Roman quietly climbed down from the motorcar, walking in Dacre’s shadow as they entered through a private back door of the building. No one was supposed to know Dacre was in the city, and that he was speaking to the upper echelons and most influential of Oath’s denizens after the chancellor tonight. His officers, one of whom was Captain Landis, walked close behind while four of Dacre’s elite soldiers also followed, two dressed in uniform and two dressed in black coats and trousers, starched white button-downs, and jeweled cuff links for the event. Shane, of course, was not among them; he was still at the estate. As Dacre was guided into a room to rest before the event, Roman took a quick inventory.
The chamber was spacious but only had one door, no windows. Flames crackled in the hearth, and a massive tapestry hung from the wall. There was a table of refreshments, although no one touched the chilled wine, fruit, and cheese. Only those Dacre trusted most were in the room, but no one relaxed save for the god himself, who sat in a chair before the fire.
Roman stood awkwardly off to the side, trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. But his hands were trembling, shot through with nerves. He needed to get out of this room. He needed to be in the courtyard, to deliver the message, but when he moved toward the door Dacre saw him.
“Come, Roman,” he said, inviting him closer. “Have a seat.”
The last thing Roman wanted to do was sit. But he did as Dacre bid, sitting in a high-backed leather chair beside him.
“What do you make of tonight?” Dacre asked, studying his face.
“I think it’s going to be an important one, sir. A turning point for us.”
“Do you think I will be able to convince them to join me?”
Roman paused. Them being the people the chancellor thought were powerful in society. But the problem with that notion was that there was far more to Oath than the noble, wealthy, and influential residents. There were the working and the middle class. The artists and writers and teachers and dreamers. The stonemasons and plumbers and tailors and bakers and construction workers. People who were made of mettle and drive and courage, who kept the city alight and moving forward. Some of them might support Dacre, but Roman knew that most of the people who had volunteered to fight for Enva had come from classes of society who could see the world as it truly was. Who could see injustice and who were willing to take a stand against it.
Dacre’s desire for surrender—a “peaceful” overtaking—would not be possible without their support. Oath would sunder in two before it happened.
“I hope so, sir,” Roman replied.
“You never told me about your meeting with Iris E. Winnow,” Dacre said, changing the topic so fast that Roman’s posture went rigid. “How was it?”
“It went well, sir.”
“Do you think she will be open-minded?”
“Maybe. It’s hard to tell with her, sometimes.”
“And why is that?”
“She’s quite stubborn, sir.”
Dacre only chuckled, as if he liked the thought. It made Roman’s blood feel clotted with ice, and he wished he hadn’t said such a thing.
But then Roman couldn’t stop himself. He asked, “When you do expect an answer from her?”
Dacre was quiet, gazing at the fire. “Soon.”
The door suddenly opened. Chancellor Verlice swept into the room.
Roman rose when Dacre did, moving out of the way as the chancellor offered a greeting. The leaders were soon preoccupied, conversing in low voices. But the air was heavy with anticipation as the clock ticked closer to half past five. The event was about to start.
When Roman noticed the two soldiers dressed for the event slipping out the door, he was not far behind them.
* * *
The Green Quarter was an inner courtyard in the heart of the Promontory, which once, long ago, had been the gathering place for medieval life. But the only trace of the past was the forge, located on the right-hand side, which had since been converted into an open café. Even then, it had changed so drastically that Roman would have never known it had once been a place where weapons were crafted, save for the blacksmith’s anvil that remained behind.
He watched from the edge of the courtyard as servers carried out flutes of champagne and trays laden with small bites, weaving through the gathering crowd. Hanging chandeliers burned against the encroaching dusk. Soon, it would be dark, stars and swollen moon shining overhead. And what of the curfew, Roman wondered, his eyes seeking the person with the red anemone. All the guests would be stranded here or would have to risk traveling home through mercurial streets.