The current active route.
It ended in a blue flickering circle, marking the Kitt estate. Just as Iris had suspected, and Roman wished he had thought of his father’s potential involvement sooner. That he had recalled those magical quirks of the house he had grown up in, and how they might be connected to the under realm’s doorways.
Where are the other thresholds?
He leaned closer so he could study the details of the city. He scrutinized the active route, noticing there were other circles that were not lit in blue. Other magical doors, then? And this didn’t even account for the additional routes that he knew must run beneath Oath that still needed to be repaired. There could be hundreds of doorways, and Roman gave himself three more breaths to memorize the lit route and the circles before he lifted his hand and stepped away.
He walked to his appointed desk and drew a fresh sheet of paper from the pile. Closing his eyes, he saw the illuminated path again. It was burned into his vision, and he drew it as best he could on the page with a fountain pen.
The room suddenly felt colder.
Roman opened his eyes.
Dacre was beginning to stir on the divan. His breaths quickened as if he were in a nightmare, hands clenching into fists. Roman glanced at the door, measuring the distance. He wouldn’t have time to slip away before Dacre woke, which meant he needed a reason to be here. He noticed the Inkridden Tribune was still on his desk, Iris’s headline about Dacre’s doomed love with Enva wrinkled as if it had been roughly handled.
Roman marked three potential doors on his crudely drawn map, identifying general buildings in Oath that might be hosting magical thresholds. Then he forced himself to fold the paper and tuck it into his pocket. He had begun to unpack his typewriter as if it were any other afternoon work session when Dacre’s voice broke the silence, darkened by fury.
“Enva.”
The sound made Roman’s blood turn to ice. He froze, watching as Dacre sat forward on the divan. The god’s back was angled to him; Dacre still hadn’t seen him, and he covered his face with his hands—such a human gesture that Roman felt a pang in his chest.
“My lord,” Roman rasped, thinking he had better announce himself. “I’m here to finish our article.”
Dacre didn’t move. He could have been hewn from stone; there was no draw of breath, no reaction to Roman’s presence.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“Get out,” Dacre said in a low, sharp tone.
Roman didn’t need to be told twice. With a shiver, he took his typewriter and fled.
* * *
A few hours later, just before dusk, Dacre sent for him.
Lieutenant Shane once more came to fetch Roman, his eyes hooded as if he were bored.
“A true summoning this time?” Roman asked, a touch sardonic.
Shane held his stare, impassive. “And what of it? Did you not write a new article for him, as is the norm every afternoon?”
Roman frowned. He was about to ask if Shane had known Dacre was sleeping, or had suspected it and wanted confirmation, when the lieutenant said, “Leave the typewriter. You won’t need it.”
Roman paused, his hand reaching for the case handle. If he didn’t need his typewriter, then what did Dacre want with him? It couldn’t be good, given the private moment Roman had witnessed earlier.
He followed Shane without another word, leaving the Third Alouette behind in his room. He was too preoccupied with his worries to speak as Shane kept a brisk pace, weaving them through the damp streets of Hawk Shire. All Roman carried was Iris’s ring and the map he had drawn of Oath’s ley line, both tucked deep into his pocket. He was beginning to feel uneasy, keeping such items on his person.
He didn’t know what to expect, but sweat was trickling down his back and nausea was roiling through him by the time they reached the office.
Dacre wasn’t alone. There was a tall, pale man standing at the god’s side, a black cloak fastened at his collar. His face was angular, like the facets of cut rock, and his eyes were narrow and cold, glittering with judgment as he studied Roman.
“I’ve given some thought to the article we were planning to write, Roman,” said Dacre. His voice was languid. There was no trace of the nightmare or its lingering fury in his visage, although Roman could still feel an echo of the goddess’s name, hours after it had been spoken.
Enva.
Dacre had dreamt of her.
What did that mean for them, for the war? It felt like the tide had altered, and yet all Roman could feel was the sand shifting beneath him, uncertain of the new ebb and flow.
He laced his hands behind his back to hide how he trembled. “Which article, sir?”
“The one in response to Iris E. Winnow. To the article she wrote for the Tribune, championing Enva’s cleverness and deceit and victory over me.” Dacre took a few steps closer, the space between them shriking until his shadow touched Roman’s feet.
“And what have you decided, sir?”
“I’m sending you to Oath,” Dacre announced. “I would like you to meet with this Iris E. Winnow. You said that you once worked with her and have an acquaintance. Would she be willing to speak with you?”
“I … yes, I believe so, sir. But why—”
“Not only is she a skilled writer, but she has the ear of the Tribune, which is gaining more popularity by the day,” Dacre cut him off. “She is also writing for Enva. I can see the touch of the goddess on her, claiming her words, twisting them against me. For this reason alone, I would like to steal her from my wife. I would like Iris E. Winnow writing for me. If you agree to go on my behalf, then you must take this and meet with her in a public place.”
Dacre extended an envelope. It was a faint blue, like the color of a robin’s egg, shimmering in the late-afternoon light. Iris E. Winnow was scrawled in elegant penmanship—the mere sight of her name made Roman’s heart quicken—and he reached out to take the envelope.
He was about to go home.
He was about to see Iris again.
“When should I go, sir?” he asked, glancing up to meet Dacre’s steady gaze.
“You’ll go now.”
“Now?”
“Val is here and can escort you to the city.” Dacre indicated the strange, cloaked man in the room, who continued to watch Roman like a hawk does a mouse. “If you depart this evening, you’ll reach Oath by sunrise.”
Oath was still a good distance away, but here was the chance to see how Val was coming and going. Here was the opportunity to confirm where the door was in his family’s estate, and for Roman to see the active route with his own eyes.
He only wished that he had his typewriter in hand. Iris wouldn’t know he was coming. He would catch her by surprise and, as Dacre had said, their meeting would have to be in a public place. Most likely because Val would be watching them to ensure nothing suspicious occurred.
It felt risky, seeing her without warning. It felt liberating, as if Roman was being set loose from a gilded cage.