“Only an invitation for tea, from my father-in-law,” Iris said.
“Do you want me to send someone with you?” Helena asked. “Perhaps Attie?”
Iris knew Attie had asked for the day off. Her meeting with the music professor had been successful, and Attie planned to practice “Alzane’s Lullaby” in her basement, again and again until she could play the notes perfectly no matter her surroundings. In the dark, in the light, standing still, constantly moving.
But even if Attie had been available, Iris wouldn’t have asked her to go to the Kitt estate. Not with so much danger lurking in the corners.
“I can drive you there if you’d like,” Tobias offered. “I’ll wait for you at the curb, and then drive you back, when you’re done.”
Iris nodded, shoulders relaxing. “I’d be very thankful for that, Tobias. And no, Helena. I should go alone. There’s no need to worry.”
Helena didn’t seem convinced. Neither did Tobias.
Please come alone. You will be safe here.
Iris felt Mr. Kitt’s—Dacre’s—letter crinkle in her fist.
No place in the city was safe anymore.
* * *
At four twenty-eight in the afternoon, Iris stared at the iron gates of the Kitt mansion. They didn’t open for the roadster, which had led Iris to presume Dacre wanted her to approach the front doors on foot.
“I’ll be waiting right here if you need me,” Tobias said, parking at the curb.
Iris nodded and slipped from the vehicle. Just as she thought, the gates creaked open when she approached them.
She walked the long driveway alone, carrying nothing but her frayed tapestry purse, and she was struck by how quiet and still the yard was. No birds flittered amongst the perfectly trimmed shrubs. No damselflies or bees glided from one flower to the next. No wind touched the trees, no sunlight flickered through the clouds. It seemed a shadow had fallen over the estate, and Iris shivered as she ascended the stairs to the front door.
Her palms were damp as she lifted her hand to ring the bell.
She never had the chance. The door opened, revealing Mr. Kitt. He looked so disheveled that she was taken aback. His black hair looked greasy, his eyes were rimmed in red, and he reeked of cigar smoke.
Iris didn’t have a greeting prepared. She was stunned that he was receiving his own visitor. Where was his butler? The servants he no doubt had running this place? A breath later, she understood.
“Come in, Miss Winnow.” He welcomed her inside.
“Thank you,” Iris said, but her voice sounded small, easily swallowed by the grand foyer. As soon as the door latched behind her, she saw the soldiers, standing in the shadows. There were seven at this entrance alone, armed with rifles, and as she followed Mr. Kitt, she counted five more in the hallway.
The mansion had turned into a secret military compound.
“Tea will be served in the parlor,” said Mr. Kitt.
Iris opened her mouth. She was about to ask where Roman was but caught the words. She had assumed he’d returned to his post, just as he told her, but that notion no longer made sense if Dacre was here.
Perhaps that was why he still hadn’t written to her.
Perhaps something had happened to him.
Her pulse was thick in her throat as they reached the parlor doors. She couldn’t believe how shaky she felt, as if the ground were uneven. But she reached for the golden locket hiding beneath her blouse. The gold was an anchor, reminding her of Forest and her mother. The difficult things she had already come through.
The parlor doors opened.
Iris saw Dacre sitting at a long table set for tea, directly in her line of sight. Their gazes met and held like a spell had been cast. He was ageless, timeless, cut from sharp and terrible beauty. His appearance was difficult to look away from, both pleasing and deadly, as if one had stared too long at the sun. Iris could still see him when she closed her eyes, like his impression had been burned there.
“Iris Winnow,” he said with a friendly smile. It almost made him appear human. “Come, join me for tea.”
Iris stepped forward. She startled when Mr. Kitt closed the doors, leaving her alone with Dacre in the parlor.
“Sit,” the god insisted, pouring the first cup.
Iris eased herself down to the chair, tense. She watched the steam rise, wondering if the tea would be safe to drink, when Dacre interrupted her thoughts.
“You remember your former colleague?”
Iris frowned, but she sensed someone staring at her—she could feel it like starlight on the darkest of nights. Eyes that had traced her many times before.