Shane noticed through the gloam.
“You’ll need to see a doctor soon,” he said. “In fact, there are about to be many sick soldiers, now that his spell has broken.”
Roman said nothing. He dropped his arm and continued onward with Shane, even as the incline made his chest burn. He didn’t recognize the passages they wove through, but when they reached the foot of a stairwell, he stopped Shane.
“Why did you give me up to him?” Roman asked. “Why did you betray me?”
“Why didn’t you deliver the message as I asked you to? Dacre would have been dead days ago, and the bombing would have never happened,” Shane countered. But then he sighed, his posture softening. “Listen. When I stole the key, Dacre began to search us all, hell-bent on discovering which one of us was the mole. I gave him your account to save myself, as selfish as that may sound. And I wouldn’t have cared what happened to you, save for the fact that you refused to give me up in turn. So here I am now, risking myself to pay back my debt.”
“There are no debts,” Roman rasped.
“In war,” Shane said, “there are always debts. Now come on. We’re almost to the safe house.”
* * *
Iris stood on Broad Street, staring at the Oath Gazette.The building had been struck and torn open. Bricks, glass, twisted pieces of metal, and personal possessions sat in heaps, glittering in the afternoon light. She could see a few typewriters, half-buried in the rubble.
The Gazette was gone.
The fifth floor had been blown away, its remnants scattered like chaff. She knew she should be feeling something, but her chest was numb.
Forest had come here first, for Sarah. Chances were, they had gone to her place, to be with her father.
Iris turned, her eyes sweeping the street and the jagged new skyline of buildings that had collapsed or had disintegrating walls. It was unrecognizable; it felt like she had never stood in this spot before, where the tram tracks cut grooves into the cobblestones.
Where did Sarah live? Iris didn’t know for certain, although she’d heard Sarah mention a neighborhood in the southern reaches of Oath. Remembering, Iris had to bite down her panic.
I’ll find them. They’re safe. They’re fine.
She began to walk, climbing over debris. The slices on her palms began to bleed again. She could hardly feel their sting as she picked a path through the rubble.
Should I head north, to the Kitt estate?
She paused, torn between venturing farther south for Forest and Sarah, or pressing north for Roman. A few young men ran past her, wielding guns, their excited voices carrying on the warm breeze. The sight should have scared her, but Iris could only blink in their wake. She was overwhelmed by the wreckage. How would they ever rebuild this? It would never be the same, feel the same.
More people were beginning to venture out into the streets. In the distance—the way she had come from—voices were cheering and shouting. She knew it was at Gould’s Café, which had stood unscathed during the bombing, suffering only two cracked windows, ceiling tiles that had been knocked loose, and multiple broken dishes. That was where she had left Dacre’s head. Champagne was popped and passed around, as well as more biscuits and cake in celebration, but Iris had slipped away through the crowd after she had ensured Attie was safely reunited with her family and Tobias.
Iris began to wander, hardly knowing where she was going.
She didn’t know why she felt so hollow. Why she didn’t feel like celebrating Dacre’s death. Surely, the war had now come to an end. But then why did she sense that something else was brewing? Like another shoe was bound to drop.
“Stop it, Iris,” she scolded herself, shaking away her pessimism. “Where are you going?”
She finally realized where she was. She walked through more wreckage, only stopping when three young men approached her. They bore guns, but they looked at her in awe.
“Are you the woman who cut off Dacre’s head?” one asked.
Iris was silent. But she couldn’t hide the ichor that was splattered over her trousers, staining her clothes. Dacre had bled and bled after his head had rolled away. It had made her gag, retch.
She walked past the men, felt them stare at her as she kept walking. Soon, she reached the place she both longed and dreaded to see, uncertain if it had survived.
The building with the Inkridden Tribune.
It still stood, although most of the windows had blown out, and a portion of the walls from the uppermost floor had crumbled. Iris was gazing up at it when she heard a familiar voice.