbs shed light from above, and it smelled like fresh-cut paper and mildew with a whirl of cigarette smoke. Editors were busy at their typewriters, and assistants moved back and forth as if they were on a track, delivering chipped cups of tea and strips of messages from the one telephone—which rang shrilly off its hook—to certain desks.
Iris stood at the foot of the stairs, staring into the hustle, waiting for someone to notice her.
No one did. There were only a handful of staff to do the same amount of work that the Oath Gazette did. And she couldn’t deny that while the working conditions here were vastly different from her old employer, the air teemed with something electric. There was excitement and passion and that breathless feeling of creation, and Iris felt it catch in her lungs, as if she were falling ill to whatever fever was fueling these people.
She stepped deeper into the room and snagged the first assistant who passed by.
“Hi, I’m looking for Helena Hammond.”
The assistant, a girl a few years older than Iris with short black hair, halted as if she had just stepped into a wall. “Oh, you must be here to apply as a war correspondent! Here, see that door over there? That’s her office. She’ll be thrilled to meet you.”
Iris nodded her thanks and wove through the madness. Her breath felt shallow when she knocked on Helena Hammond’s door.
“Enter,” a gruff voice said.
Iris stepped into the office, surprised to see a trail of sunlight. There was a tiny square window high up on the wall, cracked to welcome fresh air and the distant sounds of the city. Helena Hammond, who couldn’t have been taller than five feet, stood puffing on a cigarette, staring into that beam of light. She had auburn hair that was cut into a bob and a fringe that brushed her eyelashes every time she blinked. Her cheeks were freckled, and a long scar graced her jaw, tugging on the corner of her lips. She was dressed in a set of high-waisted trousers and a black silk shirt, and a silver ring gleamed on her thumb.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice pitched deep and scratchy. She kept her focus on the sunlight, breathing out a long curl of smoke.
“I’m here to apply as a war correspondent,” Iris said. Her shoulders were aching from lugging around her typewriter and valise, but she stood as tall and elegant as possible. Because she could tell that the moment Helena looked at her, the woman would be able to see through her and weigh her mettle.
“Two in one day,” Helena remarked, at last turning her face to Iris. “Whatever have they put in the water?”
Iris wasn’t sure what she implied. But she held still as Helena walked around her desk to scrutinize her.
“Why do you want to be a correspondent, Miss…?”
“Iris. Iris Winnow.”
“Miss Iris Winnow,” Helena said, flicking ash off the end of her cigarette. “Why are you here?”
Iris shifted her weight, ignoring the pain in her wrists. “Because my brother is fighting.”
“Mm. That’s not a good enough answer for me to send you, kid. Do you have any idea how difficult it’ll be as a correspondent? Why should I send an innocent thing like you to see and digest and report such terrible things?”
A bead of sweat trickled down Iris’s spine. “People in Oath think they’re safe. They think that because the war is far away, it will never reach us here. But I believe it will come to the city one day, sooner than later, and when it does … there will be a lot of people unprepared. Your choice to report the news on the war front is going to help change that.”
Helena was staring up at her, and a lopsided smile crept over her lips. “You still didn’t answer why I should send you, Iris Winnow.”
“Because I want to write about things that matter. I want my words to be like a line, cast out into the darkness.”
“That’s rather poetic of you,” Helena said, eyes narrow. “What’s your previous experience?”
“I worked three months at the Oath Gazette,” Iris replied, belatedly hoping that wouldn’t dampen her chances.
“You worked for good ole Autry, did you? My, now that’s a surprise.” Helena chuckled, crushing her cigarette into an ashtray. “Why’d you leave such a splendid opportunity? Did he fire you for double spacing?”
“I resigned.”
“I like you more already,” Helena said. “When can you start?”
“Immediately,” Iris replied.