Iris was just about to respond when a hush crept over the office. One of the lamps flickered as if imparting a warning, and the steady clack of typewriter keys faded until it seemed like the heart of the Tribune had ceased beating, suspended in silence. Helena frowned and turned to the door, and Iris followed her gaze, fixating on the man who stood beneath the brick lintel.
He was tall and thin, dressed in a three-piece navy suit with a red handkerchief tucked in the breast pocket. It was difficult to guess his age, but his pale face was creased with wrinkles. A mustache hovered above his pursed lips, and his beady eyes gleamed like obsidian in the low light. Beneath his bowler hat, his graying hair was slicked back with pomade.
Iris didn’t recognize him at first. She wondered if he had been the one to trail her that morning, until she saw he had two security guards standing behind him in the hallway, their burly arms locked behind their backs.
“Chancellor Verlice,” Helena said in a careful tone. “What brings you to the Inkridden Tribune?”
“A private matter,” the chancellor replied. “May I have a word with you?”
“Yes. Right this way.” Helena wove through the tables to her office.
Iris watched as Chancellor Verlice followed, his eyes sweeping over the editors and columnists he passed. It almost seemed like he was looking through them, or perhaps looking for someone, and her heart faltered when he glanced over and met her stare from across the room.
His inscrutable eyes held hers for a long moment before they shifted to look at Attie. By then, he had finally reached Helena’s office, and he had no choice but to drop his gaze, stepping over the threshold. Helena shut the door behind him; the two security guards remained as sentries in the hallway, barring anyone from coming or going.
Slowly, the Inkridden Tribune resumed its hum of activity. Editors returned to editing piles of paper with their red fountain pens, columnists resumed their typing, assistants rushed from the tea sideboard and the phone, carrying steaming cups and scrawled messages to various desks.
“What’s that all about, do you think?” Attie whispered, angling her head to Helena’s office door.
Iris stifled a shiver. She slipped her trench coat back on, belting it tight at her waist.
“I don’t know,” she whispered in return. “But it can’t be anything good.”
Ten minutes later, the office door swung open.
Iris kept her attention on her paper and the words she was inking across it, falling into the rhythm of her typewriter, but she could see the chancellor from the corner of her eye. He took his time walking through the room, and she could feel his gaze again as if he were measuring her, measuring Attie.
Iris gritted her teeth, tilting her chin down so her hair would cascade around her face, coming between her and the chancellor’s stare like a shield.
She was grateful when Verlice and his two guards disappeared up the stairwell, but the pungent cloud of his cologne lingered like fog. Iris was just about to rise and pour herself a cup of tea, to hopefully wash the bad taste from her mouth, when she saw Helena wave to her.
“Iris, Attie. I need to speak with both of you.”
Attie stopped typing, rising without a word as if she had been waiting for it. But she chewed on her lip, and Iris knew her friend was just as anxious as she was. Whatever the chancellor had come here to say must have been about them. Iris followed Attie to Helena’s office.
“Have a seat, you two,” Helena said as she settled behind her desk.
Iris shut the door, moving to sit on a worn leather sofa directly to Attie’s left. She resisted the urge to crack her knuckles, waiting for Helena to break the quiet.
“Do you have any idea why the chancellor paid us a visit?” Helena finally spoke, and her voice was strangely calm and cool. Like water beneath a sheet of ice.
Attie glanced sidelong at Iris. She had come to the same conclusion. Iris could see it in her eyes. The annoyance, the worry, the gleam of anger.
“He didn’t like our articles,” Iris said. “The ones you just published about Clover Hill and Avalon Bluff being evacuated, bombed, and gassed.”
Helena reached for a cigarette and then sighed, tossing it onto a pile of paper. “No, he didn’t. I knew he wouldn’t, and I still published them.”
“Well, he doesn’t really have to like them, does he?” Attie said, raising a hand in frustration. “Because Iris and I both wrote the truth.”
“He doesn’t see it that way.” Helena’s auburn hair was limp on her brow. There were faint purple smudges beneath her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept. Her freckles were vivid against her pale complexion, as was the scar on her face.