He paused, watching Iris’s face. Her mind was whirling, and he seemed to enjoy the bewildered gleam in her eyes.
“But most of all, you are fighting for a goddess who is a coward. She hides in plain sight. If war broke out in the streets of Oath, she would remain in the shadows. She will never offer you her aid, and she will gladly let you and your people die in her stead. Would you rather write for her, a goddess who has used her magic to lure me here, destroying your land in the process, or would you rather write for me, who walks shoulder to shoulder with you? Who has shown you that yes, a god can be cruel, but he can also be merciful?”
Iris broke their gaze. Her bones were humming, her doubt swarmed like a flood.
She thought back on the night before. Enva had been kind and gentle to Iris. She had aided her, sheltered her, given her knowledge like breadcrumbs to sustain her in the coming days. But Enva was still a divine. She wasn’t human and she didn’t understand the full breadth of mortality.
“I’ve never been devout,” Iris said, meeting Dacre’s stare. “And I write for no one but myself.”
“A lonely mountain to claim,” Dacre responded with a hint of derision.
“Is it? You say that I know nothing of your kind, but even after all this time walking among us, I don’t think you truly understand us either, sir.”
“Do not challenge me, Iris,” he said. “Unless you think you will win.”
His warning chilled her.
“Roman?” Dacre glanced at him. “Will you bring the typewriter to Iris?”
Iris swallowed as she felt Roman step closer. She could smell his cologne; it made her want to weep, to think of those old days when they had sparred with words and assignments. To remember how young they had seemed then, and to acknowledge where they both were now.
He moved her teacup aside, his hand pale, elegant. A hand that had touched her, explored her every line and bend. Fingertips that had once traced her lips when she gasped. Then he brought the typewriter over. He set it down carefully before her. The Third Alouette.
She studied it, blinking away the sting in her eyes. How many words had she written on this typewriter, a loyal companion through lonely nights? How many ideas had it taken of hers, turning them into eternal ink on paper? How many poems and letters had her nan typed upon it, years before Iris was born? How many hours had it comforted Roman, an anchor for him in the darkest days of his captivity?
It was immeasurable. Infinite. The magic still gathered, and it called to her.
And yet Iris refused to touch the keys.
Dacre stared at her, waiting. His patience was like ice in spring, breaking swiftly. A dark expression flickered across his face.
“Paper, Roman?”
Iris bit her lip as Roman obediently reached for a fresh page. He had to stand behind her, leaning over her shoulders, to roll the paper into the typewriter. She could feel the heat of him. She could feel his breath in her hair. He was careful not to touch her, even as his hands fell away and he straightened. He was mindful, like he knew his own limits, as well as hers.
If they touched now, it would shatter the story they had written to survive.
“Now can we discuss what I called you here to write?” Dacre asked. “I have an important article that I would—”
“I will not write for you,” Iris cut him off.
Dacre arched a brow. He appeared surprised at first, as if her defiance was a burst of unexpected rain. But then his annoyance was evident as he pressed his lips into a thin line.
“You answer without even knowing the words I would ask you to type?” Dacre asked. “What sort of journalist are you, refusing to listen when knowledge is offered up to you? Knowledge that would save thousands of your own kind?”
Iris gritted her teeth, but she was shaking now. It felt like she had been set out in the snow and the wind, and no fire or sunlight could ever thaw her bones again. She was terrified, and her stomach was churning, threatening to heave up the meager toast and soup she had eaten that day.
Dacre snapped his fingers. “Roman? Set her hands upon the keys since Iris has forgotten how to type.”
“Lord Commander,” Roman said, but his voice was hoarse, like it hurt to speak. “I—”
“Or have you lost all your sense as well?”
“No, sir.” He dutifully stepped forward again. Iris could feel him gazing at the fingers she had laced tightly on her lap. The shine of her wedding ring.
Roman hesitated.
If he touches me, I will sunder in two, she thought, fire in her blood. If he touches me, I will come undone.
Iris set her hands on the keys before Roman could reach down. But she still felt him, his presence close behind her. She could hear the sigh that unspooled from him.
“There now,” Dacre said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it, Iris?”
She couldn’t answer. Her head ached when she realized how he had coerced her. How she had acquiesced to writing for him. Something she never wanted to do.
“Tell me when you’re ready,” he said, triumph gleaming in his eyes.
She sat there for a few more minutes, her hands frozen on the keys, her gaze on the strike bars. She wrestled with her vast disappointment, the slippery ghost of her fear, the anger, the longing, the words that had gathered and formed a painful dam in her chest.
But was she truly surrendering if she was staying alive? If she only gave him her hands?
Iris lifted her eyes. She looked at Dacre’s neck, the cords of his throat that moved when he drank the last of the tea.
“I’m ready,” she said.
{43}
Courtesy of Inkridden Iris
The afternoon air had cooled into evening by the time Tobias drove Iris away from the Kitt estate. But the city felt unnaturally quiet for what was normally its busiest hour.
Iris noticed most of the streets were empty, litter gathering at the curbs like flotsam in a river. Stores had already closed for the day. Flowers had been set in windowsills for the chancellor, who was still fighting for his life at the hospital. No children played in the yards or in the park, and people strode along the sidewalks with their coats belted tight and their eyes wide with worry. Doors were locked against the world, as if the war couldn’t cross a threshold uninvited.
Iris knew better. She also knew Oath was shaken over Dacre’s arrival and the fallout from the assassination attempt. Innocent people had died, and fresh graves were being dug in the cemetery. They wouldn’t be the last, and the city felt like it was balancing on the edge of a knife, waiting to see which way it would fall.
Come tomorrow at noon, they would have their answer. She reached for the paper tucked into her pocket. A page inked with Dacre’s words.