Roman had told Iris his middle name, and he winced every time he thought about it. He thought about it as he rode the lift to the Gazette. He thought about it as he prepared his tea at the sideboard, wishing it were coffee. He thought about it when he sat at his desk and turned his dictionaries paper side out, as she had often done to irk him.
He was thinking about her far too much, and he knew this was going to doom him.
But the truth was he was anxious. Because whenever he saw her again, he would have to tell her he was Carver. He worried she would feel like he had been lying to her, although he had only ever granted her truth, even if it had been in roundabout ways.
I want her to know it’s me, he thought, staring at his typewriter. He wanted her to know today, and yet it would be foolish to impart such a load by letter. No, it needed to be done in person. Face-to-face, where he could explain himself.
“You look hard at work,” said a familiar voice.
Roman stiffened, turning to look up at the last person he expected to see in the Gazette. He set down his teacup and rose. “Father.”
Mr. Kitt’s eyes roamed the office. It took Roman a moment to realize his father was looking for her. For Iris.
“She’s not here,” Roman said in a cold voice.
Mr. Kitt’s gaze returned to his. “Oh? And where is she?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since I was promoted.”
An awkward silence came between them. Roman could feel Sarah’s glance as she passed by, granting Mr. Kitt a wide berth. A few of the editors had also halted, watching through swirls of cigarette smoke.
Roman cleared his throat. “Why are you—”
“I made lunch reservations for you and Miss Little,” Mr. Kitt said tersely. “Today. One o’clock sharp at Monahan’s. You’ll be marrying her in three weeks, and your mother thought it would be nice if the two of you spent some time together.”
Roman forced himself to swallow a retort. This was the last thing he wanted to do today. But he nodded, even as he felt the life drain from him. “Yes. Thank you, Father.”
Mr. Kitt gave Roman an appraising glance, as if he were surprised that Roman had given in so easily.
“Good, son. I’ll see you tonight for supper.”
Roman watched his father leave.
He sank back to his chair and stared at the blank page in his typewriter. The dictionaries he had turned paper side out. He forced his fingers to rest on the keys but he couldn’t write a word. All he could hear was Iris’s voice, as if she were reading her letter aloud to him.
You remove a piece of armor for them; you let the light stream in, even if it makes you wince. Perhaps that is how you learn to be soft yet strong, even in fear and uncertainty. One person, one piece of steel.
Roman sighed. He didn’t want to be vulnerable with Elinor Little. But perhaps he should take Iris’s advice.
Slowly, he began to find words to give to the page.
The sun was at its zenith when a huge lorry rumbled into town. Iris was walking with Marisol down High Street, carrying baskets of goods they had just bartered for at the grocer, when the truck arrived without warning. Iris didn’t know what to think of it—its massive tires were coated in mud, its metal body dinged by bullets.
It rolled in from the western road, which Iris knew led to the war front.
“Oh my gods,” Marisol said with a gasp. She dropped her basket and ran, following the lorry as it drove down another road.
Iris had no choice but to set down her basket and follow her. “Marisol! Marisol, what’s happening?”
If Marisol heard her, she didn’t slow. Her black hair was like a pennant as she raced, as everyone around them followed suit, until a huge crowd gathered around the lorry. It parked at the infirmary, and that was when Iris, sore for breath with a stitch in her side, realized what this was.
The lorry had brought a load of wounded soldiers.
“Quickly, get the stretchers!”
“Easy, now. Easy.”
“Where’s a nurse? We need a nurse, please!”
It was madness as the lorry’s back doors were opened and the wounded were carefully unloaded. Iris wanted to help. She wanted to step forward and do something—Do something! her mind screamed—but she could only stand there, frozen to the road, watching.
The soldiers were dirty, smeared in grime and blood. One of them was weeping, his right leg blown off at the knee. Another was missing an arm, moaning. Their countenances were blanched in shock, creased in agony. Some were unconscious, with battered faces and ripped uniforms.
Iris felt the world tilt.
But no one paid her any attention as she turned and vomited.
Get a grip on yourself, she thought, hands on her knees, eyes closed. This is war. This is what you signed up for. Don’t look away from it.
She straightened and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She turned, envisioning her brother. If Forest were in that lorry, she would go to him with confidence. She would be calm and collected and helpful.
She wove through the crowd and helped a soldier down from the lorry bed. Iris noticed the girl could hardly stand upright; she had a gut wound. The blood on her dark green uniform was sticky—it smeared onto Iris’s hand and jumpsuit, crimson as a rose—and the girl groaned as Iris eased her inside the infirmary.
There weren’t enough beds.
