Sometimes she relived the moment that had changed everything. The moment when Enva had stopped him on his walk home. A goddess in disguise. He had chosen to listen to her music, and that music welled in his heart, propelling him to enlist that night.
It had all happened so quickly. Iris had scarcely had the chance to catch her breath as Forest explained his rash decision. He had been packing, bright-eyed and feverish. She had never seen him so excited.
I have to go, Little Flower, he had said, touching her hair. I need to answer the calling.
And she had wanted to ask him, What about me? What about Mum? How can you love this goddess more than us? But she hadn’t. She had been too scared to raise those questions to him.
“Mum?” Iris asked, tremulous. “Mum, do you think Forest is—”
“He’s alive, sweetheart,” Aster said, fixing the last roller. “I’m his mother. And I would know if he had left this realm.”
Iris released a shaky breath. She met her mother’s gaze in the mirror.
“It’s going to be all right, Iris,” Aster said, hands on her shoulders. “I’m going to be better too, from now on. I promise. And I’m sure Forest will return in the next month or so. Things will get better soon.”
Iris nodded. Even though her mother’s eyes were hazy from the alcohol that distorted her reality, she believed her.
* * *
Roman stormed home. He was so preoccupied with thinking about how horribly awry his conversation with Iris had gone that he didn’t realize there was company in the drawing room. At least, not until he had slammed the front door and was striding through the foyer to the grand stairwell, and his mother’s delicate voice called out to him.
“Roman? Roman, dear, please come say hello to our guests.”
His foot froze on the step as he stifled a groan. Hopefully he could say hello to whoever it was and then retreat to his room and revise his essay on missing soldiers. An assignment that should have gone to Iris, he thought as he walked into the gilded drawing room.
His gaze went to his father first, as if all the gravity in the room was centered on him. Mr. Ronald Kitt had been handsome in his day, but years of grief, stress, cigars, and brandy had left their mark. He was tall but stooped, ruddy-faced with hard eyes that gleamed like blue gemstones. His raven hair was now streaked with thick lines of silver. His mouth was always pursed, as if nothing could ever please him or draw a smile.
Some days Roman was terrified he would turn into his father.
Mr. Kitt stood by the hearth, behind the chair Roman’s mother was gracing. And while his father’s presence was intimidating, his mother lent a gentleness to any room. In spite of that, she had become more and more distracted as the years passed, ever since Del had died. Conversations with her often didn’t quite make sense, as if Mrs. Kitt belonged more with ghosts than the living.
Roman swallowed when he met his father’s gaze.
“Roman, this is Dr. Herman Little, a chemist at Oath University, and his daughter, Elinor,” Mr. Kitt introduced, extending his glass of brandy to his left.
Roman’s eyes reluctantly traveled across the room, landing on an older gentleman with sandy brown hair and overly large spectacles on a small, crooked nose. Beside him on the divan was his daughter, a pale girl with blond hair crimped in a bob. Blue veins pulsed in her temples and on the backs of her clasped hands. She looked fragile, until Roman met her gaze and saw nothing but ice in her eyes.
“Dr. Little, Miss Elinor,” Mr. Kitt continued. “This is my son, Roman Kitt. He’s about to be promoted to columnist at the Oath Gazette.”
“How splendid!” Dr. Little said with a yellow-toothed smile. “To be columnist at the most prestigious paper in Oath is a rare feat. You’ll hold a great influence over your readers. Quite an achievement for one your age, which is…”
“I’m nineteen, sir,” Roman replied. He must have sounded too brisk, because his father scowled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both, but if you’ll excuse me, there is an article I need to wor—”
“Go and freshen up for dinner,” Mr. Kitt interrupted. “Meet us in the dining room in half an hour. Don’t be late, son.”
No. Roman knew better than to be late for anything when his father was involved. His mother smiled at him as he turned and left.
In the safety of his room, Roman dropped his messenger bag and his fa?ade of dutiful son. He raked his fingers through his hair and hurled his coat across the room. And it was strange how his gaze went to his wardrobe. There was no paper on the floor. No letter from Iris. But of course, she probably wasn’t home yet. Roman had a terrible inkling that she didn’t take the tram but walked to and from work, and that was why she was late sometimes.
It wasn’t his problem, but he kept envisioning her limping. As if something was wrong with those godsawful boots she was wearing.
“Stop thinking about her!” he hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
He pushed Iris far from his thoughts. He washed and dressed in a black suit for dinner, descending to the dining hall. He was early by two minutes, but it didn’t matter. His parents and the Littles were waiting on him. He unfortunately saw that he was to take the chair directly across from Elinor. Her cold stare pierced him the moment he sat down.
That was when Roman felt his first sense of dread.
This wasn’t going to be a comfortable dinner.
His nan was also missing from the table, which meant his father was trying to control everything that was said tonight. Roman’s nan lived in the east wing of the mansion. She had a temper and spoke her mind, and Roman fiercely wished she were present.
He was silent for the first two courses. So was Elinor. Their fathers did most of the talking, and they spoke of the cost of certain chemicals, the method of extraction, the rate and catalysts of reactions, why a certain element called praxin turned green when it was combined with a salt and how only a certain type of metal could safely store it.
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.”