Zeb was quiet for a moment, mouth puckering. “It means the two of you both have a fair shot at it. A little competition will be good for you, Kitt.”
Roman took that as everything has been handed to you. He felt his face flush, irritation catch in his throat. But he nodded, jaw clenched.
“Don’t look so glum!” Zeb said with a chuckle. “She didn’t even graduate Windy Grove School. Chances are the promotion will still go to you.”
If she had attended Windy Grove School, then she came from a part of town where Roman rarely ventured. He didn’t know whether that should comfort or worry him. Whoever she was, she was going to have a different viewpoint on things. Her writing could be either atrocious or exquisite, but most of all, Roman didn’t feel like competing for something that he needed.
“When is her first day?” he asked.
“Today. She’ll be here soon.”
Wonderful, Roman thought drolly. Although perhaps it was for the best. To get this torture over with as soon as possible.
For the next few hours, he kept his attention divided between the obituaries and the glass doors of the Gazette, waiting for this enigma who could potentially ruin everything to appear. At noon sharp, she did, as if by spell.
She was petite and pale with a heart-shaped face. Freckles spilled across her nose; her eyes were wide as she took in her new surroundings. Her chestnut brown hair was slicked back in a tidy bun, but she wore a tattered trench coat that seemed to swallow her, belted tightly at her waist. She was cracking her knuckles when Sarah Prindle pounced on her with a lively welcome.
“Here, let me introduce you to everyone!” Sarah was saying, linking their arms as she walked Roman’s worst nightmare around the Gazette.
He got up from his desk and moved to the sideboard, to pour a cup of tea and continue watching as the new girl met the editors, the assistants, Zeb. The only person whose hand she had left to shake was his.
He couldn’t avoid it forever. Sarah had shot him a few pointed glances as she settled the girl in at her new desk—only two away from his own—and Roman stifled a groan.
He set down the teacup and walked the aisle to meet her.
She was tracing her typewriter keys, still wearing that drab coat, although her high heels gave her an air of command. She must have sensed him coming, like a storm building on the horizon. Or perhaps she felt his cold gaze. She glanced up to meet it, giving him a bold assessment before she smiled.
“I’m Iris,” she said in a bright tone, extending her hand. “Iris Winnow.”
What sort of name is that? he inwardly grumbled, already picturing it as a byline. It was a good name. One that he was tempted to taste, but he refrained.
“I’m Roman Kitt,” he said gruffly. “Welcome to the Gazette.”
Her hand was still between them, waiting for his. It would be rude for him to ignore it. In fact, it already was rude that he had left it hanging for so long. He reluctantly let his hand meet hers and was promptly surprised by how firm her grip was. How touching her sent a shock up his arm.
Roman gasped awake.
{13}
You’ve Seen Worse than This
“You’ve been unusually quiet,” Dacre said.
Roman drew his attention away from the lorry’s dirty window. The troops had finally departed the melancholy farm, pressing eastward along a winding road. “Sorry, sir. I’ve been enjoying the change of scenery.”
Dacre was sitting on the bench beside him, regarding him with shrewd eyes. “Are your old wounds hurting?”
The inquiry was so unexpected that Roman gaped for a moment. Hadn’t Dacre healed those broken pieces of him? Why would the pain return?
“No,” Roman said, but his fingertips traced the scars around his knee, hidden beneath the jumpsuit. “I feel perfectly well, sir.”
“You can tell me if they do. Sometimes wounds run deeper than I first realized, and I have no choice but to heal them again.” Dacre paused, as if lost in thought, before asking, “Did you have a dream last night? It’s been a while since you shared one with me.”
“If I did, I don’t remember.” The lie flowed smoothly, but Roman felt his throat constrict. He kept seeing Iris Winnow, smiling up at him. Why did the gravity seem to gather around her, even hours after he had dreamt of her?
He traced his palm with his thumb—he could still feel her touch—and he sensed that Iris was more than a dream.
“If you could have any magic of the gods,” Dacre said, “what power would you choose?”