Roman was silent as he stared at Mr. Kitt. He felt like he was indeed hewn from stone, worn down from years of guilt and fear and longings he could never pursue. And yet he was finished being ruled by such things. The past weeks had chipped and cracked him; he had crawled from that husk of a shell, cut away old strings, and now he held the stare until his father submitted, extinguishing the cigar on the desk.
“Why are there crates stacked beneath the pavilion?” Roman asked in a sharp tone. “Don’t tell me it’s more of that damn gas you had the chemist professor make.”
Mr. Kitt blinked, taken aback by Roman’s abruptness. But he recovered quickly, drawing closer to whisper, “No, in fact. But has it been taken care of?”
“What do you speak of, Father?”
Mr. Kitt glanced beyond Roman, to the door that still sat open. It was the first time that Roman had ever seen his father appear frightened.
Mr. Kitt lowered his voice even further, murmuring, “Is he dead?”
Roman had suspected his father was playing both sides of the field—with Dacre, and with the Graveyard. Of course he would, because he wanted to emerge on the winning side, no matter the outcome. But now Roman knew for certain.
Mr. Kitt was in too deep. He knew nothing of gods from below, nothing of life at the front or the claws of war and the wounds they inflicted. And the Graveyard, while passionate, appeared highly unorganized and disorderly. They had bungled an assassination attempt, and now the entire city would pay for it.
“I don’t know,” Roman replied.
“What do you mean you don’t know? Did the bomb go off or not?”
“It did, but your man dragged me away before I could see any further.”
Mr. Kitt began to pace again. But he looked confident, as if knowing the blast had happened meant he could move on to the next step.
“We should—”
He was interrupted by a cold draft. The walls shuddered. The chandelier above clinked. The hardwood groaned beneath a pair of heavy feet.
Roman knew that sound, that feeling. He watched his father freeze as he recognized it too. They listened, horror-struck, as the parlor door slammed.
“Get behind the desk,” Mr. Kitt whispered, grasping hold of his arm in a painful grip. “Hide there. Don’t come out until I tell you to.”
Roman yanked free, but his father’s terror was contagious. He could feel it tickle the back of his throat. “I can’t hide here. It’s too late for that.”
“Do as I tell you, son. I won’t lose you to this.” Mr. Kitt strode from the study, shutting the doors in his wake and leaving Roman behind in a smoky, oppressive room.
He breathed through his mouth, but he didn’t move. He stood in the center of the chamber, listening …
“My lord!” his father exclaimed. “What has happened?”
An uncomfortable pause. But when Dacre spoke at last, the house seemed to magnify his voice.
“I want all my officers and soldiers who remained behind to line up in the hall. Now.”
Roman could hear the sudden rush of bootsteps as Dacre’s order was heeded. One of those officers would be Lieutenant Shane, who held Roman’s confession like a grenade. Lieutenant Shane, who no doubt believed he’d been betrayed, since Dacre’s head was still fastened to his body.
Roman bared his teeth, heart thrashing. But he hurried to his father’s desk, stifling a cough as he struck a match. Quickly, he pulled the incriminating letter from his pocket, and he held it by the corner as it caught fire.
He watched the paper curl into smoke before he dropped the last of it on the rug, stamping out the hungry flames. His head continued to ache, but he took the time to set the blackened match in the ashtray, lined up with all the others his father had used.
Only then did he leave the study and step out into the hall.
Breathe, slow and deep.
The soldiers and officers were in the corridor, lined up and standing at attention. Their focus was set firmly ahead, even as Dacre walked before them, his eyes scrutinizing each of their faces as he passed.
Roman stopped. He could only see Dacre’s back, but the god’s clothes were ripped and bloodied. His long blond hair was tangled.
“Someone here has betrayed me,” said Dacre. His voice was smooth, thick, like oil on water. “This is your chance to come forward and confess.”
No one moved or spoke.
Roman found Lieutenant Shane in the lineup. By all appearances, Shane was perfect. His face was well guarded, his uniform was pristine as if he took great pride in it. He didn’t quake in fear or take shallow breaths. He seemed completely in control, as if the idea of betrayal had never crossed his mind.