Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(14)

“You had only moments left before you died. Your lungs were brimming with blood. You were crawling through the grass, as if you were searching for someone.” Dacre paused. The breeze tousled his flaxen hair when he met Roman’s gaze. “Do you remember?”

“No.” Roman’s head was starting to throb again, and he frowned at the smattering of blood and the crimped grass. He tried to envision himself almost dying in such a place and felt nothing but gratitude that a god would want to save him.

“Mortal bodies are such fragile things to mend, as are your minds,” Dacre said with a hint of amusement. “Like spider silk, like ice in spring. In order for my magic to heal your physical wounds, I had to build walls in your mind to protect you when you woke again. Given that, it’s best if your memories return gradually.”

Roman was quiet for a beat. He was still staring at the bloodstained ground when he said, “Why did you save me?”

“You’re going to be a vital part of this war,” Dacre said. “And I’d like for you to write my side of the story.”



* * *



That evening, Roman stood in the room that had been assigned to him. A room on the upper floor of the house he almost remembered.

The curtains were a forest green. There was a makeshift pallet with folded blankets along one wall. The windows were webbed with cracks, the glass flaming iridescent as the sun set. The door struggled to latch, as if the building’s foundation had shifted, and despite the privacy Roman now had with a personal room, he knew it was an illusion. There was no lock, and Shane was standing guard in the hallway.

But Roman’s sole attention was on the desk aligned with one of the windows. On the typewriter that sat in the waning light, waiting for him.

Exhaustion made his bones feel heavy, but duty was a well-worn shape in his existence, and he approached the desk. He sat in the chair and stared at the typewriter. He didn’t know what he would write yet; he didn’t even know if there were words to be found within him.

There was a stack of fresh paper on the desk. A notepad and pencils. A host of candles as well as a lamp with a yellow-hued lightbulb, so he could write through the night. Dacre had thought of everything, it seemed, and Roman carefully fed a sheet into the typewriter. He sighed, raking his hand through his dark hair. He needed a shower. He wanted to sleep, to not have to think about anything for a little while. But when he at last set his fingers onto the keys, he was met by a surprise.

This wasn’t the typewriter he had told Dacre was his. This wasn’t the one he had grown up typing on, the one that had shown him a fleeting glimpse of his past self.

Roman closed his eyes, breath hitching.

He felt the tug again, the medley of emotions. He tried to imagine who had once touched these keys, time and time again. He tried to envision who had once written on this typewriter.

Who are you?

There was no answer. There was nothing for him to see, but he felt it again. A small yet unmistakable taunting. That invisible cord, knotted between his ribs.

He resisted the pull toward the unknown.





{5}

The First Alouette




“I don’t think he’s turned,” Iris said. “Roman is trying to stay alive.”

Helena arched a brow. “That very well could be. But that also means he’s unreliable and compromised. I can’t trust him anymore, and now he’s going to cause conflict for us by writing for our competitor.”

Iris returned her gaze to the Oath Gazette, still in hand. Her mind was spinning, but she focused on Roman’s article. She could almost hear him reading it to her, his cadence sharp, cold. Almost unfamiliar. Until her eyes caught on one word, easily overlooked in his sixth sentence: A story not just confined to a museum or a history tome that many of us will never touch, but a story that is in the process of being written.

“Museum,” Iris whispered.

“What’s that?” Helena asked.

Iris blinked. Her heart was suddenly racing. “Nothing. Just a thought.”

Helena sighed, hands on her hips. “Is this going to interfere with your ability to report, kid?”

“No. On the contrary,” Iris said, striding to the telephone. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.” She held up the Oath Gazette and gave the newspaper a good shake, just to appease Helena and the editors who were still watching her. Then she picked up the earpiece and dialed for the operator.

A male voice crackled over the line. “How may I direct your call?”

“The Oath Gazette, please,” Iris said.

“Please hold.”

She waited, tapping her foot. She could hear the static on the line, the sound of switches being flipped, and then a steady ringing in her ear. She knew the Oath Gazette had multiple telephones. There was no telling which one her call had been directed to, and she counted in her mind, waiting, hoping, praying …

“Hello, this is Prindle speaking for the Oath Gazette.”

A smile broke across Iris’s face. It was just as she had hoped, and it took her a breath to gather her words.

“Hello?” Sarah Prindle said again, a touch impatient.

“Prindle.” Iris spoke in a low voice. “I have some important news for you. It must be delivered in person. Meet me at Gould’s Café in twenty.”