“I know, ma’am. But this is an unusual exception. Please, I need to speak with him.”
“You’ll have to have an appointment, miss.”
Iris didn’t know what to do. She sighed in defeat, glancing at the glass wall to her left, where she could see into the composing room of the factory. Countless linotypes were at work; she could feel their steady humming in the floor. Iris walked closer to the window, watching as employees typed on the keypads before each machine. There was constant clicking and rattling as the linotypes created hot lead slugs to be used by the printing press on the second floor. It was fascinating to watch, even from a distance, and Iris wondered if one of the workers was currently typing out lines for the Inkridden Tribune’s paper. If so, Iris would have to convince Mr. Lawrence to scrap those lines of type and redo them.
She felt a wave of uncertainty until she glanced down at her hands, where she continued to hold Dacre’s words. The god had been insistent on her publishing his article on the front page of tomorrow’s Tribune. And Iris, who had clenched her jaw the entire time she had typed for him, knew she had no choice but to see such a command through. He hadn’t cared when she said the paper might have already gone to print.
Then you had better hurry, Iris E. Winnow, had been his smug reply. Like he had had known she would have to run from one side of town to the other, rattled and worried. Like he had known she would have to fight tooth and nail to get this edit done for him.
Iris unfolded the paper, skipping over Dacre’s introduction—all his flowery words that he used to reel people in—and she read the meat of the matter again. It was strange how much it still felt like a knife in her side, making her shoulders curve inward. She had typed these very words not an hour ago, and yet they still struck the breath from her.
As I am merciful, I will give you each a choice. Those of you who would join me in this new era of restoration and justice, come to safety. Come to my side of the city before the clock strikes noon today. Cross over the river to the northern side of Oath, where my soldiers will be waiting to welcome and shield you. No harm will come to you and your own should you make the crossing before midday. For those of you who refuse my offer and remain behind, south of the river, I cannot offer you protection. And as I am a god who upholds justice, given what was done to me in the Green Quarter, you must prepare to face the consequences of your actions.
The lobby doors swung open.
Iris turned to see Helena and Tobias, both striding toward her.
“What’s happened?” Helena panted.
Iris sagged in relief. “I need this to be the headline for tomorrow’s edition.” She handed over Dacre’s speech.
Helena frowned as she skimmed the sentences. But then she realized whose words she was reading, and her face went deathly pale.
“Gods,” she whispered, meeting Iris’s stare. “He plans to bomb the southern side of Oath tomorrow?”
Iris nodded, stomach clenching. “I know that you were determined to never publish a word of his, Helena, but—”
“No, this is an exception. He’s given us no choice.” Helena looked at the glass wall, where the linotypes continued to work. “Where’s Lawrence?”
“Mr. Lawrence is busy,” the woman behind the desk said loudly. “I can schedule you for tomorrow at—”
“Yes, and there’s a good chance this building won’t be standing after tomorrow, Greta,” Helena snapped. “Call Lawrence to the lobby. Now.”
Greta’s face went red, and she huffed in indignation. But she picked up a telephone receiver and rang a call to the composing room. Five minutes later, Digby Lawrence arrived, his steel-gray hair smoothed back, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His fingertips were stained with ink, and there was a hearty scowl on his face, although Iris had never seen him not frowning in the rare times when she came by the printer.
“You know I don’t take last-minute edits, Hammond,” he said.
Helena ignored that comment. “Have you printed the Tribune?”
He must have heard the urgency, the fear that tinged her voice. “No,” Lawrence said, softer. “It’s on schedule to have its line of type created in an hour. Why?”
“I need to make an edit to the first page. I’m sorry, Lawrence, but I’ve no choice in the matter.” She held the paper out to him.
Iris cracked her knuckles as Lawrence skimmed it. But she knew when he reached the threat, because the furrow in his brow deepened.