Divine Rivals (Letters of Enchantment, #1)(18)

It also struck Roman as odd that his father was arranging a marriage with a professor’s daughter, not the daughter of a lord. He sensed that something else lurked beneath the surface of this conversation, and Roman was simply a pawn in a game.

Calmly, he said, “I regret to inform you that I cannot—”

“Don’t be a lad about this, Roman,” Mr. Kitt said. “You will marry this lovely young woman and unite our families. That is your duty as my sole heir. Do you understand?”

Roman stared at his plate. The half-eaten meat and potatoes, now gone cold. He realized that everyone at the table had known but him. Even Elinor must have known, because she was watching him closely now, as if measuring his reaction to her.

He swallowed his emotions, hiding them deep in his bones. The things that he wanted, the simmering anger. The grief that was still tender, like a wound half healed. He thought of the small grave in the garden, a headstone he could hardly endure to visit. He thought of the past four years, how dark and cold and miserable they had been. And his guilt whispered to him. Of course you must do this. You failed in your most paramount of duties once, and if this is for the good of your family, how could you not?

“Yes, sir,” he said in a flat tone.

“Excellent!” Dr. Little clapped his spindly hands. “Should we have a toast?”

Roman watched numbly as a servant filled a flute with champagne for him. His hand felt detached as he took hold of the glass; he was the last to raise it in a toast he didn’t even hear because he felt a roaring panic cascade through him.

But just before he deigned to sip the wine, he met Elinor’s eyes. He saw a flicker of fear in her, and he realized she was just as trapped as he was.





{7}





Skywards vs. Underlings


It was late by the time Roman returned to his room after dinner. Sweat was breaking out on his brow, lining his palms.

He was about to marry a stranger. A girl who looked at him with disdain.

He tore off his jacket, ripped away the bow tie at his throat. He kicked off his brogues and unbuttoned his shirt and then fell to his knees in the center of the floor, curling up as if he could ease the pain in his stomach.

He deserved this, though. It was his fault that he was his father’s sole heir.

He deserved to be miserable.

His breaths were ragged. He closed his eyes and told himself to inhale, exhale, inhale.

He could hear his wristwatch ticking. Minutes were passing, one after the other. He could smell the rug beneath him. Musty wool and a faint trace of shoe polish.

When he opened his eyes again, he noticed the piece of paper on the floor.

Iris had written.

He crawled to it. His hands were trembling as he opened the folded paper, surprised to find a very short but intriguing message from her:

What do you know of Dacre & Enva?

For a moment, he was overwhelmed by her seemingly innocent question. But then his mind started racing through the myths he knew. The stories in the old volumes he had inherited from his grandfather.

It was a welcome distraction. He could lose himself in this; he could write her back because it was facts she wanted, nothing more.

Roman stood and whispered, “Please light the lamp.”

The old estate answered, flickering his desk lamp on. The lightbulb cast his room in a soft golden glow as he approached his built-in bookshelves. He began to sift through his mythology tomes, handling them carefully as most of them were falling apart. He was trying to decide which myth to share with Iris when a few loose leaves fell out of one volume, drifting down to his feet.

Roman paused. Page after page, tinted caramel with age, and full of his grandfather’s handwriting. He picked up the sheets and glanced through them, realizing it was a recording about Enva and Dacre. A myth that was rarely known these days.

His grandfather must have written it down and tucked the papers away in one of his books for safekeeping. He had often done that, forgetting where he had placed his writing. Roman had found everything from letters to stray ideas to random story chapters, years after his death.

And as Roman skimmed the handwritten myth, he knew this was the one he wanted to share with Iris.

He carried it to his desk and sat, working to transcribe it on the typewriter.

You’re in luck. I happen to know a thing or two about Dacre and Enva. There’s a myth I’m familiar with, and I’ll share it with you. I found it tucked away in an old tome, handwritten and only half complete. So keep in mind that its latter part is missing, and I have yet to come across it.



* * *



There were two families that divided the gods of old: the Skywards and the Underlings. The Skywards ruled above, and the Underlings reigned below. Most of all, they hated each other—as immortals are prone to do—and often engaged in challenges, to prove who was more worthy to be feared or loved or worshiped among mortal kind.

Dacre Underling, hewn from white limestone with veins of blue-lit fire, decided he would capture one of his enemies because he was bored of living day after day, season after season, year after year. Such is the weight of immortality. As the god of vitality and healing, he craved a challenge, so he asked a human who lived below if they knew the name of the most beloved Skyward divine. A god or goddess whom mortals praised and loved.

“Oh yes, sire,” said the denizen. “She plays music on a harp that would melt the coldest of hearts. She ferries mortal souls after they die, and there is none as fair as her above or below.”