He followed Shane without another word, leaving the Third Alouette behind in his room. He was too preoccupied with his worries to speak as Shane kept a brisk pace, weaving them through the damp streets of Hawk Shire. All Roman carried was Iris’s ring and the map he had drawn of Oath’s ley line, both tucked deep into his pocket. He was beginning to feel uneasy, keeping such items on his person.
He didn’t know what to expect, but sweat was trickling down his back and nausea was roiling through him by the time they reached the office.
Dacre wasn’t alone. There was a tall, pale man standing at the god’s side, a black cloak fastened at his collar. His face was angular, like the facets of cut rock, and his eyes were narrow and cold, glittering with judgment as he studied Roman.
“I’ve given some thought to the article we were planning to write, Roman,” said Dacre. His voice was languid. There was no trace of the nightmare or its lingering fury in his visage, although Roman could still feel an echo of the goddess’s name, hours after it had been spoken.
Enva.
Dacre had dreamt of her.
What did that mean for them, for the war? It felt like the tide had altered, and yet all Roman could feel was the sand shifting beneath him, uncertain of the new ebb and flow.
He laced his hands behind his back to hide how he trembled. “Which article, sir?”
“The one in response to Iris E. Winnow. To the article she wrote for the Tribune, championing Enva’s cleverness and deceit and victory over me.” Dacre took a few steps closer, the space between them shriking until his shadow touched Roman’s feet.
“And what have you decided, sir?”
“I’m sending you to Oath,” Dacre announced. “I would like you to meet with this Iris E. Winnow. You said that you once worked with her and have an acquaintance. Would she be willing to speak with you?”
“I … yes, I believe so, sir. But why—”
“Not only is she a skilled writer, but she has the ear of the Tribune, which is gaining more popularity by the day,” Dacre cut him off. “She is also writing for Enva. I can see the touch of the goddess on her, claiming her words, twisting them against me. For this reason alone, I would like to steal her from my wife. I would like Iris E. Winnow writing for me. If you agree to go on my behalf, then you must take this and meet with her in a public place.”
Dacre extended an envelope. It was a faint blue, like the color of a robin’s egg, shimmering in the late-afternoon light. Iris E. Winnow was scrawled in elegant penmanship—the mere sight of her name made Roman’s heart quicken—and he reached out to take the envelope.
He was about to go home.
He was about to see Iris again.
“When should I go, sir?” he asked, glancing up to meet Dacre’s steady gaze.
“You’ll go now.”
“Now?”
“Val is here and can escort you to the city.” Dacre indicated the strange, cloaked man in the room, who continued to watch Roman like a hawk does a mouse. “If you depart this evening, you’ll reach Oath by sunrise.”
Oath was still a good distance away, but here was the chance to see how Val was coming and going. Here was the opportunity to confirm where the door was in his family’s estate, and for Roman to see the active route with his own eyes.
He only wished that he had his typewriter in hand. Iris wouldn’t know he was coming. He would catch her by surprise and, as Dacre had said, their meeting would have to be in a public place. Most likely because Val would be watching them to ensure nothing suspicious occurred.
It felt risky, seeing her without warning. It felt liberating, as if Roman was being set loose from a gilded cage.
Don’t let this freedom fool you. The warning shivered through him. At once, Roman sobered.
“I’m ready, my lord,” he said. “But my clothes … should I go to the city like this?” He looked down at the dark red jumpsuit that boldly proclaimed he was an UNDERLING CORRESPONDENT.
“You’ll have the chance to change your clothes upon arrival.” Dacre cast a glance at Val, who only arched a brow in response. “And I want you to deliver a second message for me while you’re in Oath.”
“Of course, sir. What is it?”
Dacre extended another envelope, the same color as the first. The addressee was different but just as meaningful, and Roman merely stared at it for a beat.
Mr. Ronald M. Kitt.
“A letter for my father?” Roman asked in a wavering tone.
“Indeed,” Dacre replied, amused. “You’ll be seeing him.”