The truth was she had been too intimidated to write them back. Instead, she had spent the dark hours in an eddy of worry, remembering all the things she had said in her previous letters. She had told Forest she’d dropped out of school. It would be a blow to him—a broken promise—so she had quickly followed it up with her coveted job at the Gazette, where she was most likely going to earn columnist. Despite that personal information, she had never given away her true name; all her letters to Forest ended with her moniker. Little Flower. And she was most certainly relieved that—
“Winnow? Winnow!”
A hand grabbed her upper arm like a vise. She was suddenly yanked backward with such force that her teeth pierced her lower lip. Iris stumbled but found her bearings just as the oiled whoosh of a tram passed by, so close she could taste metal in her mouth.
She had almost been hit.
The realization made her knees quake.
And someone was still holding her arm.
She glanced up to behold Roman Kitt with his fashionable fawn-colored jacket and shined leather brogues and slicked-back hair. He was staring at her as if she had sprouted a second head.
“You should pay attention to where you’re going!” he snapped, releasing her as if the contact had scorched him. “I was one second away from watching you be smashed on the cobblestones.”
“I saw the tram,” she replied, straightening her trench coat. He had nearly ripped it, and she would have been devastated if he had.
“I beg to differ,” Roman said.
Iris pretended she hadn’t heard him. She carefully stepped over the tram rails and hurried up the stairs into the lobby, blisters blooming on her heels. She was wearing her mother’s dainty ankle boots, which were a size too small, but they would have to do until Iris could purchase a new set of heels. And because her feet were throbbing … she decided she needed to take the lift.
Roman was unfortunately on her trail, and she realized with an inward groan that they would have to ride the elevator together.
They stood waiting for it, shoulder to shoulder.
“You’re here early,” Roman finally said.
Iris touched her sore lower lip. “So are you.”
“Autry give you an assignment I don’t know about?”
The lift doors opened. Iris only smiled as she stepped inside, positioning herself as far away from Roman as possible when he joined her. But his cologne filled the small space; she tried not to breathe too deeply.
“Would it matter to you if he did?” she countered as the lift began to rumble upward.
“You were here late yesterday, working on something.” Roman’s voice was measured, but she swore she heard a hint of worry in him. He leaned on the wood paneling, staring at her. She kept her gaze averted, but she was suddenly aware of the scuffs on her mother’s shoes, the wrinkles in her plaid skirt. The stray hairs escaping her tightly wound bun. The stains on Forest’s old coat that she wore every day like armor.
“You didn’t work all night in the office, did you, Winnow?”
His question jarred her. She brought her gaze back to his with a glare. “What? Of course not! You saw me leave, right after I offered to buy you a sandwich.”
“I was busy,” he said.
She sighed, glancing away.
They were just now approaching the third floor. The lift was slow, and it paused as if it sensed Iris’s distress, let out a clang, and then opened the doors. A man dressed in a derby suit with a briefcase in hand glanced from Iris to Roman and the vast space between them before he gingerly stepped inside.
Iris relaxed a fraction. Having a stranger join them would make Roman hold his tongue. Or so she thought. The lift continued its laborious ascent. And Roman broke elevator etiquette, asking, “What assignment did he give you, Winnow?”
“It’s none of your concern, Kitt.”
“It actually does concern me. You and I want the same thing, in case you forgot.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” she said tersely.
The derby-suited man fidgeted, caught in the middle of their argument. He cleared his throat and reached for his pocket watch. The sight of it made Iris think of Forest, which made her dwell once more on her current dilemma of the mysterious correspondent.
“I don’t see how it’s fair if Autry gives you assignments without my knowledge,” Roman carried on. “This is supposed to be an even draw between you and me. We play by the rules. There shouldn’t be any special favors.”
Special favors?
They were almost to the fifth floor. Iris tapped her fingers against her thigh.
“If you have a problem with it, then go speak to Autry yourself,” she said, just as the doors yawned. “Although I don’t know why you’re so worried. In case you need to be reminded … ‘She’ll give me no competition. None at all. She dropped out of Windy Grove School in her final year.’”
“Excuse me?” Roman demanded, but Iris was already three steps away from the lift.
She hurried down the hall to the office, relieved to see that Sarah was already there, brewing the tea and emptying all the crumpled paper from dustbins. Iris let the heavy glass door swing closed behind her, right in Roman’s face, and she heard the squeak of his shoes and his grunt of annoyance.
She didn’t spare him another glance as she settled in at her desk.
This day had brought her far bigger problems than Roman Kitt.
* * *
“Are you happy here?”
Sarah Prindle seemed startled by Iris’s soft question. It was noon, and the two girls had found themselves on lunch break together in the small kitchen. Sarah was sitting at the table, eating a cheese and pickle sandwich, and Iris was leaning against the counter, nursing her fifth cup of tea.
“Of course I’m happy,” Sarah said. “Isn’t everyone who gets a job here? The Oath Gazette is the most prestigious paper in the city. It pays well, and we get every holiday. Here, Winnow, do you want half of my sandwich?”
Iris shook her head. Sarah cleaned and ran errands and took messages for Zeb. She organized the obituaries and the classifieds and the announcements that came in, setting them on either Iris’s or Roman’s desk to edit and type.
“I guess what I meant to say was … is this what you envisioned for yourself, Prindle? When you were a girl and anything seemed possible?”
Sarah swallowed, pensive. “I don’t know. I guess not.”
“What was your dream, then?”
“Well, I always wanted to work in the museum. My dad used to take me there on weekends. I remember loving all the old artifacts and stone tablets, teeming with lore. The gods were quite vicious in their time. There were the Skywards—Enva’s family—and then the Underlings—Dacre’s family. They’ve always hated each other. Did you know that?”
“I unfortunately don’t know much about the gods,” Iris said, reaching for the teapot. “They only taught us a few legends in school. Mainly about the gods we killed, centuries ago. But you could still do that, you know.”
“Kill gods?” Sarah’s voice cracked.
“No,” Iris said with a smile. “Although that would bring an exhilarating end to this bloody war. I meant you could go and work in a museum. Do what you love.”