It was dark and cold and long past midnight when Iris walked home from the station, carrying a box of her mother’s belongings. A mist spun in the air, turning lamplight into pools of gold. But Iris could hardly feel the chill. She could hardly feel the cobblestones beneath her feet.
Her hair and clothes were beaded with moisture by the time she stepped into her flat. Of course, it was full of quiet shadows. She should be used to it by now. And yet she still peered into the darkness for a glimpse of her mother—the spark of her cigarette and the slant of her smile. Iris strained against the roar of silence for any sound of life—a clink of a bottle or the hum of a favorite song.
There was nothing. Nothing but Iris’s labored breaths and a box of belongings and the undertaker’s bill to pay, to turn her mother’s body into ashes.
She set down the box and wandered into Aster’s room.
Iris sprawled on the rumpled bed. She could almost fool herself, remembering the time before the alcohol had set its claws into her mother. Before Forest left them. She could almost sink into the bliss of the past, when Aster had been full of laughter and stories, waitressing at the diner down the street. Brushing Iris’s long hair every night and asking her about school. What books she had been reading. What reports she was writing.
You’ll be a famous writer someday, Iris, her mother had said, deft fingers braiding Iris’s long brown hair. Mark my words. You’ll make me so proud, sweetheart.
Iris let herself weep. She cried the memories into her mother’s pillow until she was so exhausted the darkness pulled her under again.
She woke to the sound of persistent knocking on the front door.
Iris jolted upright in bed, her legs tangled in wine-stained sheets. Sunlight was streaming in through the window, and for a moment she was confused. What time was it? She had never slept this late …
She scrambled for the watch on her mother’s bedside table, which read half past eleven in the morning.
Oh my gods, she thought, and rose from the bed on shaky legs. Why had she overslept? Why was she in her mother’s bed?
It all came back to her in a rush. The message at the Gazette, Station Nine, her mother’s cold, pale body beneath a sheet.
Iris staggered, tearing her fingers through her snarled hair.
The knocking came again, insistent. And then his voice—which was the last voice she wanted to hear—called through the wood: “Winnow? Winnow, are you there?”
Roman Kitt was at her flat, knocking on her door.
Her heart quickened as she strode into the living room, directly to the door so she could peer through the peephole. Yes, there he was, standing with her trench coat draped over his arm, his face marked with concern.
“Winnow? If you’re there, please open the door.”
She continued to stare at him, noticing when his concern turned into fear. She saw his hand stray to the doorknob. When the knob turned and the door began to open, she realized with a pang that she had forgotten to lock it last night.
Iris had only three seconds to scramble backward as the door swung open. She stood in a flood of sunshine, pulse hammering in her throat as Roman caught sight of her.
She must have looked exceptionally dreadful, because he startled. And then his breath left him in a rush as he stepped over the threshold.
“Are you all right?”
Iris froze as his eyes raced over her. For a split second, she was so relieved to see him that she could have wept. But then she realized two horrible things. The first was that her blouse was gaping open, the buttons undone halfway to her navel. She glanced down and saw the white lace of her bra, which Roman no doubt had also noticed by now, and she gasped, holding the fabric closed with a trembling hand.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Roman said in a very strange voice. It took another two seconds for Iris to infer that he thought she had been with someone, and she blanched.
“No. I’m home alone,” she croaked, but his eyes were drifting beyond her, as if he expected another person to emerge from the bedroom.
And that was when the second terrible revelation hit her. Roman Upper Class Kitt was standing in her home. Her rival was standing in her flat, beholding the disarray of her life. He could see the melted candles on the sideboard from all the nights she couldn’t afford electricity, and the stray wine bottles that she had yet to gather and dispose of. How barren the living room was, and how the wallpaper was faded and falling apart.
Iris took a step away from him, pride burning in her bones. She couldn’t bear for Roman to see her like this. She couldn’t bear for him to see how messy things were in her life. For him to see her on her worst day.
“Winnow?” he said, taking a step closer, as if he felt the tug of her movements. “You’re all right?”
“I’m fine, Kitt,” she said, surprised by how rough-hewn her voice was, as if she hadn’t spoken in years. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re all very concerned,” he replied. “You left work early yesterday, and you didn’t show this morning. Is everything okay?”
She swallowed, torn between telling him the truth and concealing her pain. She stared at his chest, unable to meet his eyes. She realized if she told him about her mother, he would pity her even more than he already did. And that was the last thing she wanted.
“Yes, I’m sorry for leaving yesterday,” she said. “I felt ill. And I overslept.”
“Do you need me to send for a doctor?”
“No!” She cleared her throat. “No but thank you. I’m on the mend. Tell Autry I’ll be in first thing tomorrow.”
Roman nodded, but his eyes narrowed as he intently studied her, like he sensed her lie. “Can I get you anything else? Are you hungry? Should I fetch a sandwich or soup or whatever else you’d like?”
She gaped for a second, shocked by his offer. His gaze began to flicker around the room again, taking in the shambles she was so desperate to hide from him. Panic surged through her. “No! No, I don’t need anything. You can go now, Kitt.”
He frowned. The sunlight limned his body, but a shadow danced over his face.
“Of course. I’ll leave, as you want. I brought your coat, by the way.”
“Right. You, erm, you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.” She awkwardly accepted the coat, still holding her blouse shut. She avoided making eye contact.
“It was no trouble,” he said.
She could feel him staring at her, as if daring her to meet his gaze.
She couldn’t.
She would break if she did, and she waited for him to retrace his steps over the threshold.
“Will you lock the door behind me?” he asked.
Iris nodded, hugging the trench coat to her chest.
Roman finally shut the door.
She continued to stand in the empty flat. As if she had grown roots.
The minutes flowed, but she hardly sensed time. Everything felt distorted, like she was looking at her life through fractured glass. Dust motes spun in the air around her. A deep breath unspooled from her as she went to lock the door, and then she thought better of it, and looked through the peephole again.
He was still standing there, hands shoved into his coat pockets, his dark hair windblown. Waiting. Her annoyance flared until she bolted the door. As soon as he heard the locks slide, Roman Kitt turned and left.
