“You can write with a pen,” Shane said. “And I’d avoid making a claim on that typewriter. He’s growing more suspicious by the hour. Don’t make him doubt you. Don’t give him any reason to start you at square one again.”
Roman had no reply to that. He walked to sit at his desk, a motion he had done a hundred times before, but this time it felt different. His hands felt weathered as he found a sheet of paper and a fountain pen from the drawer.
His heart was pounding. Worry and disgust shot through his veins, made his mouth dry.
Soon, he had promised Iris. This would all be over soon, and he would take her to the places she longed to go, as if life had never been interrupted.
Soon.
That promise was beginning to feel fragile, unattainable. A ship that was gliding farther and farther out to open sea.
But Roman wrote his confession.
Silent and grim, he surrendered it to Shane.
* * *
Iris stared at her typewriter through the curling drift of cigarette smoke. It was half past nine in the morning, and she was at the Inkridden Tribune, trying to write her next article.
But the words wouldn’t come.
She was thinking of the fact that she still hadn’t heard from Roman when Helena arrived at the table.
“Attie gone for the day?” Helena asked, noticing Attie’s chair was empty.
“She’s meeting with a former professor,” Iris replied. “But she’ll be back before lunch. Why? Did you need something?”
“No,” Helena said. There was an unlit cigarette in her mouth, but her eyes looked brighter, as if she had been finally getting some good rest. “A letter came for you in today’s post.”
Iris accepted it, surprised by how the envelope felt like velvet. Her name was written in bold handwriting, and there was purple wax on the back, pressed with the city seal.
“What is this?” she asked, hesitant.
“Not sure,” Helena said. “But I’d like to see for myself, since it was delivered to the office.”
Iris opened it, wincing when the edge of the envelope cut her fingertip. She withdrew a deckle-edged piece of paper and read: Miss Iris Winnow,
You are cordially invited by the chancellor himself to a press conference, to take place today, at half past five in the evening in the Green Quarter, located in the prestigious Promontory Building. As this is an exclusive invitation, it also serves as your pass for entrance. Please come dressed in your finest, for this will be a cause for celebration. As always, thank you for your devotion to the good of this city, and for being one of Oath’s leading minds and innovators.
Sincerely,
Edward L. Verlice
Chancellor Fifty-Three of Eastern Borough and Protector of Oath Iris handed the invite to Helena, who scowled the entire time she read it.
“Do you want to go, kid?” Helena asked.
“Shouldn’t I?” Iris pressed against the sting of her paper cut. “It sounds important, although I don’t know why they invited me, of all people.”
“Because you’re writing about the war. And this”—Helena stabbed the invitation—“most likely will have something to do with Dacre’s imminent approach.”
Iris bit her lip and reread the chancellor’s letter. But then she thought of another string of words that had been written to her. Ones she still mulled over when she had a quiet, dark moment.
Think on my offer. You will know when to give me your answer.
Was this it, then? Was this the moment she was to give Dacre her reply?
“Iris?” Helena said.
“I’m going,” Iris replied. “But I don’t have anything fancy to wear.”
“Then take the rest of the day off to prepare.” Helena began to walk away, then turned back around, removing the cigarette from her mouth. “But be careful, Iris. The meeting is at half past five. Almost dark, and a vulnerable time these days. Don’t forget curfew, and call me here at the Tribune if you need anything.”
Iris nodded, watching Helena return to her office.
She flicked off her desk lamp and picked up the invitation again, ignoring the inquisitive glances from the other editors and assistants.
It’s time, she thought with a shiver.
She was ready to give Dacre her answer.
{39}
Silver on the Green
Roman rode with Dacre and two officers in a vehicle to the Promontory. The back windows were covered with dark velvet drapes, holding the light and all views of the city at bay. As tempted as he was to part the curtains and watch Oath roll past, Roman didn’t dare move. The letter Shane had given him was tucked into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and every time Dacre looked his way, Roman could feel his heart falter a beat.
Once he had believed Dacre could read minds. He had since learned that it wasn’t true, but it didn’t dispel the fact that Dacre had uncanny abilities when it came to interpreting people.
Thankfully, the ride through downtown was a quiet one. But there was a perceptible chill in the air, as if hints of the under realm clung to Dacre’s fine raiment of gold, red, and black.
Something was going to happen tonight. Something that would crack the world in two.
Roman exhaled. He could almost see his breath.
They reached the Promontory, an old building that had once been a castle in a different era. It had been updated and redesigned over the past decade, turning it into a structure that seemed caught between nostalgia and modernity. A place that didn’t seem to quite know where it belonged.
Roman quietly climbed down from the motorcar, walking in Dacre’s shadow as they entered through a private back door of the building. No one was supposed to know Dacre was in the city, and that he was speaking to the upper echelons and most influential of Oath’s denizens after the chancellor tonight. His officers, one of whom was Captain Landis, walked close behind while four of Dacre’s elite soldiers also followed, two dressed in uniform and two dressed in black coats and trousers, starched white button-downs, and jeweled cuff links for the event. Shane, of course, was not among them; he was still at the estate. As Dacre was guided into a room to rest before the event, Roman took a quick inventory.
The chamber was spacious but only had one door, no windows. Flames crackled in the hearth, and a massive tapestry hung from the wall. There was a table of refreshments, although no one touched the chilled wine, fruit, and cheese. Only those Dacre trusted most were in the room, but no one relaxed save for the god himself, who sat in a chair before the fire.
Roman stood awkwardly off to the side, trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. But his hands were trembling, shot through with nerves. He needed to get out of this room. He needed to be in the courtyard, to deliver the message, but when he moved toward the door Dacre saw him.
“Come, Roman,” he said, inviting him closer. “Have a seat.”
The last thing Roman wanted to do was sit. But he did as Dacre bid, sitting in a high-backed leather chair beside him.
“What do you make of tonight?” Dacre asked, studying his face.
“I think it’s going to be an important one, sir. A turning point for us.”