Roman followed to her—lamentably—disorganized desk because who had time for keeping things neat these days? Her work typewriter sat with a half-typed sentence in its clutches, a few books sat open, and there was a messy pile of paper. She discreetly shoved the plate of old toast out of the way.
Roman watched as she threw off the jacket and exposed the sheathed sword.
He gave a low whistle. “You steal that from the museum, wife?”
“Do I look like a thief?” Iris grimaced. “Maybe don’t answer that.”
“Well, now that I get a better look at you…” Roman smiled, his eyes moving down her body, and then slowly up again. “I like your new haircut, by the way.”
Iris snorted, but her cheeks flushed as she traced her hair. It was still crimped from the stylist, the shorter ends now brushing her collarbone. “Thank you. And this sword was actually given to me.”
“By whom?”
“By Enva.”
Roman froze. He listened, hung upon her every word, as Iris told him of last night: the bomb, finding refuge in the museum. The dream. The things Enva had revealed to her.
“You were right, Kitt,” Iris said in conclusion. “She did kill Alva, Mir, and Luz, taking their power for her own but only as a preventative measure, so Dacre wouldn’t steal their magic when he woke. The cost of it, though, has weakened her own gift of music and has kept her here, beholden to Oath.”
“And why didn’t she just go ahead and slay Dacre in his grave while she was at it?” Roman asked sharply. “It would have saved us endless trouble if she had done that one thing.”
Iris hesitated, chewing on her lip. “I’m not sure. I didn’t realize it was her until the dream was about to break. I wish I could have spoken to her longer.”
Roman was quiet, his gaze drifting to the sword. “And she now wants you to kill Dacre.”
“Yes.”
“She has all that power at her disposal, and she still commands you to go.”
“She didn’t command me,” Iris said, but then wondered why she was feeling defensive. In some ways, she could see the draw of the Graveyard and their beliefs. Meddling with gods never seemed to benefit humans. There was always a catch.
“I don’t know how to get Dacre below where he’ll be enchanted by music,” she confessed.
Roman began to pace, raking his hands through his hair. Iris carefully set the sword aside and sat on the edge of her desk, legs dangling, as Roman sorted through his wild ideas. But then he stopped and turned, staring at Iris with dark, glittering eyes.
“Do you remember when we were in the trenches? How Lieutenant Lark told us that the eithrals never appeared at the front but were reserved for civilian towns, kilometers from the actual fighting?”
Iris nodded.
“I think it’s because Dacre is the one who commands the eithrals when they drop bombs, and to do that, he must be underground,” Roman continued. “During any bombardments in the trenches, he wants to be above, overseeing the assault. But during the stalemates, when nothing happened for days, he would descend into his realm and send out the eithrals to terrorize civilians. And he was always in complete control of the beasts.”
Iris traced the bow of her lips. “If that’s true, then Dacre will be…”
“Below tomorrow, when the city is bombed,” he finished. “There’s over a hundred crates in my backyard. The bombs he plans to use. He’ll be sending his eithrals there to pick them up, one by one, to then carry them southward to drop. That is when we need to make our move.”
“We?”
“Did you think I would let you go alone?”
“Attie will be with me.”
“And what door do the two of you plan to use?”
“Your parlor door?”
“It’s heavily guarded. I don’t think I’ll be able to sneak you in.”
“What about the keys?”
Roman rubbed his jaw. “I might be able to find a key. One was on the war table yesterday, unclaimed.”
The idea of Roman stealing one of Dacre’s beloved keys made Iris’s blood go cold. She was quiet, desperate to think of another way, but there was none. It would need to be the parlor door, which was surrounded by Dacre’s soldiers, or a key to unlock their own threshold.
“I wish it didn’t have to come to this,” she said.
Roman’s expression softened, like her words had struck a bruise. He stepped closer until he stood between her legs. Leaning on the desk, his hands on either side of her, he bracketed her in.