A nurse at the door motioned for Iris to take the girl down the right-hand corridor after looking at her wounds.
“Find any place you can where she’ll be comfortable,” the nurse had said, and Iris was now searching for a spot. But there was only the floor—even all the chairs were taken—and Iris could feel the girl slowly losing consciousness.
“You’re all right,” Iris said to her when she whimpered. “You’re safe now.”
“Just … put me down … on the … floor.”
Iris did, gently, leaning her against the wall. The girl closed her eyes, hands pressed to her stomach.
Overwhelmed, Iris found the closest nurse, who was rushing by with a bucket of bloody water and rags.
“Please, there’s a soldier over there who needs attention. I’m not sure what to do to help her.”
The nurse, haggard, glanced over Iris’s shoulder. He studied the girl sitting on the floor and then whispered to Iris, “I’m sorry, but she’s not going to make it. We can’t heal a wound like that. Just make her as comfortable as you can. There are spare blankets in that wardrobe over there.”
Dazed, Iris turned to fetch a blanket. She brought it back to the soldier and draped it over her, the girl’s eyes remaining shut, her face tense with pain.
“Thank you,” she whispered before drifting unconscious.
Iris remained beside her, uncertain what to do, until she heard Marisol call for her down the hall.
“Iris? We need your help,” Marisol said, taking Iris’s hand to draw her out of the tumult through a side door. “All the beds here are full. Will you come with me and Attie and help me gather the mattresses from the B and B? And some spare linens, which we can tear into bandages?”
“Yes, of course,” Iris said, but her voice sounded tinny.
Peter had agreed to drive his lorry so they could easily transport the mattresses, and he helped Marisol, Attie, and Iris drag the feather-stuffed pallets from the B and B bedrooms down the stairs and out the front door. They even gave their own mattresses, leaving behind nothing but bed frames and quilts.
By the time they returned to the infirmary, all of the wounded had been unloaded and a middle-aged man dressed in a threadbare officer’s uniform was standing in the street, speaking to one of the doctors.
Iris could hear them arguing as she climbed out of the back of Peter’s truck.
“You keep bringing me soldiers that I can’t heal,” the doctor was saying, her voice tinged in frustration. “There’s not much I can do for them.”
“All I ask is they have some dignity in death,” the officer replied. “I refuse to leave them vulnerable on the battlefield.”
The doctor’s frown faded. Her exhaustion was nearly tangible as she said, “Of course, Captain. But I won’t be able to save many of these soldiers.”
“You and your staff providing them a safe and comfortable place to expire is more helpful than you could ever know,” the captain said. “Thank you, Dr. Morgan.”
He turned to open the door of the lorry, which was now loaded down with supplies that the town had provided, when his gaze snagged on Iris. The captain froze and then immediately approached her.
“You’re a war correspondent?” he asked, noticing her badge. “When did you arrive?”
“Last week, sir,” Iris replied.
“We both did, Captain.” Attie spoke up from behind her.
“I can take one of you with me to the front now, if the infirmary can spare you,” he said. “And I can bring you back on the next transport, which would be in seven days, if all goes smoothly.”
Iris turned to face Attie, heart thundering in her chest. This was unexpected.
“Should we flip a coin for it, Iris?” Attie whispered.
Iris nodded. From the corner of her eye, she could just discern Marisol, pausing to watch what would happen.
Attie reached into her pocket and procured a coin. She held it up to the light and asked, “Mountain or castle?”
Iris licked her lips. She felt parched. She didn’t know what she wanted, and the indecision felt like a knife in her side. Perspiration began to prickle her palms. “Castle.”
Attie nodded and flicked the coin, high into the air. She caught the tumbling copper in her hands and opened her palm, extending it so Iris could see.
It was the mountain side of the coin.
Attie would go, then.
Roman stepped into Monahan’s at ten till one, hoping to be the first to arrive. To his shock, Elinor Little was already sitting at their table, waiting on him.
“Roman,” she greeted him in a cool voice. Her blond hair was crimped, her lips painted blood red. She was dressed in a navy dress with a fringed shawl, and her blue eyes were cold as she watched him take the chair across from hers.
“Elinor,” he replied.
This was one of the finest restaurants in Oath, where Roman’s parents had fallen in love over a long candlelit dinner. The setting was dim and romantic, with black and white floors, vases of roses on every table, marble statues in the corners, and velvet-draped windows.
Roman had never been more uncomfortable in his life, and he cleared his throat as he glanced over the menu. Elinor seemed uninclined to talk, and he had no idea what to say to her. Thankfully, a waiter emerged to pour them each a flute of champagne and to take the order for their first course.
