“Understood,” Attie echoed. “Anything you want us to report on in particular?”
“Whatever you find,” Helena replied, dropping the half-smoked cigarette to the pavement. She crushed it beneath her heel. “Dacre’s plans, his movements, what he’s doing to the land, to civilians. Updates, stories from eyewitnesses, things you observe.”
“The chancellor…” Iris’s voice trailed off.
Helena gave her a knowing look. “He won’t like it, but I’ve a mind to publish the truth, consequences be damned. Now, get along, the two of you. I expect your first article by tomorrow evening.”
Iris took a step forward but then paused, turning to look at Helena again. “I was thinking.”
“About what?”
“About my byline. I think I want to change it.”
“You think?”
“I do. I want it to be Iris E. Winnow.”
A pensive expression stole over Helena’s freckled face. But then she nodded. “Very well. But what’s the E stand for?”
“Elizabeth,” Iris replied. “It was also my nan’s middle name.”
“An homage to her, then?”
Yes, Iris thought, but Roman also haunted her in that moment. She remembered how much it had once irritated her that she didn’t know what the C stood for in his byline.
Tobias opened the passenger door. Attie climbed aboard first, followed by Iris. The leather seat was cold, and she made herself lean back. She told herself to relax, breathe, and set her mind on what was coming, because looking behind would only slow her down.
And yet she couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder as Tobias began to drive them down the street.
Helena stood on the curb, twirling a new cigarette. But she wasn’t the only one watching their departure. Iris saw a man leaning against the wall a few paces back, hands shoved into his pockets and a smile cutting across his shadowed face.
Mr. Kitt’s associate.
* * *
Oath melted like rime in the sun as they took to the open road.
Iris watched the city fade as the roadster devoured kilometers, defying her own orders to keep her eyes ahead. She watched until the cathedral steeples, the shiny high rises, and the old castle towers were nothing but a haze in the distance, and she thought how odd it was. To see something that felt strong and vast slowly become small and quiet. A mere ink blot on the horizon.
“What’s a post runner, exactly?” Attie asked over the hum of the motor.
Iris turned her attention back to Tobias Bexley, who hadn’t said a word since he cranked the motor.
“It’s exactly how it sounds,” he replied. “I drive people’s post and deliveries to and from Oath.”
Attie leaned forward, resting her arms on the driver’s seat. “And how does one get into such a business?”
“I suppose it’s similar to how you got into reporting.”
“To prove a point to a narrow-minded professor?”
Tobias was quiet for a beat. “Then no. I became a runner because I liked racing fast motorcars and needed income to pay for my hobby. Might as well do what I love for a living.”
“You race motorcars?” Iris asked.
“I do,” he said. “My mum is always relieved when I take time off for post assignments, although she and my father never miss a race of mine. Granted, these days even the post is dangerous and unpredictable.”
“How many races have you won?” Attie said, settling in for a nice, long story.
Tobias countered, “You assume I’ve won?”
“Well … yes,” she said with a wave of her hand, indicating the pastures that bordered the road. The landscape continued to roll by them with an exhilarating speed. “You’re quite fast, in case you didn’t notice.”
He laughed. “That’s what your boss is paying me to do. I’m to transport you as well as your articles from one place to the next, as quickly and safely as possible.”
“I didn’t even know roadsters could go so fast,” said Iris, squinting against the wind. She had yet to put her goggles on, waiting for Tobias to tell her when to do so. But she loved the sting of fresh air on her face. The way the breeze drew through her hair like fingers.
“They normally can’t accommodate this gear,” Tobias said.
“Then you’re saying this is no normal motorcar,” Attie was swift to surmise.
“I might be saying that.”
“Why the vague answers, Bexley?” Attie nudged him in the shoulder. “Are you worried we’ll write an article about you and your magical roadster?”