“You knew me before you found me dying in the field.”
“I knew of you,” Dacre corrected before his attention returned to his newspaper. Roman could see it wasn’t the Gazette but a paper called the Inkridden Tribune. “You have a prestigious family name. One that has been a great support to me and my efforts. And I will not forget those who have faithfully served me.”
Roman was frozen, silent. But his heart ached, desperate for home. For family.
He couldn’t deny that he wanted to feel like he belonged somewhere. He wanted to trust what he was seeing. To fight for something.
“Sir?” he said. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”
Dacre was quiet, but interest lit his eyes.
Roman began to reach for the paper in his pocket, to pull out the strange note. But something tugged within his chest, sharp as a fishing line cast out to sea.
Wait.
He flexed his hand, hesitant.
Who wrote this? What sort of magic delivered it to me? Will I ever truly know the answers if I give it to him?
“You wanted to show me something?” Dacre prompted.
“Yes.” Roman reached down to open his typewriter case instead, withdrawing his half-written article. “What I was last working on.”
“Save it for this evening when we reach camp,” Dacre said, his focus returning to the Inkridden Tribune.
Roman felt stung at first by Dacre’s lack of interest. But then he realized the Tribune must be dictating what Dacre wrote for the Gazette. It was like a game of chess. Roman tucked his article in the case.
He sat back in the seat and watched Avalon Bluff fade away as if it had never been, that strange letter heavy as iron in his pocket.
{9}
Roadster Post
Iris was almost to the Inkridden Tribune when she sensed someone following her again. She could feel their gaze, boring into her.
She stopped and glanced behind, her arms tired from hauling her typewriter and duffel bag.
It was half past seven in the morning, and the shadows were still long and blue between buildings. But she could see the man who was trailing her, a dark trench coat belted at his waist and a hat tilted on his head, shielding his face.
“Mr. Kitt?” Iris called to him, trying to quell her fear. But her voice held a slight ring of alarm, even as she lifted her chin in defiance. “Why are you following me?”
The man said nothing but continued to walk toward her. His brogues clicked on the cobblestones, and his hands remained tucked away in his coat pockets. As the distance closed between them, Iris swallowed. This man was not as tall and trim as Mr. Kitt. He was broader, shorter. The trench coat couldn’t hide his brawn. When he finally glanced up to meet her gaze, she saw that his nose was crooked. One of his ears looked permanently swollen, and there was a prominent scar on his jaw.
A boxer, or a fighter. Someone who dealt blows for a living.
Iris’s first piercing thought was He knows. He knows I stole the typewriter and he’s come to take it back.
She whirled on her heel, blood coursing hot in her veins as she prepared to flee.
“Miss Winnow,” he called to her. “I’ve an important message for you. From Mr. Kitt.”
That stopped her, as if her ankles had sunk into a bog.
Slowly, Iris turned around to face the man. He stood two paces away, regarding her with an amused gleam in his eyes. His expression seemed to say you can run, but you won’t get very far.
“What is the message?” she asked. “And why didn’t you mention it sooner, rather than follow me?”
“Did I frighten you? My apologies, miss,” he said, laying a beefy hand over his heart.
She couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or mocking her, and she frowned, resisting the temptation to step back. The Tribune was only a block away. Five minutes from where she stood. If she hurled her duffel bag at the man, she might be able to outrun him …
He withdrew something from his pocket. An envelope with her name scrawled over the front. Quietly, he extended it to her.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Take it and you’ll see.”
She hesitated, staring at the envelope.
“Go on, little miss,” he said. “It’s something you want.”
I sincerely doubt that, Iris thought, but then she imagined what it might be. It was possible Mr. Kitt had begun his own inquiries into Roman’s whereabouts, ever since he realized his son wasn’t in Oath. As one of the richest men in the city, he might have gained some valuable insight.
Iris set down her bag and typewriter and took the envelope, surprised by how thick and heavy it was. She broke the seal only to realize it was brimming with money. Bill after bill after bill. She had never held so much money in her hands before, and she shivered, gaping down at it.
“Mr. Kitt has requested that you sign this agreement here, annulling your marriage to his son.” The man reached into his coat and pulled out a legal document and a fountain pen. “It also states that you will relinquish whatever hold or claims you have on Mr. Roman Kitt, and that you will not interfere with his current work at the Gazette. The money should provide a comfortable living for the next few years and—”
Iris hurled the money to the ground. The bills spilled from the envelope, spreading like a green fan on the cobblestones.
“My father-in-law can keep his money,” she said. “And I will not sign that document. Tell him to save his efforts because my answer will never change.”
She picked up her luggage and strode away, relieved when the man didn’t follow. But she could feel him staring at her.
Iris’s hands were like ice as she turned the corner.
She could see the old building that held the Inkridden Tribune ahead, the upper windows reflecting the rising sun. But her attention was promptly snagged by a smart-looking motorcar, parked at the curb. Attie was standing beside it, as were Helena and a young man Iris had never seen before.
She quickened her pace, heart in her throat. Returning to the front almost felt like a dream. It didn’t feel real yet, and Iris wondered when it would. She could scarcely believe she was doing this again.
“Helena?” Iris said, finally reaching the group. “Sorry I’m late.”
Helena turned, left brow arched. Her auburn hair was slicked back, and she held an unlit cigarette. It was evident she was trying to kick the habit. “You’re not late, we’re simply ahead of schedule for once.”
Before Iris could reply, the young man stepped forward. He was dressed in gray trousers, knee-high boots, leather braces, and a white shirt, the buttons undone at the collar. His skin was a rich brown, his face freshly shaved. His eyes were dark and mirthful, framed by long lashes. A bowler hat with a feather tucked within its band sat on his head, and a pair of goggles hung from his neck.
“I’ll take your bags, miss,” he offered.