The envelope was heavy as a stone in his pocket. He forced himself to mingle with the crowd, feeling checkerboard grass and stone beneath his shoes. Shane’s words continued to echo through him: There will be a man wearing a red anemone pinned to his lapel in the crowd. This envelope needs to be handed directly to him. Once you do that … leave the courtyard immediately.
Roman bumped shoulders with someone and quickly apologized. Sweat began to trickle down his face as his desperation grew. He could hear a wheeze, catching the end of each breath, his cough flaring. He accepted a flute of champagne, downing the fizz, feeling it trickle through him like fire.
He recognized some of the guests here. Most of them were older, hailing from rich and noble families. People his father had been desperate to win approval from, and it made Roman feel like spiders were crawling over his skin as he continued to weave his way through the throng. He reminded himself to be mindful of Dacre’s two soldiers who were also pretending to be guests, milling around in their fine clothes. If they saw Roman hand off a message, then they would know he was a traitor.
Roman sighed and came to a halt at the edge of the courtyard again. He looked for the two soldiers in disguise, finding the tall, handsome one talking to a woman in a silver dress.
The soldier shifted, granting Roman a view of the woman’s face.
It was Iris.
Roman was frozen to the ground as he stared, taking in her every detail. Her red lips, the dress that shimmered when she breathed, the way her skin looked in the candlelight. She had cut her hair shorter; it was crimped in a wavy bob, the ends touching her bare shoulders.
A pang went through him when she granted the soldier a small smile. She was politely listening to him talk, but she angled away when he leaned in closer to her.
Roman took two steps and then halted. He couldn’t approach them. He couldn’t walk up to her and slide his hand around her waist like he yearned to. He couldn’t lace his fingers with hers and whisper words into her ear to make her smile and then blush. He couldn’t acknowledge her as his wife. Not now, and maybe never, if Dacre’s plans took root tonight.
And yet Roman couldn’t help but feel like his insides were twisting the longer he gazed at her.
Look at me, Iris.
Look at me.
The soldier was still talking, but then Iris’s attention shifted to the stage that was set up at the front of the courtyard. Everyone in the crowd looked that way as the chancellor began to speak, his voice commanding the dusky air. Everyone but Roman, who could not draw his eyes away from Iris.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
He felt his composure crack.
He didn’t make out what the chancellor said—the words melted together—but Roman finally dragged his attention away from Iris when the atmosphere turned cold and quiet. When a smattering of applause covered up a few gasps of alarm, and Roman saw that Dacre had now taken the stage.
Roman had missed the handoff.
He had failed to do what Shane had ordered, and it took another minute for the truth of his current predicament to scrape down his ribs.
Leave the courtyard immediately.
Roman needed to know why. He needed to know what was imminent because Iris was here, her face blanched and her lips parted as she listened to Dacre and his honeyed words.
The air shuddered through him as Roman retrieved the envelope from his inner pocket. No one around him noticed. They were all either transfixed or horrified by the sight of Dacre in the courtyard. A god here in Oath, in plain sight.
Roman broke the seal and slipped out a small square of paper.
A blast alone won’t do. You must sever the head.
The words swam before him as he read them a second time. A third. He slipped the paper back into the envelope and calmly tucked it into his pocket. But his gaze cut through the crowd. He found Iris again as if she were the only one in the courtyard. A glimmer of light in the growing shadows.
He began to walk to her, nudging people out of the way. He didn’t care if he caused a scene. He didn’t care if Dacre saw him striding to her. To Iris E. Winnow, a woman Roman was only supposed to have an acquaintance with.
Something terrible was about to happen, and neither Roman nor Iris would be here to witness it. He was going to take her hand and flee with her, far away from this place. From this city, from the war. It had bruised and wounded them enough, and he simply did not care—
Someone grasped his arm, their grip like iron. It stopped him in his tracks.
“Come with me,” an unfamiliar voice said in his ear. “Don’t draw attention to us.”