At ten till nine the following morning, Iris found herself waiting in the shadow of the building she had once worked in, cutting her journalistic teeth on obituaries, classifieds, and advertisements. The place she had first met Roman. The Oath Gazette was on the fifth floor, and she knew the exact line of windows to watch.
She kept her attention on the shine of the glass now, waiting for Sarah’s signal. The street before her was busy, cars and wagons and pedestrians flowing from one place to the next.
It was a place where one could strangely feel both lonely and satisfied, surrounded by people who might acknowledge you or might not. By people who didn’t know your name or where you had come from but all the same shared the same air—the same moment in time—with you.
The clock struck nine.
Two minutes ticked by, two minutes that felt like years. But then Iris saw it. Sarah pressed her handkerchief to the windows.
Dacre’s man had just left the Gazette.
Iris shifted her gaze to the glass doors of the building, which were tall and trimmed in brass, a constant glimmer as people entered and exited. It would have been easy to miss someone slipping out amongst the activity, but Iris knew how slow the lift in that building was, and she intuitively knew when he should be departing.
She spotted him, a lithe figure in a cloak, the hood drawn up.
He descended the marble steps with ease, heading northwest.
Iris began to trail him.
She kept a safe distance, but a few times she was worried she would lose track of him in the crowd, and she drew as close as she dared. She paused when he did, her heart quickening in dread, but he was only stopping to purchase two papers from a newsboy. The Gazette and the Tribune.
He continued on his way with a brisk pace. Iris followed.
Eventually, he wound deeper into the northern ridge of the city, over the river to what was known as “the Crown.” This was the wealthier side of Oath, and Iris wasn’t familiar with these streets. She pulled her trench coat tighter around her, shivering when it began to mist.
At last, he arrived at a large iron gate, its finials shining with bronze pearls. It opened for him before shutting once more, latching with a metallic rattle.
Iris hung back to make it seem like she was casually walking by. But she paused long enough to take in the long cobbled drive beyond the gate. It led up to a grand estate on a verdant hill with a manicured yard, veiled by swirling mist.
Iris froze, hands shoved deep in her coat pockets.
Her eyes cut to the gate again, to the brick pillars. There was a name carved in a smooth piece of stone, eye level on the right column. A name that made her breath catch.
THE KITT ESTATE.
{30}
Don’t Let This Freedom Fool You
This is a test to check and see that the strike bars R & E are in working condition.
ERERRRRRRR EEEE RRRRR
R
E
E
??
*
Iris!
What’s happened? Are you all right?
—Kitt
KITT!
There’s a DOOR to the UNDERWORLD in your HOUSE. Did you know this?!
xI
P.S. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.
P.P.S. And yes, I know I just broke a rule by writing you first today. You can scold me later. (In person … preferably.)
Gods, Iris. My heart is still racing, thinking you were about to write and tell me something horrible had happened.
(Note: I promise to scold you later. In person … as you’d like.)
And no, I didn’t know there was an active threshold in my parents’ estate, but it should have crossed my mind. I can also say that gsrmyl—wait, sorry but I need to go. I hear them summoning me. Until I can write you again, stay safe and well.
Love,
Kitt
It was Lieutenant Shane, knocking on Roman’s door.
“You’ve been summoned,” he said tersely through the wood.
“I’ll be right along,” Roman replied, his fingers flying over the keys as he rushed to finish typing to Iris. He bit his lip as he tore the paper from the typewriter, sliding his letter beneath the wardrobe.
He packed up his typewriter and stepped into the hall, expecting to find Shane waiting for him. But the dimly lit corridor was empty, and Roman walked to the factory alone through the rain, teeming with the same curiosities and questions as he had the day before at Luz’s graveside. He had wanted to speak to the lieutenant alone again but hadn’t been afforded the chance, and as he now ascended the stairs to the top floor of the factory, he mulled it over for the hundredth time: the key in the soil, creating a threshold. Dacre’s expression as he had emerged from the grave.
What did he see? Is Luz truly dead?
To Roman’s shock, two soldiers were guarding Dacre’s office, the door closed.
“The Lord Commander doesn’t wish to be bothered at the moment,” one of them said.
“I was just summoned by him,” Roman replied, coming to an unsteady halt. “Should I return later?”
The soldiers exchanged a glance. It was apparent they feared Dacre’s wrath in all its shades, whether that be by interrupting him or by sending away his pet of a correspondent.
“Go on, then,” the other said, inclining his head to the door.
Roman nodded and passed between them, slipping into the office.
The first thing he noticed was how dark it was in the room. Even with the wall of rain-streaked windows, afternoon storm shadows gathered deep in the corners and around the furniture. Only a few candles were lit on the desk, their flames wavering as if there were a draft.
Roman stood, stiff with uncertainty, his eyes cutting through the darkness. Dacre wasn’t here, and he wondered if the god had returned to Luz’s grave alone. He was turning to leave when he heard someone breathing. Deep and heavy, the rhythm of dreams.
Swallowing, Roman edged to the center of the room, where he could see a shine of golden hair draped over the arm of a divan. There was Dacre, sleeping on the cushions, his hands laced over his chest, his eyes shut and his mouth slack.
Dacre had once told him gods needed little to no sleep, which made Roman wonder why was he making himself vulnerable now.
He stepped closer, his heart beginning to pound.
I could kill him, Roman thought, staring down at Dacre’s placid face. I could kill him and end everything here and now.
The only weapon he held was his typewriter, enclosed in its case. Which made him swiftly realize that he didn’t know the most effective way to kill a divine, even if he had been granted a blade or a gun or a match to burn their immortal body down to ash.
Despite that stark reality, Roman glanced around the room, wondering if there were any weapons hiding in the shadows. There were none to be found, but his gaze landed on the candlelit desk, where maps were spread across the wood.
He had been eager to study the map of the underworld again, waiting for a moment when he could be alone with the drawings.
Roman walked to the table and laid his hand over the detailed drawing of Cambria, watching as the map beneath was illuminated. He studied it, his gaze racing along the active routes, all the way to Oath. This time he knew what to look for, and even as the city remained mostly dormant and dim, due to the routes still being repaired, there was a single, brilliant vein that ran beneath the city, straight through its heart, up to the northern side.