The parlor doors were open. Light spilled out into the corridor, and Roman stepped inside, surprised to see a group had gathered within the room.
Dacre was sitting at the table in his favorite chair, with the fire crackling at his back and shadows dancing over his face. Four of his officers stood beside him, one of them being Lieutenant Shane. Mr. Kitt was also present, but he looked the most haggard Roman had ever seen him, his clothes rumpled, his body slumped in a chair like he had lost all hope.
It was the red-eyed despair of his father that made Roman’s heart falter.
Something was wrong.
“Lord?” Roman said, his gaze returning to Dacre. “She delivered the article to the printer. It should be on the front page of the Inkridden Tribune tomorrow, as you desired.”
“You are quite late, Roman,” Dacre replied, as if he hadn’t heard a word Roman had said. “How come?”
“It took her a while at the print factory. To make an edit like that … the head printer gave her some resistance.”
“Hmm.” Dacre smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He traced his lower lip with the edges of his teeth. “Why did you steal from me?”
Roman’s breath wavered. “Sir?”
“Have I not been good to you? Have I not given you more freedoms than most?” Dacre stared at him for a long, torturous beat. “Search him.”
The two soldiers who had greeted Roman at the door stepped forward. They roughly tore his coat away and began to pat him down.
Don’t resist it, Roman told himself, even as he bristled.
“Sir?” he said. “I don’t understand.”
Dacre didn’t reply. The soldiers came up empty save for the green bird volume. They tossed it onto the table, and Roman watched as Dacre sifted through the brittle pages. His brow arched when he realized there were no hidden messages to find within it. There was nothing to cast guilt upon Roman. It was simply a book about birds, and Dacre snorted, hurling it into the fire.
Roman flinched as Iris’s book flared into a bright flame. Slowly, it melted into smoke, leaving behind curls of ash. But the words and illustrations remained, seared into his mind.
He thought about the owls, the herons, the albatrosses, the nightingales. The pages that had been worn down the most. Dog-eared and smudged, as if they had been touched by countless hands, read over and over again.
He thought about the birds that had broken their wings, refusing to remain captive.
“Where is the key, Roman?” Dacre asked.
“What key?”
“Don’t play coy. I know you saw it, sitting on this table. It was here this morning before Iris Winnow visited, and now it is gone. What have you done with it?”
Roman’s mind raced. Sweat broke out on his palms. “Sensitive information was removed from the table before Iris visited, to be stored in a back room. So she wouldn’t see anything of note. It was your own orders, sir, and the key must have been misplaced—”
“How many other lies have you told me?” Dacre interrupted.
Roman froze. This is a test. And yet he didn’t know how to answer.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor. A lazy, confident pace. A second later, Roman felt the rain-soaked presence of someone tall and intimidating standing behind him.
Roman turned to see Val, jaded eyes boring through him.
“Report,” Dacre said.
Val’s gaze shifted to meet Dacre’s. “He followed her to the printer, as he told you. He waited outside for hours, until Iris Winnow emerged. She walked down the street; he trailed her. When she made a stop at the Tribune, he did as well. They were together for an hour or so before he walked her to her flat. They had … quite the romantic exchange.”
The blood drained from Roman’s face. Up until that moment—when he realized Dacre had sent Val to follow and observe him—Roman had believed he could salvage this situation. Even with Dacre’s paranoia about the missing key. But now he knew his time had come to an end. There was nothing he could say, no lie he could spin, that would free him from the web.
“I take it Iris E. Winnow is Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Dacre said in a smooth, dark tone.
Roman’s attention snapped back to the god. He finally noticed the papers spread before Dacre on the table. Roman’s handwriting, sprawled across the pages. His confession, which Shane had been holding.
It’s over.
You don’t have to pretend anymore.
Roman glanced at the lieutenant.
Shane appeared bored, his hands laced behind his back, his eyes heavy-lidded. But his nostrils flared when their gazes clashed.