But then it was back to a stilted silence, and Roman glanced around the restaurant, his eyes eventually landing on two marble statues in the nearest corner. Lovers, entwined together, and so magnificently carved that Roman could imagine they were real. The wrinkles in their raiment, the give of their skin as they clung to each other, the flow of their breaths …
“So,” Elinor finally said, and Roman returned his gaze to her. “Here we are.”
“Here we are,” he echoed, and when she held out her flute, he clinked his glass to hers. They drank to this strange arrangement, and Roman’s palms were slick with perspiration when he looked at his fiancée. “Tell me more about you.”
Elinor snorted. “You don’t have to pretend, Roman. I know you don’t want to marry me any more than I want to wed you. We can eat in silence, appease our parents, and then return to our separate lives.”
He blinked. He didn’t know what to make of her statement—whether she was performing or if she truly felt that uninterested in him. He was marrying her in three weeks, and she was an utter stranger to him. He knew nothing about her other than her name and that she had once played the piano. And that she assisted her father in his laboratory, creating bombs.
The first course arrived.
Roman decided he would keep quiet, as she wanted, and see how long the two of them could eat in complete silence. He made it through three courses before he couldn’t stand it. He raked his fingers through his hair and set his eyes on her. She had scarcely looked at him the entire lunch, as if he didn’t exist.
“Why are we doing this?” he asked bluntly.
Elinor’s sharp gaze almost cut through him when she glanced up. “It’s for the good of both of our families.”
“Is it good when it’s to our own detriment?” he countered.
Elinor held his stare. “There are things happening beyond us, Roman. Things that are bound to unfold. And we must prepare for them.”
“Like what?” he asked a bit loudly. “Dacre coming to Oath?”
“Hush!” she whispered, but her eyes blazed. “You shouldn’t speak of such things in the open.”
“Such as how you’re helping your father build bombs to send to the war front on my father’s railroad,” he said in an icy tone. “To allow Dacre to destroy innocent people.” He inevitably remembered the night he had paced, worried sick about Iris. His hands curled into fists beneath the table.
Elinor froze. Her cheeks flushed, but she recovered swiftly, granting him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Bombs? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I saw them, Elinor. A huge crate of them in my father’s office.”
She took a sip of champagne. He was amazed by how callous she was.
“They aren’t bombs, Roman,” she said at last in a condescending tone. “They’re something else. Don’t judge or speak of things you don’t understand.”
Now he was the one to flush, embarrassed. “Then what are they?”
“You’ll find out once we’re married.” She drained her champagne and gathered her shawl closer about her shoulders. She was ready to leave before the last course had arrived, and Roman watched her rise.
“You’re in love with someone else,” he stated, which made her pause. He could see her swallow, and he knew she was working to hide her emotions. “You should be with them, not me. Don’t you see it, Elinor? You and I will be miserable together.”
“We can keep to our separate rooms, until we need an heir,” she murmured.
Roman was quiet as the weight of her words unfolded. His fiancée was suggesting they would take their own lovers, then. Their marriage would be in title only. A sad binding with hollow vows.
You deserve this, a voice whispered to him. The voice of his guilt, which still flared brightly even four years after Del’s death. You don’t deserve to be happy or loved.
“As you want, then,” he said.
Elinor met his gaze for a brief, unguarded moment. She was relieved he had agreed to it, and it only deepened his despair.
She strode away, her heels clicking on the checkered floors. But Roman remained seated at the table as the dessert arrived. He stared at it for a long moment before his gaze wandered back to the statues, entwined in the corner.
He would soon be married to a girl who had no interest in knowing him. Her heart belonged elsewhere, and he’d never know what it would feel like to be loved by her.
It’s what I deserve, he thought again as he drank the rest of the champagne.
He left the restaurant and began the walk back to the Gazette, hands shoved into his pockets and a scowl on his face. There was a crowd on one street corner, and Roman began to divert his path until he realized it was gathered around the newsstand.
Quickly, he changed course, getting in line to purchase whatever paper it was that had stirred up a frenzy in the people. Of course, it wasn’t the Gazette. It was the Inkridden Tribune, and Roman paid for a copy.
He walked a few paces away, told himself to quickly glance over the front page and then toss it in the nearest rubbish bin. Zeb Autry would fire him on the spot if he knew his newly appointed columnist was entertaining the competition. Roman could skim and walk, and he snapped the creases from the paper as he read the headline.
He came to an abrupt halt.
His heart was suddenly thrumming, pounding in his ears.
In bold type, the headline raced across the page:
THE UNEXPECTED FACE OF WAR by INKRIDDEN IRIS
Roman stood in the sunshine and read every word of her article. He forgot where he was, where he was standing. Where he was going. Where he had just come from. He forgot everything when he read her words, and a smile crept over his face when he reached the end.
