More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
As for the other three divines … Alva, Mir, and Luz … Enva had never been worried about their waking. But all good things eventually came to an end. And all songs had a final verse. Dacre would wake, and she would be waiting for him.
He had put her in a gilded cage, but she had slipped away from his grasping hands.
It had only been two weeks since Iris had last seen Marisol. Two weeks since they had all been together at the B and B. Two weeks since she had married Roman C. Kitt in the garden. A fortnight wasn’t much time at all;
“What does he see it as, then?” Iris asked, rotating the wedding band on her finger. “He sees it as fearmongering and propaganda. He thinks I’m trying to drive up my sales with such headlines.”
How utterly sobering it was, then, to realize how seldom daydreams like that aligned with reality.
“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.
“I know you’re worried about him. But chances are that Dacre has him very close right now. Healing his wounds, stripping away all connections he once had. Connections like Roman’s family, his life in Oath, the things he once dreamt of. You, even. Anything that would interfere with his service and entice him to escape like I did.”
“Are you saying that Kitt won’t remember me?” “Yes.”
“You tell me you know more, and yet you hardly tell me a thing. You give me bits and pieces, and if you would just be forthright with me—if you would tell me the entire story—then maybe I could understand!”
A sob cracked her voice. It felt like she held the ocean in her chest, her lungs drowning in salty water, and she gasped as a warm hand on her shoulder became a sudden anchor, pulling her up to the surface.
It was the Oath Gazette. Iris’s old place of employment. How strange to hold this paper now, in the basement of the Inkridden Tribune. It almost felt like Iris was dreaming again until she finally saw what Helena had been transfixed by. A headline raced across the page in bold, black ink. A headline that Iris never expected to see. DACRE SAVES HUNDREDS OF WOUNDED IN AVALON BLUFF by ROMAN C. KITT
This was always the hardest part for him. Beginning the articles. It hurt to write, and it hurt not to write. The frustration felt familiar.
“It’ll take time,” Dacre had said, “but you’ll remember what’s important. And you’ll find your place here.
But he hadn’t been alone. Someone had been with him, holding his hand. Roman’s fingertips fell away from his scars. He brought his palms close to his face and noticed there was an indention on his left pinkie. He must have been wearing a ring at some point, and he touched the slight mark it had left behind. There was nothing to remember. No other flash of brilliancy or piece of his past to claim.
“Dacre?” Roman whispered. The name rose like fire in his throat, scalding his tongue.
as if this house had suffered a terrible storm. But it wasn’t until Roman stepped into the wide kitchen and saw the table, the rafters overhead strung with herbs and copper pots, and the twin doors with cracked glass, that he felt pain well in his chest. He had been here before. He was certain of it.
Marisol's house?
And yet all he could do was stare at the two typewriters, resting side by side on the table. They were nearly identical, their keys gleaming in the sunlight. “I take it one of these typewriters looks familiar to you?”
oh no
Roman had never seen this man before, but he couldn’t deny there was a sense of familiarity about him. Just like the house and the typewriters, as if Roman had walked this place in his dreams. But perhaps that was only because this stranger was looking at Roman as if he knew him, and the acknowledgment was uncomfortable, like running his fingers over a woolen scarf before touching a light switch. Static and metal, and a jolt to his bones.
At first, there seemed to be nothing at all but a cool, deep quiet. Ripples expanding outward on the surface of a dark lake. But then Roman felt the tug. It came from deep within him, an invisible cord hidden between his ribs, and he could not see but he felt. The emotions stirred his blood.
This must be a test. There was a right and wrong answer, and Roman hesitated, torn between the typewriter that had reminded him of his name and the one that reminded him that he was alive.
“Mortal bodies are such fragile things to mend, as are your minds,” Dacre said with a hint of amusement. “Like spider silk, like ice in spring. In order for my magic to heal your physical wounds, I had to build walls in your mind to protect you when you woke again. Given that, it’s best if your memories return gradually.”
But when he at last set his fingers onto the keys, he was met by a surprise. This wasn’t the typewriter he had told Dacre was his. This wasn’t the one he had grown up typing on, the one that had shown him a fleeting glimpse of his past self.
Who are you? There was no answer. There was nothing for him to see, but he felt it again. A small yet unmistakable taunting. That invisible cord, knotted between his ribs. He resisted the pull toward the unknown.
She could almost hear him reading it to her, his cadence sharp, cold. Almost unfamiliar. Until her eyes caught on one word, easily overlooked in his sixth sentence: A story not just confined to a museum or a history tome that many of us will never touch, but a story that is in the process of being written. “Museum,” Iris whispered.
Right now, I need to know how Kitt’s words arrived at the Gazette. Did they come by letter? Was it addressed to Autry? Was it handwritten or was his article already typed?” Sarah frowned. “You know, it was very odd. But two days ago, I was sitting in Autry’s office, taking down his lunch order, when a man knocked on the door.” “Who was this man?” Iris demanded. “What did he look like? What was his name?” “I … I don’t know who he was,” Sarah replied. “I honestly couldn’t see his face. He was tall, I remember. He wore a cloak, and the hood was up. His voice was rough and had a strange, almost
...more
Dacre?
