They sat across from each other at the kitchen table, their typewriters nearly touching. Their notepads were open, stray papers with thoughts and outlines and snippets spread over the wood. It was harder than Iris had anticipated, looking over the notes she had gathered at the front. The stories of soldiers she knew were now dead.
“Any ideas on where to start?” Roman asked, as if he was feeling the same reluctance as her.
Sometimes she still dreamt of that afternoon. Sometimes she dreamt she was endlessly running through the trenches, unable to find her way out, her mouth full of blood.
Iris cleared her throat, flipping to the next page. “No.”
“I suppose we could tackle this in two different ways,” he said, dropping his notepad on the table. “We could write about our experiences and the timeline of the attack. Or we could edit the stories we gathered about individual soldiers.”
Iris was pensive, but she felt like Roman was right. “Do you remember much, Kitt? After the grenade went off?”
Roman raked his hand through his hair, mussing it even more than it already was. “A bit, yes. I think the pain had me quite dazed, but I vividly remember you, Iris.”
“So you remember how stubborn you were, then? How you insisted I grab your bag and leave you.”
“I remember feeling like I was about to die, and I wanted you to know who I was,” he said, meeting her gaze.
Iris fell silent, pulling a loose thread from her sleeve. “I wasn’t about to let you die.”
“I know,” Roman said, and a smile broke over his face. “And yes. Stubborn is my middle name. Don’t you know it by now?”
“I believe that name is already taken, Carver.”
“Do you know what Carver would like right about now? Some tea.”
“Make your own tea, lazybones,” Iris said, but she was already rising from her chair, thankful that he had given her something to do. A moment to step away from the memories that were flooding her.
By the time she had prepared two cups, Roman had started to transcribe soldier stories. Iris decided it would be best for her to write about the actual attack, since she had been lucid the entire time.
She fed a fresh page into her typewriter and stared at its crisp blankness for a long moment, sipping her tea. It was strangely comforting to hear Roman type. She almost laughed when she remembered how it had once irked her, to know his words were flowing while she worked on classifieds and obituaries.
She needed to break this ice.
Her fingers touched the keys, tentatively at first. As if remembering their purpose.
She began to write, and the words felt slow and thick at first. But she fell into a rhythm with Roman, and soon her keys were rising and falling, the accompaniment to his, as if they were creating a metallic song together.
She caught him smiling a few times, as if he had been waiting to hear her words strike.
Their tea went cold.
Iris stopped to freshen up their cups. She noticed that the wind was still blowing. Every now and then, a tendril would sneak into the kitchen, fluttering the papers on the table. The breeze smelled like warm soil and moss and freshly cut grass, and she watched as the garden beyond danced with it.
She continued with her article, cutting up her memories and setting them back down on paper. She made it to the moment when the grenade went off and she paused, glancing up at Roman. He tended to scowl while he wrote, and there was deep furrow between his brows. But his eyes were alight, and his lips were pressed into a line, and he tilted his head to the side, so his hair would drift out of his eyes.
“See something you like?” he asked, not missing a beat. His gaze remained on his paper, his fingertips flying over the keys.
Iris frowned. “You’re distracting me, Kitt.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. Now you know how I’ve felt all this bloody time, Iris.”
“If I was distracting you for such a long period of time … you should have done something about it.”
Without another word, Roman reached for a piece of paper and crumpled it into a ball, hurling it across the table at her. Iris blocked it, eyes flashing.
“And to think I made you two perfect cups of tea!” she cried, crumpling her own sheet to fire back at him.
Roman caught it like it was a baseball, his eyes still on his work as one hand continued to type. “Is there any chance of a third, do you think?”
“Perhaps. But it’ll come with a fee.”
“I’ll pay whatever you want.” He stopped typing to look at her. “Tell me your price.”
Iris bit her lip, wondering what she should ask for. “Are you sure about that, Kitt? What if I want you to wash my laundry for the rest of the war? What if I want you to massage my feet every night? What if I want you to make me a cup of tea every hour?”
“I can do all of that and more if you like,” he said, deadly serious. “Simply tell me what you want.”
She breathed, slow and deep, trying to dim the fire that seemed so eager to burn within her. That blue-hearted fire that Roman sparked. He was watching, waiting, and she dropped her eyes to where she had left her sentence hanging on the page.
The explosion. His hand being ripped from hers. The smoke that rose. Why had she been unscathed, when so many others hadn’t? Men and women who had given so much more than her, who would never get to return home to their families, their lovers. Who would never see their next birthday, or kiss the person they least expected, or grow old and wise, watching flowers bloom in their garden.
“I don’t deserve this,” she whispered. She felt like she was betraying her brother. Lieutenant Lark. The Sycamore Platoon. “I don’t deserve to be this happy. Not when there’s so much pain and terror and loss in the world.”
“Why would you say that?” Roman replied, his voice gentle but urgent. “Do you think we could live in a world made only of those things? Death and pain and horror? Loss and agony? It’s not a crime to feel joy, even when things seem hopeless. Iris, look at me. You deserve all the happiness in the world. And I intend to see that you have it.”
She wanted to believe him, but her fear cast a shadow. He could be killed. He could be wounded again. He could choose to leave her, like Forest. She wasn’t prepared for another blow like that.
She blinked away her tears, hoping Roman couldn’t see them. She cleared her throat and said, “That seems like quite a bit of trouble, doesn’t it?”
“Iris,” said Roman, “you are worthy of love. You are worthy to feel joy right now, even in the darkness. And just in case you’re wondering … I’m not going anywhere, unless you tell me to leave, and even then, we might need to negotiate.”
She nodded. She needed to trust him. She had doubted him before, and he had proven her wrong. Again and again.
