He descended the marble steps with ease, heading northwest.
Iris began to trail him.
She kept a safe distance, but a few times she was worried she would lose track of him in the crowd, and she drew as close as she dared. She paused when he did, her heart quickening in dread, but he was only stopping to purchase two papers from a newsboy. The Gazette and the Tribune.
He continued on his way with a brisk pace. Iris followed.
Eventually, he wound deeper into the northern ridge of the city, over the river to what was known as “the Crown.” This was the wealthier side of Oath, and Iris wasn’t familiar with these streets. She pulled her trench coat tighter around her, shivering when it began to mist.
At last, he arrived at a large iron gate, its finials shining with bronze pearls. It opened for him before shutting once more, latching with a metallic rattle.
Iris hung back to make it seem like she was casually walking by. But she paused long enough to take in the long cobbled drive beyond the gate. It led up to a grand estate on a verdant hill with a manicured yard, veiled by swirling mist.
Iris froze, hands shoved deep in her coat pockets.
Her eyes cut to the gate again, to the brick pillars. There was a name carved in a smooth piece of stone, eye level on the right column. A name that made her breath catch.
THE KITT ESTATE.
{30}
Don’t Let This Freedom Fool You
This is a test to check and see that the strike bars R & E are in working condition.
ERERRRRRRR EEEE RRRRR
R
E
E
??
*
Iris!
What’s happened? Are you all right?
—Kitt
KITT!
There’s a DOOR to the UNDERWORLD in your HOUSE. Did you know this?!
xI
P.S. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.
P.P.S. And yes, I know I just broke a rule by writing you first today. You can scold me later. （In person … preferably.）
Gods, Iris. My heart is still racing, thinking you were about to write and tell me something horrible had happened.
（Note: I promise to scold you later. In person … as you’d like.）
And no, I didn’t know there was an active threshold in my parents’ estate, but it should have crossed my mind. I can also say that gsrmyl—wait, sorry but I need to go. I hear them summoning me. Until I can write you again, stay safe and well.
Love,
Kitt
It was Lieutenant Shane, knocking on Roman’s door.
“You’ve been summoned,” he said tersely through the wood.
“I’ll be right along,” Roman replied, his fingers flying over the keys as he rushed to finish typing to Iris. He bit his lip as he tore the paper from the typewriter, sliding his letter beneath the wardrobe.
He packed up his typewriter and stepped into the hall, expecting to find Shane waiting for him. But the dimly lit corridor was empty, and Roman walked to the factory alone through the rain, teeming with the same curiosities and questions as he had the day before at Luz’s graveside. He had wanted to speak to the lieutenant alone again but hadn’t been afforded the chance, and as he now ascended the stairs to the top floor of the factory, he mulled it over for the hundredth time: the key in the soil, creating a threshold. Dacre’s expression as he had emerged from the grave.
What did he see? Is Luz truly dead?
To Roman’s shock, two soldiers were guarding Dacre’s office, the door closed.
“The Lord Commander doesn’t wish to be bothered at the moment,” one of them said.
“I was just summoned by him,” Roman replied, coming to an unsteady halt. “Should I return later?”
The soldiers exchanged a glance. It was apparent they feared Dacre’s wrath in all its shades, whether that be by interrupting him or by sending away his pet of a correspondent.
“Go on, then,” the other said, inclining his head to the door.
Roman nodded and passed between them, slipping into the office.
The first thing he noticed was how dark it was in the room. Even with the wall of rain-streaked windows, afternoon storm shadows gathered deep in the corners and around the furniture. Only a few candles were lit on the desk, their flames wavering as if there were a draft.
Roman stood, stiff with uncertainty, his eyes cutting through the darkness. Dacre wasn’t here, and he wondered if the god had returned to Luz’s grave alone. He was turning to leave when he heard someone breathing. Deep and heavy, the rhythm of dreams.
Swallowing, Roman edged to the center of the room, where he could see a shine of golden hair draped over the arm of a divan. There was Dacre, sleeping on the cushions, his hands laced over his chest, his eyes shut and his mouth slack.