They were almost to the fifth floor. Iris tapped her fingers against her thigh.
“If you have a problem with it, then go speak to Autry yourself,” she said, just as the doors yawned. “Although I don’t know why you’re so worried. In case you need to be reminded … ‘She’ll give me no competition. None at all. She dropped out of Windy Grove School in her final year.’”
“Excuse me?” Roman demanded, but Iris was already three steps away from the lift.
She hurried down the hall to the office, relieved to see that Sarah was already there, brewing the tea and emptying all the crumpled paper from dustbins. Iris let the heavy glass door swing closed behind her, right in Roman’s face, and she heard the squeak of his shoes and his grunt of annoyance.
She didn’t spare him another glance as she settled in at her desk.
This day had brought her far bigger problems than Roman Kitt.
* * *
“Are you happy here?”
Sarah Prindle seemed startled by Iris’s soft question. It was noon, and the two girls had found themselves on lunch break together in the small kitchen. Sarah was sitting at the table, eating a cheese and pickle sandwich, and Iris was leaning against the counter, nursing her fifth cup of tea.
“Of course I’m happy,” Sarah said. “Isn’t everyone who gets a job here? The Oath Gazette is the most prestigious paper in the city. It pays well, and we get every holiday. Here, Winnow, do you want half of my sandwich?”
Iris shook her head. Sarah cleaned and ran errands and took messages for Zeb. She organized the obituaries and the classifieds and the announcements that came in, setting them on either Iris’s or Roman’s desk to edit and type.
“I guess what I meant to say was … is this what you envisioned for yourself, Prindle? When you were a girl and anything seemed possible?”
Sarah swallowed, pensive. “I don’t know. I guess not.”
“What was your dream, then?”
“Well, I always wanted to work in the museum. My dad used to take me there on weekends. I remember loving all the old artifacts and stone tablets, teeming with lore. The gods were quite vicious in their time. There were the Skywards—Enva’s family—and then the Underlings—Dacre’s family. They’ve always hated each other. Did you know that?”
“I unfortunately don’t know much about the gods,” Iris said, reaching for the teapot. “They only taught us a few legends in school. Mainly about the gods we killed, centuries ago. But you could still do that, you know.”
“Kill gods?” Sarah’s voice cracked.
“No,” Iris said with a smile. “Although that would bring an exhilarating end to this bloody war. I meant you could go and work in a museum. Do what you love.”
Sarah sighed as a piece of chutney fell from her sandwich. “You have to be born into that profession, or be very, very old. But what about you, Winnow? What is your dream?”
Iris hesitated. It had been a long time since someone had asked her such a thing.
“I think I’m living it,” she replied, tracing the chipped edge of her teacup. “I’ve always wanted to write about things that matter. To write things that inspire or inform people.” She suddenly felt shy, and chuckled. “But I don’t really know.”
“That’s swell,” Sarah replied. “And you’re in the right place.”
A comfortable silence came between the girls. Sarah continued to eat her sandwich and Iris cradled her tea, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was nearly time to return to her desk when she dared to lean closer to Sarah and whisper, “Do you ever pay attention to what the Inkridden Tribune publishes?”
Sarah’s eyebrows shot upward. “The Inkridden Tribune? Why on earth would you—”
Iris held a finger to her lips, heart quickening. It would be her luck if Zeb happened to walk by and hear them.
Sarah lowered her voice, sheepish. “Well, no. Because I don’t want to get fired.”
“I saw the paper yesterday,” Iris continued. “On the street. They were reporting on monsters at the front.”
“Monsters?”
Iris began to describe the image from the paper—wings, talons, teeth. She couldn’t stifle her shudder as she did, nor could she untangle the image of Forest from it.
“Have you ever heard of one?” Iris asked.
“They’re called eithrals,” Sarah said. “We touched on them briefly in my mythology class, years ago. There are a few stories about them in some of the older tomes in the library…” She paused, a startled expression stealing across her face. “You’re not thinking to write your own report on them, are you, Winnow?”
“I’m debating. But why are you looking at me that way, Prindle?”
“Because I don’t think Autry would like it.”
And I don’t care what he thinks! Iris wanted to say, but it wasn’t completely true. She did care, but only because she couldn’t afford to lose to Roman. She needed to pay the electricity bill. She needed to purchase a nice set of shoes that fit. She needed to eat regularly. She needed to find her mother help.
And yet she wanted to write about what was happening in the west. She wanted to write the truth.
She wanted to know what Forest was facing at the front.
“Don’t you think Oath needs to know what’s truly happening out there?” she whispered.
“Of course,” Sarah replied, pushing her glasses up her nose. “But who knows if eithrals are truly at the front or not. I mean, what if—” She abruptly cut herself off, her eyes flickering beyond Iris.
Iris straightened and turned, wincing when she saw Roman standing on the kitchen threshold. He was leaning on the doorframe, watching her with hooded eyes. She didn’t know how much he had overheard, and she attempted a smile, even as her stomach dropped.
“Conspiring, are we?” he drawled.
“Course we are,” Iris countered brightly, holding her teacup like a toast. “Thank you for the tip, Prindle. I need to get back to work.”
“But you haven’t eaten anything, Winnow!” Sarah protested.
“I’m not hungry,” Iris said as she approached the doorway. “Pardon me, Kitt.”
Roman didn’t move. His gaze was fixed on her as if he wanted to read her mind, and Iris fought the temptation to smooth the stray tendrils of her hair, to anxiously roll her lips together.
He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it, his teeth clinking shut as he shifted sideways.
Iris stepped over the threshold. Her arm brushed his chest; she heard him exhale, a hiss as if she had burned him, and she wanted to laugh. She wanted to taunt him, but she felt scraped clean of words.
Iris strode back to her desk and set down her lukewarm tea. She shrugged on her coat and grabbed her notepad and pencil, feeling the draw of Roman’s suspicious gaze from across the room.
Let him wonder where she was going, she thought with a snort.
And she slipped away from the office.
* * *