“Can I make you a cup of tea, Mr. Kitt?” she asked.
“No. Didn’t you hear my question, girl?”
“Of course I did. You don’t know where your son is, but you think I do.”
Mr. Kitt was quiet for several tense seconds. He stared at her, and Iris forced herself to hold his gaze. She wouldn’t give him power here; she wouldn’t cower and glance away as if he had won this ground.
She could see the similarities between the two of them—Roman and his father. They were both tall and broad-shouldered with thick black hair and eyes blue as cornflowers. They had sharp cut jaws and chiseled cheekbones, and their skin was prone to flushing. Iris remembered how she could always tell when Roman was embarrassed or uncomfortable or angry, because his face would inevitably redden, and how endearing that was on him. In Mr. Kitt’s case, however, his cheeks looked ruddy from years of smoking and drinking.
He took another puff from his cigar, the smoke swirling. Perhaps he didn’t like how she was scrutinizing him, or perhaps he hadn’t expected her to be so stubborn. Iris didn’t really care, but she couldn’t help but stiffen when Mr. Kitt reached into his jacket.
“I didn’t understand it at first,” he began, and the tension eased from Iris’s bones when she realized he was only withdrawing a folded newspaper from the shadows of his coat. But then he tossed it to the floor between them, and Iris glanced down to see it was the Inkridden Tribune. She read the front-page headline, and her heart lurched in familiarity, as if she had just caught a reflection of her face in a mirror.
DACRE BOMBS AVALON BLUFF, GASSES CITIZENS & SOLDIERS IN THE STREETS by INKRIDDEN IRIS
“I didn’t understand,” Mr. Kitt continued, “why my son would give up everything to go work for a dingy, sensationalizing newspaper on the war front. Why he would give up his position at the Oath Gazette. Why he would break his engagement to a beautiful, smart young lady. Why he would disobey me and shatter his mother’s heart for a second time. It was unfathomable to me, until I read your first article in the Tribune, and then it all made sense.”
Iris didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Her bravery dwindled when she sensed that Mr. Kitt was setting a well-laid snare for her, and her mouth went dry as she waited for him to elaborate.
He smiled down at the paper, at the headline that was hers. The inked words that she had written. The horror she had lived through, surviving by the skin of her teeth. But when Mr. Kitt’s gaze flashed up to meet hers again, she saw the barely concealed fury and resentment in his eyes.
“You see, Miss Winnow … Roman has always been drawn to stories and words. Ever since he was a lad, sneaking into my library to steal books off the shelves. It’s why my mother-in-law gave him a typewriter for his tenth birthday, because he had dreams of being a ‘novelist.’ Of writing something that mattered to others. It’s why he wanted to go to university and spend his hours doing nothing more than analyzing other people’s thoughts and trying to pen his own.”
Iris felt the heat rise in her skin. “What are you trying to say to me, Mr. Kitt?”
“I’m saying that your words have bewitched him. And I need you to let him go.”
She had to smother the burst of laughter that wanted to escape her. Because as silence rang in the room, she saw that Mr. Kitt was deadly serious.
“If my words have bewitched your son, then know that his possess the same magic for me,” she said, reflexively touching her wedding band again.
The memories surged, threatening to drown her.
Iris had relived them a hundred times, as if they were anchored to the ring. The moment Roman had slipped it onto her finger. How the stars had started to burn overhead, the flowers sweetening the dusk around them. How he had smiled at her through his tears. How he had whispered her name in the dark.
Her restless motion drew Mr. Kitt’s attention to her hand. Iris saw him note the shine of the ring, the finger it claimed. A terrible expression stole across his face. One that made the breath freeze in her chest.
“I see” was all he said, but the words were drawn out, deliberate. He cleared his throat. “Are you with child, then?”
Iris startled as if he had slapped her. “What?”
“For I can grasp no other reason as to why my son would legally fasten himself to one such as you, a lowborn, freckle-faced girl who wants to drain him of his inheritance. Of course, Roman has his honor, although he often misplaces it—”
“You followed me to work this morning,” Iris interrupted, beginning to list his offenses on her left hand, just so he could continue to see the gleam of her wedding ring. “You broke into my flat. You no doubt looked through all my personal belongings. You have now insulted me in such a way that I have nothing more to say to you.” She motioned to the front door, which still sat open, the rain falling hard and cool beyond the threshold. “Now leave, before I call the authorities to escort you out.”