He was looking at his typewriter. A nearby candlestick had burned down to a wax puddle on the wood. His cheek was pressed to the hard surface of his desk, and a loose sheet of paper stuck to his skin as he lifted his head.
I’m in the room they assigned me. I’m safe.
He must have fallen asleep at his desk last night, and he rubbed the crick in his neck before standing with a groan.
That was when he noticed it.
A piece of paper rested on the floor, just before the wardrobe.
Roman frowned. He had no memory of putting it there, and he approached the closet, sweeping the page up with his hands. Shocked, he read:
What was the name of my pet snail?
What is my middle name?
Which season is my favorite and why?
He stared at the words until the type seemed to bleed together.
“What is this?” he whispered, reaching for the wardrobe door. He opened it, prepared to find anything. To both his disappointment and relief, the closet was empty save for the trio of hanging coats and the folded quilt, musty on a shelf.
There was absolutely nothing magical about it.
Roman shut the door, reading the message again. He could feel a faint tug in his chest. One that made him wary as well as ravenous.
Should I know these answers? he thought, staring at the words.
How could he mourn something that he couldn’t remember? Roman wondered if there was a word to describe such a feeling, for the way it gathered on his shoulders like snow. Cold and soft and infinite, melting as soon as he touched it.
He was still grappling with his emotions and the three riddles when he heard a heavy tread beyond the walls. Someone was approaching his room. Roman shoved the paper in his pocket, the corner of it jabbing his palm just as the door blew open.
“Pack your things,” Lieutenant Shane said. “We’re finally leaving this shithole. You have five minutes to meet me downstairs.”
As abruptly as he had arrived, the lieutenant left, leaving the door cracked.
Roman exhaled, but he felt stiff with unease. He could hear Dacre conversing with someone a floor below. Boots were clomping on the hardwood. Out on the streets, there was a chorus of rumbles as lorries were cranked.
They were leaving this sad town, and Roman could only dread where they would go next.
He packed his belongings. He didn’t have much, but as he was locking his typewriter in its case, he drew out the strange message again and studied it. Was it a code? Who would ever have a pet snail?
He dropped the letter into the rubbish bin and walked to the door. But something within him stretched tight, like skin about to split. Roman went back to the bin and withdrew the note. It returned to his pocket as he made his way down the stairs, thinking Dacre might be interested in the message.
The front door was open; the foyer was sunlit, smelling of lorry exhaust, cigarette smoke, and burned bacon from the kitchen. Shane stood on the threshold, hands linked behind his back as he gave orders to a private on the porch. Roman took that moment to study the adjacent parlor.
The door he had once passed through, the one that connected the world above to the realm below, was wide open.
He was still staring at the shadowed passageway, gooseflesh creeping over his skin, when Dacre emerged from it. The god shut the door behind him and took hold of a key that hung from a long chain around his neck. Roman had never noticed it in their previous meetings, but Dacre must have always worn the necklace, concealing it beneath his uniform.
He locked the door and let the key slide back beneath his clothes, turning when he sensed Roman’s attention.
Their gazes aligned and held, like predator and prey.
Dacre began to close the distance between them. Roman had the sudden urge to back away, but he forced himself to remain upright and unmoving.
“I would like you to ride with me,” Dacre said when he reached the foyer.
“Yes, sir,” Roman replied. “May I ask where we’re heading?”
Dacre smiled. The sunlight flashed on his teeth as he said, “We’re going east.”
* * *
Iris stepped out of her bedroom, surprised to find Forest sitting at the table with a cup of tea. Her brother looked disheveled and glum, his eyes bloodshot, his chestnut hair tangled across his forehead. Had he heard her sneaking in and out last night? Had he heard her typing, pacing?
If he had, he would say something, Iris thought. She imagined Forest hearing about how the First Alouette had been stolen from the museum. It was only a few more hours until that news would break but Attie and Iris would be long gone by then. Her brother didn’t know about the magic of the Alouettes like she did, so he might not connect the crime to her. Yet the thought of shaming him with her thievery, or realizing he was disappointed in her, made her feel small, breathless.