“Are we beneath Oath?” he finally asked, trying to memorize the exact path they had taken.
“Yes. We are approaching the doorway.”
“How did you know when to tell the eithral to land? There were no markers, no way of knowing where we were.”
“There’s always a way of knowing,” Val answered. “If one pays attention.”
Roman pondered over that a moment before he remembered the steam vents. Perhaps Val had counted them as they passed, knowing which number corresponded to Oath. It seemed the only plausible explanation, but Roman didn’t have time to dwell on it as Val began speaking again.
“You’ll recognize where you are the moment you pass through the door. It’ll be dawn, and I’d advise you to change your clothes and then do what needs to be done with Iris Winnow first before speaking with your parents. Do you know where Gould’s Café is located?”
“Yes,” Roman said.
“That’s where you should meet Miss Winnow. Keep your explanations brief and vague. Say nothing of the doorways or the eithrals. Most people who have never been below struggle to understand our ways here.”
Roman waited for more, but when Val remained quiet, he said, “I’ll keep this in mind. Thank you, sir.”
Val came to an abrupt halt, his boots crunching a tiny skeleton. Roman dodged stepping into him but noticed that the amethysts grew into a glittering archway above one of the branching routes.
“Take this passage. It will lead you to the door,” Val said. “I’ll be waiting here for you at dawn tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
Roman nodded. He gazed up at the crystal archway, unable to fight his admiration of it. Darkly gleaming facets that would lead him home.
He began to walk, unsteady at first. He was surprised by how much he missed Val’s light as he drew farther away from it, and how chilling it was to move through such dark passages alone. But then the air began to shift as one realm melted into the other.
Roman caught a draft.
It smelled like lemon polish on hardwood floors. Like bouquets of flowers that had bloomed in a glass house, and treacle biscuits, still warm from the oven. Like cigar smoke and his mother’s rosewater perfume.
It smelled like home, and Roman ran toward it, his breath loud and jagged in the shadows.
The stairs were steep and rough-hewn, just barely discernable as if starlight limned them. Roman took two at a time until his legs almost buckled, and then he slowed down. He made himself swallow, breathe, step carefully. Higher and higher he ascended, until he felt the power of Dacre’s domain shiver down his spine, stripping away like a shed coat.
Roman approached the door. He could see the handle flash in welcome, as if it sensed his heat.
He wondered how many times he had walked past this door before, completely unaware of what it could become with the turning of a key. He wondered how many mundane things hid magic, or perhaps it was better to think of it as how much magic liked being married to the ordinary. To simplicity and comfort and overlooked details.
Roman took hold of the handle and turned it. The door popped open; he was greeted by a slender shaft of light, tinged blue with dawn.
Heart in his throat, Roman passed over the threshold.
{32}
Static on the Line
It was the parlor.
Roman stood and soaked in the familiar blue-and-gold features: the ornate rug that muffled footsteps, the marble hearth on the wall, the floor-to-ceiling windows with the brocade drapes, the piano that sat quietly in the corner, the gilded wainscotting, and the framed oil paintings that had been in their family for generations.
Clothes, he thought just as the grandfather clock in the foyer struck the seventh hour. His father would already be up, smoking in the study with a hearty dose of brandy in his coffee. His nan was cloistered in the western wing of the estate with her dogs and her books, but his mother liked to rise after the sun, which meant she would be moving through the house soon. And she had always been more in tune with ghosts than his father. If anyone sensed his presence, it would be his mum.
Roman raked his fingers through his dark hair and quit the parlor.
Up the grand staircase and down the hallway, his boots hardly making noise on the plush runner. He slipped into his old bedroom, quietly locking the door behind him. Everything was just as he had left it. Everything but the vase of flowers on his desk.
Frowning, Roman walked to them, touching the small but fierce blue petals. Forget-me-nots. They grew in abundance in spring, brightening the garden and the woodlands on their property.
His mother had been here, then. How often did she come to his room?