Divine Rivals (Letters of Enchantment, #1)(33)
“Enough, Father!” The words exploded from Roman. “I’m not marrying Miss Little, and your comments about my colleague are unfounded and uncalled-for!”
Mr. Kitt sighed. “I’m disappointed in you, Roman.”
Roman shut his eyes, suddenly drained. This conversation had taken a turn for the worse, and he didn’t know how to salvage it.
“Do you know what this is, son?” Mr. Kitt asked. Roman opened his eyes to see his father touching the crate. “This right here is our future. It’s going to save us in the war, because Dacre will one day reach us in Oath. And you breaking your commitment to Miss Little will jeopardize my plans to preserve our family.”
Roman stared at the crate. “What’s in it?”
Mr. Kitt lifted the lid. “Come take a look.”
Roman edged a few steps closer. Close enough so he could catch a glimpse of what rested within. Slender metal canisters the length of his forearm, resting like silver bullets in the crate.
“What are those?” he asked, frowning. “Are those bombs?”
His father only smiled and shut the lid. “Perhaps you should ask your fiancée. She helped her father create them.”
“This is evil,” Roman said, his voice wavering. “These bombs or whatever they are … you can’t return from something like this. They’re going to kill innocent people. I won’t—”
“No, this is ingenious,” Mr. Kitt interrupted. “All of the lords and ladies of Oath who are bowing to Enva … where do you think their titles will go when Dacre takes the city? Who do you think he will reward?”
Roman stared at his father, eyes wide in horror. “Is this all you care about? Where you stand among high society? How you can take advantage of others?” He began to step away, his breath hissing through his teeth. “I won’t be a part of this, Father.”
“You will do exactly what I tell you to do, Roman,” Mr. Kitt said. “Do you understand? If you won’t do it to save your own hide, then at least think of your mother, who is still grieving over your recklessness.”
Roman felt the blood drain from his face. The guilt over his sister’s death burned like acid in his mouth, and he lost all desire to fight, to speak.
“This is your duty, son,” his father said in a gentler voice. “I’m very proud of you for being promoted. You have a very bright future ahead of you. Don’t ruin it on a poor girl who no doubt wants to drain you of your inheritance.”
Roman turned and left.
He hardly remembered striding into his room. The door closed and locked behind him with a sigh of magic. Roman looked at his wardrobe, where the floor was bare. No letters waited for him. He expected there wouldn’t be any further correspondence with Iris from this point onward, since she had left to only the gods knew where. And he wasn’t sure if she had read his last letter or not, but he decided he could take no chances.
There was a loose floorboard beneath his desk. Roman knelt and gently worked it up, exposing a perfect hiding place. Once he had stashed candy and money and a home run baseball he had caught at a game and newspaper clippings here. Now, he took the shoebox full of Iris’s letters and he hid them, burying her words deep in the safety of darkness. He slid the floorboard back into place.
He couldn’t protect Del when she had needed him most, but he would try his best to protect Iris now.
Because he wasn’t sure how much his father truly knew about her. And Roman wasn’t about to let him discover anything more.
* * *
The Inkridden Tribune was chaos.
To be fair, it was in the drafty basement of an ancient building downtown, in a room half the size of the Oath Gazette. Tables were haphazardly arranged as desks, exposed bulbs shed light from above, and it smelled like fresh-cut paper and mildew with a whirl of cigarette smoke. Editors were busy at their typewriters, and assistants moved back and forth as if they were on a track, delivering chipped cups of tea and strips of messages from the one telephone—which rang shrilly off its hook—to certain desks.
Iris stood at the foot of the stairs, staring into the hustle, waiting for someone to notice her.
No one did. There were only a handful of staff to do the same amount of work that the Oath Gazette did. And she couldn’t deny that while the working conditions here were vastly different from her old employer, the air teemed with something electric. There was excitement and passion and that breathless feeling of creation, and Iris felt it catch in her lungs, as if she were falling ill to whatever fever was fueling these people.
She stepped deeper into the room and snagged the first assistant who passed by.
“Hi, I’m looking for Helena Hammond.”
The assistant, a girl a few years older than Iris with short black hair, halted as if she had just stepped into a wall. “Oh, you must be here to apply as a war correspondent! Here, see that door over there? That’s her office. She’ll be thrilled to meet you.”
Iris nodded her thanks and wove through the madness. Her breath felt shallow when she knocked on Helena Hammond’s door.
“Enter,” a gruff voice said.
Iris stepped into the office, surprised to see a trail of sunlight. There was a tiny square window high up on the wall, cracked to welcome fresh air and the distant sounds of the city. Helena Hammond, who couldn’t have been taller than five feet, stood puffing on a cigarette, staring into that beam of light. She had auburn hair that was cut into a bob and a fringe that brushed her eyelashes every time she blinked. Her cheeks were freckled, and a long scar graced her jaw, tugging on the corner of her lips. She was dressed in a set of high-waisted trousers and a black silk shirt, and a silver ring gleamed on her thumb.