At dinner, he had expected the questions he could not fully answer. Where have you been, why haven’t you contacted us, tell us more of what you’re doing. As instructed, Roman kept his replies vague, but two odd things happened while they were seated at the table.
The first had been his nan’s whippet. The fact that the dog was allowed to sit in the dining room told Roman that his father had started to cave, because in the past his grandmother wasn’t permitted to bring along any of her pets in this wing of the house. But the whippet sat, quiet and obedient, behind Nan’s chair, until a sudden draft could be felt in the dining room.
The crystals on the chandelier above clinked together as they trembled. There was a creak in the hardwood beneath the rug. Roman watched as the wine in his glass rippled like an invisible stone had been dropped into it.
Nan’s whippet barked.
“Hush that dog at once, Henrietta,” Mr. Kitt had snapped, his face flushing red.
Nan rolled her eyes—only she could get away with such defiance in his father’s presence—and set down her napkin. “Quiet, Theodore.”
Theodore quit his barking, but Roman noticed the dog’s nose was pointed to the eastern wall. The wall that the dining room shared with the parlor.
Roman returned his attention to his plate. Someone had just used the doorway. He wondered if it was Val, satisfied with Roman’s behavior.
“This house is nothing but drafts these days,” Nan had muttered, tossing a scrap of ham to the dog.
“Hmm” was how Mr. Kitt replied, but he met Roman’s gaze over the candle tapers.
They shared a knowing look. Roman could only wonder if his father had dared to tread below, or if he was only being a genteel host for Dacre, letting Val come and go as he pleased.
Not ten minutes later, when the waitstaff were bringing out the third course, the second odd thing had occurred.
A man Roman had never seen before slipped into the dining room and approached his father, bending low to whisper something to Mr. Kitt. The man was short and stocky, wearing a dark coat with its collar flipped upward to shield his neck. His left ear looked permanently swollen, betraying his past as a boxer, and there was a scar on his jaw.
Roman said nothing as he watched the brief exchange, surprised that his father wasn’t angry at the interruption. Whatever the man whispered to Mr. Kitt pleased him, because his scowl eased and he nodded.
Just as suddenly as the man had arrived, he left. He exited the manor out the front door, into the dusk, and Roman stared at his father until Mr. Kitt had no choice but to meet his gaze.
“Who was that?” Roman had asked tersely.
His father took his time in replying, taking a long sip of wine. “An associate of mine.”
“An associate?”
“Yes. Is that acceptable to you, Roman?”
Roman bit his tongue. That man was something more than a mere associate, and it made gooseflesh rise on his arms.
“He helps your father handle the business side of matters, Roman,” his mother said in her airy voice. “His name is Bruce. He sometimes joins us for afternoon tea.”
“Some security,” Nan murmured beneath her breath.
“Security?” Roman echoed. A chill touched his spine when he wondered if his father was in too deep with Dacre and felt like he needed a guard. But then he thought of Iris, sneaking in through the back garden to meet him that night. “He guards the property?”
Mr. Kitt chuckled. “No, although I don’t see why it interests you, son. You never cared much for familial matters, or this house you’ll inherit.”
A jab. Roman’s face flushed, and he decided to leave it at that until his mother mentioned the Graveyard and how thankful she was that these unnamed citizens were striving to keep Oath safe. The Graveyard, who had enforced a strict curfew. With Iris about to venture through the night-stained streets to meet him.
Roman’s stomach churned as he had delivered the letter to his father after the final course, dismissing himself to his room.
He was halfway up the stairs when Mr. Kitt called up to him from the foyer.
“Do you know when you’ll be visiting again, son?”
Roman paused on the stair. “No, sir.”
Mr. Kitt nodded, but his eyes narrowed. “He must be quite pleased with you, letting you come home for a spell.”
Roman ground his teeth together. Yes, he had done plenty for Dacre. All those words he had typed for him. All that propaganda.
It made him feel sick.
“Keep it that way.” Mr. Kitt spoke in a hushed tone. “At least, for a little while longer.”