“I need you to help me break into the museum, Prindle.”
There is someone who has kept you here, breathing, moving, living.”
he remembers her!
“The typewriter is helping you remember?” Roman nodded, but his tongue curled behind his teeth. He still wasn’t sure why Dacre had asked him to identify his old typewriter and then secretly given him the other. Unless he doesn’t want me to remember.
Is that what this war is about? A broken vow between you and her?” “It is about far more than that, but I don’t expect you to understand, given that you are mortal and unmarried. You’ve never uttered a vow, or felt it settle in your bones like magic. You’ve never sworn yourself to another.” Roman wanted to protest. His cheeks warmed, but he didn’t understand why.
“Alva is the goddess of dreams,” Dacre interrupted. “Of nightmares.”
she is not asleeeeep! She has been visiting both Iris and Roman in their dreams I think!
Your envisioning of a little sister is a simple expression of how much you long for family, to be known. But that’s all it is: just a dream.” Roman swallowed. The god’s words, although kindly spoken, landed like darts.
Roman C. Kitt. He had remembered his first and last name days ago, but his middle initial? He hadn’t included it in his typed article. He hadn’t known his middle name at the time. Someone else had added that C. to his byline, whether it was Dacre or a newspaper employee. Someone else. Roman felt tension coil in his stomach until he heard Del’s sweet voice echo through him. This way, Carver.
“The museum is an enchanted building,”
Far beneath her dangling feet, the world seemed to spin in the mist until she saw four figures walking over the cobblestoned patio. They were dressed in dark garments, their faces concealed behind masks.
The silver plaque was bolted to the inside of the frame, engraved with THE FIRST ALOUETTE, MADE ESPECIALLY FOR A.V.S.
The magic still gathers, and the past is gilded; I see the beauty in what has been but only because I have tasted both sorrow and joy in equal measures. Iris turned away, heading to the stairs. But she blinked back tears and thought, As have I, Alouette.
Iris watched, astounded, as page after folded page appeared from the shadows of her wardrobe door. So many they were creating a pile. She lunged toward them, heart frantic, and quickly unfolded one. Do you ever feel as if you wear armor, day after day? That when people look at you, they see only the shine of steel that you’ve so carefully encased yourself in? Iris lowered the page, bewildered. This was an old letter.
Eeeeeee
She had thought her correspondence with Roman had been lost at Marisol’s. But the First Alouette hadn’t forgotten its magic, even when it had been confined in the museum. This typewriter had been holding the letters, waiting for the moment it could deliver them by a wardrobe door.
“You knew me before you found me dying in the field.” “I knew of you,” Dacre corrected before his attention returned to his newspaper. Roman could see it wasn’t the Gazette but a paper called the Inkridden Tribune. “You have a prestigious family name. One that has been a great support to me and my efforts. And I will not forget those who have faithfully served me.”
Bill after bill after bill. She had never held so much money in her hands before, and she shivered, gaping down at it. “Mr. Kitt has requested that you sign this agreement here, annulling your marriage to his son.”
Someone with long black hair and a smile that crinkled her eyes, her red dress striking against her light brown skin.
Red dress again?
And then it hit her. This was Roman, and he didn’t remember her. The realization was like a knife, plunging into her side, and she let herself melt to the floor,
Today I learned that vultures mate for life. Did you know that? I honestly haven’t paid much attention to birds in the past, but maybe that’s because I grew up on the brick and pavement of a city. I also learned that a nightingale can sing over a thousand different songs, and an albatross can sleep while flying, and male sparrows are responsible for building the nest.
more TTPD memories!
Roman drifted off to sleep. His dreams were stark, vivid.
“We are born with our appointed magic, yes,” Dacre answered. “But that never stopped us from wanting more and finding ways of taking it.”
“Why five?” “It is a sacred number. For you mortals, there are five days of the week, five boroughs, five chancellors, five remaining divines. For us gods, it is a blessing and a warning. When it comes to trusting others, pay heed to the magic of five. Having four confidants is one too few, and six is one too many.
Mr. Ronald Kitt Roman stopped typing, staring at the words Dacre had just uttered. The words he had just inked on paper. “You’re writing to my father?” he asked. “Did I not mention that he has been a faithful servant?” Dacre countered.
The problem is … I want to hear from you at all hours. I want to read your words. I am greedy for them. I am hungry for them.
Tobias Bexley had failed to return.
Tobias was silent, but his breaths were heavy. Iris began to edge along the wall toward the hearth mantel, where she knew Lonnie kept a matchbook and candle tapers. “Are you hurt?” Attie asked. “No. And don’t … don’t touch me. At least not yet.”
he is sus...
