Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(105)

“Get home before nightfall, kid,” Helena had said, lighting her cigarette at last. “Your brother, I’m sure, is keen to see you.”

Iris hadn’t protested. She felt exhausted and battered now that the article was out of her hands. And she did need to get home—she wanted to see Forest—but then she remembered the sword, still hiding under Helena’s desk.

With a sigh, Iris began the brisk walk to the Inkridden Tribune. It wasn’t far from the print factory, and she thankfully made it to the office before the last editor left.

“Lock up behind you, will you, Winnow?” he asked, shrugging on his coat.

Iris sat at her desk as if she planned to work through the night, but she nodded. “Yes, of course. Goodnight, Frank.”

She waited until his footsteps faded away on the stairs before she rose and snatched a spare jacket from the rack. She hurried into Helena’s office, worried that the sword would be gone. But it was still there, just as they had left it.

Iris knelt and wrapped the scabbard and hilt in the jacket. It was the best way she could think of transporting the sword home without revealing what it was—gods, what would she do if the Graveyard caught her with it?—and she was about to rise to her feet, sword awkwardly in tow, when she heard footsteps again. They were growing louder. Someone was descending the stairs, approaching the Tribune.

Iris remained behind Helena’s desk. She hadn’t locked the door when Frank strode out, thinking no one would swing by since curfew had almost struck. But now she was stranded in Helena’s office, unsure who was coming.

She heard the main door open and close. Footsteps walking around the desks, almost hesitant, as if they were lost, or looking for something.

Iris held her breath as they drew closer to Helena’s office. Go away, she thought, thinking whoever it was couldn’t be here for anything good. But then she heard a muffled cough. Someone cleared their throat.

“Iris?”

The voice was familiar.

She shot to her feet, sword in her arms, and stared wide-eyed at the last person she had expected to see.

“Kitt?”

He nudged the office door open, the lamplight washing over her face.

“You hide under desks often, Winnow?” he drawled.

The mirth in his voice, the slight smile tugging on his lips, the way her last name sounded in his mouth. It was like they had fallen back in time, and it made Iris’s chest ache. She had to swallow a sob, and she couldn’t resist glaring at him.

“It suits me from time to time,” she countered, but then her voice dropped low. “What are you doing here?”

“I was making sure you were all right when you left my house. And that you made it home safely. I’ve been waiting outside the printer and was surprised when you made a detour.” Roman’s eyes fixated on the bundle she carried. “Do I want to know what that is?”

“I’m sure you will. But let me bring it out to the light. Here, to my desk, actually.” She walked past him, just shy of grazing his chest. But she heard his sharp inhale, and it made her pulse quicken.

Roman followed to her—lamentably—disorganized desk because who had time for keeping things neat these days? Her work typewriter sat with a half-typed sentence in its clutches, a few books sat open, and there was a messy pile of paper. She discreetly shoved the plate of old toast out of the way.

Roman watched as she threw off the jacket and exposed the sheathed sword.

He gave a low whistle. “You steal that from the museum, wife?”

“Do I look like a thief?” Iris grimaced. “Maybe don’t answer that.”

“Well, now that I get a better look at you…” Roman smiled, his eyes moving down her body, and then slowly up again. “I like your new haircut, by the way.”

Iris snorted, but her cheeks flushed as she traced her hair. It was still crimped from the stylist, the shorter ends now brushing her collarbone. “Thank you. And this sword was actually given to me.”

“By whom?”

“By Enva.”

Roman froze. He listened, hung upon her every word, as Iris told him of last night: the bomb, finding refuge in the museum. The dream. The things Enva had revealed to her.

“You were right, Kitt,” Iris said in conclusion. “She did kill Alva, Mir, and Luz, taking their power for her own but only as a preventative measure, so Dacre wouldn’t steal their magic when he woke. The cost of it, though, has weakened her own gift of music and has kept her here, beholden to Oath.”

“And why didn’t she just go ahead and slay Dacre in his grave while she was at it?” Roman asked sharply. “It would have saved us endless trouble if she had done that one thing.”

Iris hesitated, chewing on her lip. “I’m not sure. I didn’t realize it was her until the dream was about to break. I wish I could have spoken to her longer.”

Roman was quiet, his gaze drifting to the sword. “And she now wants you to kill Dacre.”

“Yes.”

“She has all that power at her disposal, and she still commands you to go.”

“She didn’t command me,” Iris said, but then wondered why she was feeling defensive. In some ways, she could see the draw of the Graveyard and their beliefs. Meddling with gods never seemed to benefit humans. There was always a catch.