Shane brushed Roman’s shoulder.
A sign of comradery or a warning, Roman couldn’t tell, and he was too weary to attempt to parse it. He climbed the stairs and retreated to his room. Alone at last, he ripped off his jacket. He fell to his knees, clawing at his throat.
He gasped as if he had just broken the surface of the sea.
* * *
Nine minutes later, Roman returned to the parlor dressed in clean clothes. The blood and vomit had been washed away and his dark hair had been slicked back. His posture was straight, a bit rigid, but he had always been like that, hadn’t he?
By all outward appearances, he seemed normal. He looked fine. Groomed and put together, even after narrowly escaping a bomb.
But within? He felt splintered.
Dacre was too preoccupied to notice. He stood in front of the parlor hearth, full of vitality, as if he had never felt the sting of an explosion. He too had changed and washed away all trace of mortal blood, the firelight illuminating his angular face. But for all his inward distance, he heard Roman enter the room. Without turning, he said, “There’s an important letter I need you to type for me.”
Roman took a seat before his typewriter, waiting to feel a rush of relief to be near it again. The Third Alouette. His connection to Iris. He felt empty as he studied the strike bars E and R.
But then he noticed something else, lying on the table. A bloodstained iron key, strung on a chain.
The key that had been around Captain Landis’s neck.
“Tell me when you’re ready,” Dacre said.
Roman returned his attention to the task, feeding a sheet of paper into the typewriter. He couldn’t help but study the iron key again, only an arm’s length away. The power to unlock thresholds, just beyond his reach.
“I’m ready, sir,” he said.
And yet he was not prepared for the words that came from Dacre’s mouth. For the person this letter was addressed to. Roman listened but was unable to type the name.
Dacre noticed the silence. He stopped speaking and glanced at him with a frown.
“Is something wrong, Roman?”
“No, lord.”
“Then why aren’t you typing?”
“Sorry, sir.” Roman flexed his fingers, two of his knuckles popping. “Please continue.”
I would know if she were dead.
Dacre repeated himself, and this time Roman turned his words into ink, even as his eyes remained on that first line:
Dear Iris E. Winnow
{41}
Conversations with a Figment
Iris ran down the dark side street.
Somewhere along the way she had lost one of her high heels, and her bare foot stung with every lopsided step. Her dress was torn; her knees were skinned. She couldn’t tell how badly she was hurt because her body was numb.
All she could feel was her heart, pounding an erratic song in her ears, down the twisted lines of her veins.
Don’t stop! It’s not safe yet.
Exhaustion crept over her, making her slow and clumsy. Her muscles were tight and hot beneath her sweaty skin. She couldn’t seem to push herself to run any faster and yet she worried she would collapse if she stopped moving.
Where am I?
She felt completely turned around, lost in a shadowy maze. Swallowed whole by a nightmare she was desperate to wake from. She shivered as she limped to a reluctant stop at the next intersection.
A few motorcars sped past, tires splashing through rain puddles. The streetlamps began to flicker to life, their amber light drawing a host of moths. A newspaper was disintegrating on the cobblestones.
It was evening, and curfew was imminent. Oath was eerie in the solemn darkness, as if the city grew teeth and claws when the sun set. She needed to find a safe place to rest for the night, and she didn’t know where that haven was until she realized what street she had arrived at.
She took a tentative step forward.
There in the distance loomed the museum, with its white columns and flickering lanterns and bloodred doors. Those doors would lock after nightfall; no one would be able to follow her inside. They would shelter her from the Graveyard.
As if sensing her thoughts, gunshots rang in the nearby distance, followed by shouts and a blood-chilling scream.
Iris winced and crouched. But she didn’t stop moving. She hurried along the sidewalk until she was almost at the museum’s stairs. Then she sprinted, kicking loose from her other shoe until it was just her bare feet slapping on the marble.
She opened the heavy door and slipped into the museum just moments before the locks magically bolted for the night. Iris shuddered—you’re safe, you’re safe—and took five steps across the foyer before her legs gave out.