Divine Rivals (Letters of Enchantment, #1)(17)

Roman watched his father, who was nodding and acting like he knew exactly what Dr. Little was talking about. All too soon, the conversation turned to the railroad.

“My grandfather chartered the first railroad out of Oath,” Mr. Kitt said. “Before that, it was horses and wagons and the stagecoach if you wanted to travel anywhere.”

“What foresight your ancestors had,” said Dr. Little.

Roman blocked out the rest of his father’s story and Dr. Little’s flattery, weary of hearing about how his family did this and that and made their fortune. None of it truly mattered when it came to the peers of Cambria, who were steeped in old wealth and often snubbed people like the Kitts, who were built from new, innovative money. Roman knew it bothered his father—how often their family was disregarded at social events—and Mr. Kitt was always plotting to change people’s minds. One of those plans was Roman’s gaining columnist instead of attending university and studying literature, as Roman wanted to do. Because if money couldn’t seal the Kitts’ prowess and respect in the city, then positions of power and esteem would.

Roman was hoping he could escape the table before the last course when his mother turned to Elinor.

“Your father says you are an accomplished pianist,” Mrs. Kitt said. “Roman loves to listen to the piano.”

He did? Roman had to bite back a retort.

Elinor didn’t spare him a glance. “I was, but I prefer to spend my hours in my father’s laboratory now. In fact, I don’t play anymore.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear of it.”

“Don’t be, Mrs. Kitt. Papa asked me to stop, since music is aligned with Enva these days,” Elinor said. Her voice was monotone, as if she felt nothing.

Roman watched her push the food around her plate. He suddenly had a creeping suspicion that the Littles were Dacre sympathizers, and his stomach churned. Those who favored Dacre in the war tended to be people who were one of three things: zealously devout, ignorant of the mythology where Dacre’s true and terrifying nature was depicted, or, like Zeb Autry, afraid of Enva’s musical powers.

“Enva’s music was never something to be afraid of,” Roman said before he could stop himself. “In myths, she strummed her harp over the graves of mortals who died, and her songs guided souls from their bodies to the next realm, whether it was to live above with the Skywards or below with the Underlings. Her songs are woven with truth and knowledge.”

The table had fallen deathly quiet. Roman didn’t dare glance at his father, whose eyes were boring into him.

“Excuse my son,” Mr. Kitt said with a nervous chuckle. “He read one too many myths as a boy.”

“Why don’t you tell us more of the Gazette, Roman?” Dr. Little suggested. “I’ve heard Chancellor Verlice has limited the newspapers in Oath on how much they can report on the war. Is this true?”

Roman froze. He wasn’t sure—he was so focused on trying to outwrite Iris these days—but then he thought about how little he had written about the war, and how Zeb’s assignments had drifted to other things. The fact that he was writing about missing soldiers was surprising, although perhaps even that was a ploy to turn people against Enva.

“I haven’t heard of any restrictions,” Roman replied. But it suddenly felt possible, and he could envision the chancellor of Oath—a tall, beady-eyed man with a stern countenance—quietly enforcing such a thing, to keep the east out of the war’s destruction.

“When do you become columnist?” Dr. Little asked. “I’ll be sure to purchase the paper that day.”

“I’m not sure,” Roman said. “I’m currently being evaluated for the position.”

“But he will get it,” Mr. Kitt insisted. “Even if I have to bribe the old bloke who runs the joint.”

The men chuckled. Roman went rigid. Iris’s words returned to him like a slap to the face. If you get columnist, it will only be due to how much your rich father can bribe Autry to give it to you.

He rose, bumping the table in his haste. The plates rattled, the candlelight trembled.

“If you’ll pardon me,” he began to say, but his father’s voice overpowered his.

“Sit down, Roman. There’s something important we need to discuss.”

Slowly, Roman resumed his seat. The silence felt fraught. He wanted to melt through a crack in the floor.

“Oh, dearest,” his mother exclaimed. “It’ll be so exciting! To finally have something happy to celebrate.”

Roman glanced at her, brow arched. “What are you speaking about, Mother?”

Mrs. Kitt looked at Elinor, who was staring down at her hands, expressionless.

“We’ve arranged a marriage between you and Miss Little,” Mr. Kitt announced. “This joining of our families will not only be beneficial in our next endeavor but will also be just as your mother described: a joyous occasion. For too long, we have been in mourning. It’s time to celebrate.”

Roman exhaled through his teeth. It felt like he had fractured a rib as he struggled to fathom what his parents had done. Arranged marriages were still common in the upper class, amongst viscounts and countesses and anyone else still clinging to a dusty title. But the Kitts were not those sorts of people, no matter how determined his father was to elevate them into high society.