He did? Roman had to bite back a retort.
Elinor didn’t spare him a glance. “I was, but I prefer to spend my hours in my father’s laboratory now. In fact, I don’t play anymore.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear of it.”
“Don’t be, Mrs. Kitt. Papa asked me to stop, since music is aligned with Enva these days,” Elinor said. Her voice was monotone, as if she felt nothing.
Roman watched her push the food around her plate. He suddenly had a creeping suspicion that the Littles were Dacre sympathizers, and his stomach churned. Those who favored Dacre in the war tended to be people who were one of three things: zealously devout, ignorant of the mythology where Dacre’s true and terrifying nature was depicted, or, like Zeb Autry, afraid of Enva’s musical powers.
“Enva’s music was never something to be afraid of,” Roman said before he could stop himself. “In myths, she strummed her harp over the graves of mortals who died, and her songs guided souls from their bodies to the next realm, whether it was to live above with the Skywards or below with the Underlings. Her songs are woven with truth and knowledge.”
The table had fallen deathly quiet. Roman didn’t dare glance at his father, whose eyes were boring into him.
“Excuse my son,” Mr. Kitt said with a nervous chuckle. “He read one too many myths as a boy.”
“Why don’t you tell us more of the Gazette, Roman?” Dr. Little suggested. “I’ve heard Chancellor Verlice has limited the newspapers in Oath on how much they can report on the war. Is this true?”
Roman froze. He wasn’t sure—he was so focused on trying to outwrite Iris these days—but then he thought about how little he had written about the war, and how Zeb’s assignments had drifted to other things. The fact that he was writing about missing soldiers was surprising, although perhaps even that was a ploy to turn people against Enva.
“I haven’t heard of any restrictions,” Roman replied. But it suddenly felt possible, and he could envision the chancellor of Oath—a tall, beady-eyed man with a stern countenance—quietly enforcing such a thing, to keep the east out of the war’s destruction.
“When do you become columnist?” Dr. Little asked. “I’ll be sure to purchase the paper that day.”
“I’m not sure,” Roman said. “I’m currently being evaluated for the position.”
“But he will get it,” Mr. Kitt insisted. “Even if I have to bribe the old bloke who runs the joint.”
The men chuckled. Roman went rigid. Iris’s words returned to him like a slap to the face. If you get columnist, it will only be due to how much your rich father can bribe Autry to give it to you.
He rose, bumping the table in his haste. The plates rattled, the candlelight trembled.
“If you’ll pardon me,” he began to say, but his father’s voice overpowered his.
“Sit down, Roman. There’s something important we need to discuss.”
Slowly, Roman resumed his seat. The silence felt fraught. He wanted to melt through a crack in the floor.
“Oh, dearest,” his mother exclaimed. “It’ll be so exciting! To finally have something happy to celebrate.”
Roman glanced at her, brow arched. “What are you speaking about, Mother?”
Mrs. Kitt looked at Elinor, who was staring down at her hands, expressionless.
“We’ve arranged a marriage between you and Miss Little,” Mr. Kitt announced. “This joining of our families will not only be beneficial in our next endeavor but will also be just as your mother described: a joyous occasion. For too long, we have been in mourning. It’s time to celebrate.”
Roman exhaled through his teeth. It felt like he had fractured a rib as he struggled to fathom what his parents had done. Arranged marriages were still common in the upper class, amongst viscounts and countesses and anyone else still clinging to a dusty title. But the Kitts were not those sorts of people, no matter how determined his father was to elevate them into high society.
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.