Iris smiled, reaching for one of the sugar biscuits. She didn’t feel hungry, but there was something about the sweetness, melting on her tongue, that made her feel as if she had returned to her body. It cut through the numbness.
Forest sat beside her, thankful for Mrs. Attwood’s ministrations as she took a needle and thread and sutured his split eyebrow. Tobias sat on the other side of the table, next to Attie. Iris wasn’t surprised to see him there, or that Attie’s family had insisted he stay the night when the curfew had hit during his visit.
The Attwoods were all aware of what was coming. It was why they were still awake; sleep seemed impossible that night. Only Attie’s younger siblings were tucked away in their beds on the upper floor, oblivious to what would happen in the morning. Their parents had wanted it to feel like any normal night, so the children wouldn’t worry.
“We’ll go to the McNeils’ tomorrow,” Mrs. Attwood said, setting down a freshly brewed pot of tea. “I know their house is on a ley line. We’ll be safe there.”
Mr. Attwood nodded, although he seemed troubled.
Tobias had hardly spoken a word, lost in his thoughts as he munched on his fourth sugar biscuit. But Attie met Iris’s gaze over the table. Neither of them had mentioned their mission below, and they didn’t know how to break the news either.
By three in the morning, all the tea had been drained and the biscuits eaten. The group shifted to the living room, to sit in a more comfortable space. While Mr. Attwood stoked a fire in the hearth, Iris helped Attie carry the dishes to the sink in the kitchen.
“Does it even matter if we wash them?” Attie sighed. “This place might not be standing tomorrow. Although if anything of this house survives, watch it be the kitchen sink.”
Iris turned on the faucet and began to scrub anyway. “I need to tell you something.”
Attie’s attention sharpened. “What? You used the sword tonight, didn’t you? I saw that your hand is bandaged.”
Iris grimaced. “Yes, but there’s something else.” She paused, handing Attie one of the cups to dry. “I found a key.”
“To the realm below?” Attie whispered.
Iris nodded. “And I made plans with Kitt earlier tonight, that the two of us would meet him north of the river, so he could pass off a key to us or, at the very worst, smuggle us to his parlor door. He wants to accompany us below. But now that I have a key … I think we should just go to the closest door we can find tomorrow, after we have our families in a safe place. Because if we crossed the river and met up with Kitt with me carrying a sword and you a violin, it would be too risky.”
Attie was quiet, weighing Iris’s words.
“You’re sure, Iris?” she said, hanging the clean teacups on the rack hooks. “I can only imagine how much you’d like to see Kitt before everything happens. For him to go with us.”
For a moment, Iris couldn’t speak. The bandage around her hand was now damp, and the cut on her palm began to throb.
“Yes, I’m certain,” she finally said, handing Attie another cup. She forced a smile, to ease the sadness in Attie’s expression. “I’m sure I’ll see him tomorrow. When all of this is over and done with.”
{47}
Where All the Traitors Lay Their Heads
Roman stirred, his face pressed against warm stone. He felt heavy, weighed down. His head was aching, his mouth parched. The air tasted of sulfur and rot, and he could hear the hiss of steam, the boil of liquid.
He opened his eyes and saw that he was in the heart of the under realm. Yellow bubbling pools, cloying shadows, scattered skeletons, dancing steam. How odd that it felt familiar to him. But when he tried to move his hands, he felt resistance, followed by a clang of iron on rock.
Roman studied his body like it wasn’t his. He was too numb to acknowledge what he saw at first, but then the past came rushing back over him like a cold, sobering tide.
He remembered Iris sitting on the desk at the Tribune, her legs wrapped around him, her hands in his hair as they came together. He remembered Dacre’s accusations and questions in the parlor. He remembered how he had answered, regrets peeling away like calloused skin, and the agony that had followed.
This was the fate of Dacre’s traitors. To slowly die, shackled amongst steam and shadows.
No, Roman thought, yanking on the chains. They were fastened to both his wrists, their rusted edges cutting into his skin. He tried to stand but they weren’t long enough to permit him to, and old, brittle bones crunched beneath his boots.