Damn, he was proud of her.
There was no possible way this paper was going into the rubbish bin. Roman carefully folded it, hiding it in his jacket. As he hurried back to the Gazette, he couldn’t think of anything else save for Iris and her words.
He thought of her as he waited for the lift. It was broken. So he took to the stairs, and his heart continued to race long after he had returned to his desk, and he didn’t know why.
It was that ache again. The one that tasted like salt and smoke. A longing he feared would only grow stronger with each passing year. A regret in the making.
He shifted, listening to the paper crinkle in his jacket. A paper inked with her words.
She was writing brave, bold things.
And it had taken him a while, but he was ready now.
He was ready to write his own story.
Iris remained with Marisol at the infirmary that night. After all the mattresses had been laid down, the two of them had helped in the kitchen, preparing soup and bread. Then they had washed plates and linens and scrubbed blood off the floors and prepared bodies for burial.
The soldier Iris had helped off the lorry was one of them.
It was almost midnight now, and Iris and Marisol were sitting on a stack of empty crates in a corner, shredding bedsheets into bandages. Attie had been gone for hours, and Iris couldn’t help but wonder where she was, if she had reached the war front yet. How much danger she would be in.
“She’ll be safe,” Marisol said gently, as if she had read Iris’s mind. “I know it feels futile to say this, but try not to worry.”
Iris nodded, but her thoughts ran in a tight circle. She kept seeing the moment the lorry doors were opened, revealing the wounded soldiers.
“Marisol?”
“Hmm?”
Iris was quiet, watching her shred the sheets with precision.
“Is Keegan fighting in the war?”
Marisol froze. But she met Iris’s gaze, and there was a hint of fear within her. “Why do you think that, Iris?”
“My brother is fighting for Enva, and I recognize the same gleam in you that dwells in me. The worry and the hope and the dread.”
Marisol sighed, her hands dropping to her lap. “I was going to tell you and Attie eventually. I was just waiting.”
“What were you waiting for?” Iris asked.
“I didn’t want it to interfere with your work,” she replied. “Helena has no idea my wife is fighting. I don’t know if she would even send correspondents to my door if she knew. You are, after all, supposed to be writing from a neutral perspective.”
“She knows my brother is fighting, and she still hired me,” Iris said. “I don’t think you should have to hide the fact that your wife is brave and selfless.”
Marisol was silent, her long fingers tracing the bandages on her lap. “She’s been gone seven months now. The day word broke out that Dacre had taken the town of Sparrow, she enlisted. In the beginning, I asked her—I begged her—not to go. But then I realized I couldn’t hold her in a cage. And if she felt so passionately about fighting Dacre, then I needed to support her. I told myself I would do whatever it took at home to help, whether that was making food for the infirmary or agreeing to house war correspondents, or even giving up my groceries to send to the soldiers on the front.”
“Does she ever write to you?” Iris whispered.
“Yes, whenever she can, which isn’t often. They were on the move for a while, and now the army must prioritize transporting only the most essential of things, and letters often get overlooked.” Marisol paused before asking, “Have you heard from your brother, Iris?”
“No.”
“I’m sure you will soon.”
“I hope so,” Iris said, although her heart was heavy. She hadn’t received a reply from the E Brigade’s C.O. yet, and she worried she never would.
An hour later, Marisol told her to rest. Iris lay on the infirmary floor and closed her eyes, exhausted to the bone.
She dreamt of Forest.
Dear Carver,
I’m sorry I haven’t written to you in a while. The days have been long and hard here. And they’ve made me realize that I don’t think I’m brave enough or strong enough for this. I don’t think my words will ever be able to describe how I feel right now. I don’t think my words will ever be able to describe the things I’ve seen. The people I’ve met. The way the war creeps like a shadow.
How am I supposed to write articles about this when my words and my experience are so terribly inadequate? When I myself feel so terribly inadequate?
Love,
Iris
Dear Iris,
I don’t think you realize how strong you are, because sometimes strength isn’t swords and steel and fire, as we are so often made to believe. Sometimes it’s found in quiet, gentle places. The way you hold someone’s hand as they grieve. The way you listen to others. The way you show up, day after day, even when you are weary or afraid or simply uncertain.
That is strength, and I see it in you.
As for your bravery … I can honestly tell you I don’t know anyone of your mettle. Who else packs up everything and leaves the comfort of their home to become a war correspondent? Not many. I admire you, in more ways than one.
Keep writing. You will find the words you need to share. They are already within you, even in the shadows, hiding like jewels.
Yours,
—C.
