Iris walked past those heavy glass doors, tracing the ring on her fourth finger. She turned onto a quieter side street, listening for the sound of footfalls behind her. There was too much din from the tram bells and the hawkers on street corners, though, and she dared to take a shortcut through an alley.
It was a strange, haphazard path that most vehicles couldn’t navigate without knocking a side mirror loose. A cobbled street where magic could still be felt when passing over certain thresholds or glancing at the shine of windows or stepping through a shadow that never faded, no matter how brilliant the sun burned overhead.
But Iris paused when she saw words painted in bold red paint on a white brick wall.
Gods belong in their graves.
It wasn’t the first time she had come across that statement. Last week, she had seen it painted on the side of a cathedral and on the library doors. The words were always in red, bright as blood, and often followed by a single name: Enva.
No one had seen the goddess in weeks. She no longer sang people to war, inspiring them to enlist and fight. Sometimes Iris wondered if Enva was even in the city, although others claimed they spotted the goddess from time to time. As for who was painting this sinister phrase all throughout town . . . Iris could only wonder, but it seemed to be a group of people in Oath who wanted no living divines in Cambria. Including Dacre.
With a shiver, Iris continued on her way. She was almost to the Inkridden Tribune when she allowed herself a final glance behind.
There was indeed someone farther up the street. But they spun and slipped into a shadowy doorway, and Iris couldn’t discern their build, let alone their face.
She sighed, rubbing the gooseflesh on her arms. She had reached her destination, and if it was Forest on her heels, then she would speak to him later, when she returned to their flat. It was a talk that had been brewing for an entire week now, the two of them both too hesitant to broach it.
Iris slipped past the wooden door, her boots clipping the black-and-white-tiled floor of the lobby. She took the staircase down, feeling the temperature shift as the lightbulbs emitted a faint ring above her. Yet another reason to wear her trench coat year-round.
The Inkridden Tribunewas rooted in the basement of an ancient building, where it often felt like eternal autumn, with oaken desks piled high with paper, a ceiling veined with copper pipes, exposed brick walls with drafty fissures, and the light of brass desk lamps limning the dance of cigarette smoke and the glint of typewriter keys. It was a dark yet cozy place, and Iris stepped into it with a soft exhale.
Attie was already sitting at the table they shared, staring absently at her typewriter. Her slender brown hands cradled a chipped cup of tea, and her brow was heavy, lost in deep thought.
Iris shed her trench coat, draping it over the back of her chair. She still wore the laced-up ankle boots that had been provided for the front lines, which were much easier to walk in than the heels she had once worn at the Gazette. The boots didn’t match the plaid skirt and white blouse she wore, but Helena Hammond didn’t seem to mind her mismatched outfit, so long as Iris wrote good pieces for the paper.
“Morning,” Attie greeted her.
“Morning,” Iris echoed as she took her seat. “Weather’s nice today.” “Which means it’ll be storming by the time we leave,” Attie countered wryly, taking a sip of tea. But then her voice gentled as she whispered, “Any news?”
Iris knew what Attie was referring to. She was asking about Roman. If Iris had somehow scrounged up any news on his whereabouts and status.
“No,” Iris replied, her throat narrow. She had sent out multiple telegrams since she had returned to Oath. Shots in the dark to railroad stations that were still operational despite how close they were to the war front.
MISSING PERSON ALERT STOP ROMAN C KITT STOP BLACK HAIR BLUE EYES WAR CORRESPONDENT STOP LAST SEEN IN AVALON BLUFF STOP CONTACT I WINNOW VIA OATH TELEGRAM OFFICE STOP
Iris had received no answers yet, but then again, what had she expected? Countless soldiers and civilians were unaccounted for these days, and she distracted herself with readying her typewriter, which truly wasn’t hers but a spare one that the Tribune was lending her. It was an old instrument; the space bar was worn down from countless thumbs and it possessed a few keys that liked to stick, creating plenty of errors. Iris was still trying to get used to it, longing for the magical one her nan had once given her. The typewriter that had connected her to Roman. The Third Alouette.
Iris fed a fresh sheet of paper into the roller, but she thought of her type-writer, wondering where it was. The last time she had seen it had been in her room at Marisol’s bed and breakfast. And while the B and B had miraculously survived the bombing, there was no telling what Dacre and his forces had done to the town once they had overtaken it. Perhaps the Third Alouette was still there in her old room, untouched and coated in ash. Perhaps one of Dacre’s soldiers had stolen it, using it for nefarious correspondence, or maybe had smashed it to glimmering pieces on the street.
“You all right, kid?” Helena Hammond’s voice suddenly broke the moment, and Iris glanced up to see her boss standing beside the table. “You’re looking a bit pale.”
“Yes, just . . . thinking,” Iris replied with a faint smile. “Sorry.”
“No apologies needed. I didn’t mean to interrupt your contemplations, but I have a letter for you.” A smile broke Helena’s stern countenance as she withdrew a crinkled envelope from her trouser pocket. “Someone I think you’ll be happy to hear from.”
Iris yanked the letter from Helena’s hand, unable to hide her eagerness. It had to be news about Roman, and her stomach twisted with hope and terror as she ripped opened the envelope.
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