The tiles beneath her feet were glazed blue, eventually transforming into scuffed hardwood. Stray leaves gathered in the corners of a parlor. A chandelier hung from the ceiling above, as if it had blossomed from a crack, its crystals glittering in the lantern light. But it was a stairwell with a fancy banister that drew Iris’s attention. The steps led to a darkened second floor, and an idea occurred to her.
As Iris took the stairs up to a narrow hallway, she didn’t know if the house had magically prompted her, or if it truly was a thought of her own. In the end, it didn’t matter, as she entered a bedchamber at the back of the house. The room was reminiscent of her own, with a mattress against one wall, a desk piled high with books, and a wardrobe door that was open, revealing metal hangers. Most of all, there was a window that overlooked the way she had run to town. Iris held her lantern up to the glass panes as well as the wrench, waiting to see if she could get a signal from Attie and Tobias.
“Will this tool work?” she whispered, hoping Attie would use her binoculars to get a closer look.
A moment later, she spotted a firefly of light in the distance. Attie had struck a match in reply. When Iris squinted, she could even see the faint trace of the roadster, a dark shadow on the road.
Attie waved her small flame. Iris couldn’t tell what that meant and was debating on what to do when she felt the floor tremble. She thought she had imagined it until the walls shuddered, making a nearby picture frame fall from its nail.
Breath suspended and feet rooted to the spot, Iris strained her ears against the roar of silence.
A door opened below. Boots began to tromp along the floor. Voices rose like smoke.
Run or fight.
The magic she stood upon now felt treacherous. A net that had caught her limbs. Her hands trembled as she opened the lantern. With her eyes still riveted to Attie’s distant flame, Iris blew hers out.
{21}
Face-to-Face with a Dream
Roman couldn’t breathe.
They had him in a line with the soldiers. His typewriter case banged against his knee every time he took a step, and the pack strapped to his back made him feel unbalanced and slow. There was no option but to move forward, as if he were in a river and its current was dragging him to a waterfall. Dragging him to his death. A battle was imminent, and he was going to be caught in the middle of it with nothing more than a typewriter in hand.
He tried to draw a deep breath to steady his heart, but stars danced at the corners of his eyes. The line slowed when they left the cavernous chamber, feeding into a winding corridor again that was studded with shards of emerald. Blue lightning flickered through the stone overhead, lighting the way. Roman could taste it, a weird medley of ozone and damp rock, and he briefly wondered if it was magic crackling on his tongue.
“Eyes forward, guns ready.” Lieutenant Shane was passing by, walking against the flow of their progress. He repeated the phrase, again and again, his gaze moving over every soldier in line. The moment he brushed Roman’s shoulder, Roman frantically reached out and snagged his sleeve.
“Please,” Roman panted. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”
Shane paused. “You’re exactly where you need to be, correspondent.”
“I have no weapon, no training. I … I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing!”
“You’re part of the press. No one will shoot you,” the lieutenant said, indicating the badge on Roman’s jumpsuit. The badge that proclaimed Roman was far from neutral but an UNDERLING CORRESPONDENT.
Before Roman could form a reply, Shane slipped from his grip and continued on his way repeating his phrase.
Eyes forward, guns ready.
Numb, Roman resumed walking. But then a whisper came in his ear, a hiss to get his attention.
“Pssst. You’re with the greens,” said the soldier behind him. “Don’t worry, they have us entering the city on the outskirts, away from the worst of the battle. We’ll be arriving through a door on the edge.”
That revelation did nothing to ease Roman’s fears, and he gritted his teeth together. He had once thought that he would want to be here. To be an eyewitness to fate unfolding. But now that he was seconds away from it, he couldn’t help but feel how unprepared he was.
The floor was rising, forming into a stairwell. Roman began to ascend, step by step, feeling his muscles burn from the exertion. Cold sweat beaded along his skin. His stomach churned and he swallowed a surge of acid.
This is it, he thought, his eyes on the blue veins that shone in the rock around him, on the doorway that loomed in the distance, marked by a crown of emeralds. I will die far from home, with words I wanted to say but never did.
He finally reached the top of the stairs, sensing the air shift from the underworld’s to that of the realm above. Fresh and cool with a hint of sweetness. He gasped mouthfuls of it, as if he had been underwater, drowning. His skin flushed. He was embarrassed by how weak he appeared, and he stumbled off to the side to gain his bearings.
He stretched out his hand, touching the wall. Soldiers continued to pour through the door behind him, but Roman studied his surroundings—the scuffed hardwood, the speckled mirror above the mantel, a hearth full of ashes.
He was standing in a parlor.
His knees went weak, and he was sliding to the floor when Lieutenant Shane appeared and took hold of his arm, hauling him back up.
“Breathe,” Shane said briskly. “You’re going to be fine, correspondent.”
Roman nodded, but sweat had soaked through his clothes. He fought a wave of nausea.
“Look, take a moment to compose yourself,” the lieutenant said. “And then I want you to search the upper floor of this house. Use this torch to see. Check under every bed and every wardrobe. Report back to me here when you’re done.” He handed Roman a small rectangular box with a lens and bulb. “Turn it on with this switch.”
He demonstrated, and the torch emitted a soft beam of light, limning the parlor and the soldiers who had gathered within the room.
Roman stared at the incandescent box, shifting it so that the beam pointed downward. “What should I do if I find someone upstairs?”
“Take them captive.”
How? Roman wanted to demand. His hands were occupied by a typewriter and a torch, but Shane had turned and was rattling off an order to another private. It occurred to Roman that the lieutenant had given him a harmless task. This house felt empty, abandoned. Shane was simply getting Roman—who had proven himself quite useless as a soldier—out of their way.
Roman cracked his neck before he stepped out of the parlor. He felt stiff and strange, as if his bones had become iron, weighing him down. Or maybe it was only his fear, which continued to spread like ice, making him feel cold and clumsy. But he reached the foot of the stairwell and stared into the shadows, the torch’s light cutting through the darkness.
With a shiver, Roman took the first step upward.
* * *