Iris gave him a hint of a smile. Her chest felt heavy, but she wanted this. She wanted to be with him.
“A cup of tea,” she said. “That’s my fee for today.”
Roman returned her smile, rising from the table. “A cup every hour, I suppose?”
“That depends on how proficient you are at brewing tea.”
“Challenge accepted, Winnow.”
She watched him limp to the cooker, filling the kettle at the faucet. He didn’t like to use his crutch in the house, but it looked like he still needed it. She held her tongue, admiring the way the light limned him and the graceful movement of his hands.
Roman was just pouring her a cup of perfectly brewed tea when the siren sounded. Iris stiffened, listening as the distant wail rose and fell, rose and fell. Over and over, like a creature in the throes of death.
“Eithrals?” Roman asked, setting the kettle down with a clang.
“No,” Iris said, standing. Her gaze was on the garden, on the breeze that raked over it. “No, this is the evacuate siren.”
She had never heard it before, but she had often thought of it happening. Her feet froze to the floor as the siren continued to wail.
“Iris?” Roman’s voice brought her back into the moment. He was standing beside her, intently watching her face.
“Kitt.” She reached for his hand as the floor began to shake beneath her. She wondered if it was the aftershocks of a distant bomb, but the rumbling only intensified, as if something was drawing closer.
There was a loud pop, and Iris instantly cowered, teeth clenched. Roman pulled her back up, holding her against his chest. His voice was warm in her hair as he whispered, “It’s just a lorry. It’s just backfire. We’re safe here. You’re safe with me.”
She closed her eyes, but she listened to the beat of his heart and the sounds encircling them. He was right; the rumbling she felt was from a lorry driving by the house. The icy sweat still prickled on her palms and at the nape of her neck, but she was able to steady herself in his arms.
Multiple lorries must be driving by. Because the siren continued to wail, and the ground continued to shake.
She opened her eyes, feeling the sudden urge to look at him. “Kitt, you don’t think…?”
Roman only gazed down at her, but there was a haunted gleam in his eyes.
You don’t think this is Dacre’s soldiers? You don’t think that this is the end, do you?
He didn’t know, she realized as he caressed her face. He touched her the same way he always had, as if he wanted to savor it. As if it could be the last time.
The front door blew open with a bang.
Iris startled again, but Roman kept his arms around her. Someone was in the house, striding down the corridor with a heavy tread. And then came a voice, unfamiliar yet piercing.
“Marisol!”
A woman appeared in the kitchen. A tall soldier, dressed in an olive-green blood-splattered uniform. A rifle was strapped to her back, grenades to her belt. A golden star was pinned above her heart, revealing her status as a captain. Her blond hair was cut short, but a few tendrils shone in the light beneath her helmet. Her face was gaunt as if she hadn’t eaten properly over the past few months, but her brown eyes were keen, cutting across the kitchen to where Iris and Roman stood, embracing.
At once, Iris knew her. She had been kneeling in this woman’s garden, preparing it for her return. “Keegan?”
“Yes. Where’s my wife?” Keegan demanded. She hardly gave Iris the chance to respond before she turned on her heel, disappearing down the hallway. “Mari? Marisol!”
Iris slipped from Roman’s arms, hurrying after her. “She’s not here.”
Keegan pivoted in the foyer. “Where is she?”
“At the infirmary. What’s happening? Do we need to evacuate?”
“Yes.” Keegan’s gaze flickered beyond her, to where Roman had limped into the hallway, following them. “One of you needs to get the dash-packs ready. The other, come with me.” She stepped back into the brightness of the front yard, and Iris turned to Roman.
“Marisol has the dash-packs in the pantry,” she explained. “There should be four of them, one for each of us. If you’ll gather them together, I’ll meet you back here in a few minutes.”
“Iris, Iris, wait.” He snagged her sleeve and drew her to him, and she thought he was about to argue until his mouth crashed against hers.
She was still breathless from his kiss a full minute later, when she was chasing Keegan through the chaotic streets. There were lorries parked everywhere, and soldiers were spilling out of them, preparing for battle.
“Keegan?” Iris called, hurrying to keep pace with Marisol’s wife. “What’s happened?”
“Dacre is about to assault Clover Hill,” Keegan replied, stepping around a man who was running home with three goats on a leash and a basket full of produce in his arms. “That’s a small town only a few kilometers from here. I don’t think we’ll be able to hold it for long, so we expect Dacre will strike the Bluff next, within a day or so.”
The words went through Iris like bullets. She felt a flash of pain in her chest, but then she went numb with shock. This can’t be happening, she thought, even as she saw how the residents of Avalon Bluff were rushing out of their homes with suitcases and dash-packs, heeding the orders of soldiers who were telling them to load up into the lorries and evacuate.
There was one family who had dragged a huge framed portrait out of the house and into their yard. A soldier was shaking his head, saying, “No, only the essentials. Leave everything else behind.”
“The residents are being evacuated by lorry?” Iris asked.
“Yes,” Keegan replied, her eyes set dead ahead of them as they continued to wind through the crowded street. “They’ll be driven to the next town east of here. But I’m asking for any residents who want to fight and defend the town to stay behind and assist. Hopefully, there’ll be a few who volunteer.”
Iris swallowed. Her mouth felt dry, and her pulse was beating hard in her throat. She wanted to stay and help, but she knew in that moment that she and Roman should evacuate.
“I never got your name,” Keegan said, glancing at her.
“Iris Winnow.”
Keegan’s eyes widened. She tripped over a loose cobblestone, but her reaction to Iris’s name was quickly stifled, which made Iris wonder if she had merely imagined it. Although she was haunted by an unspoken question …
Has Keegan heard of me before?
The infirmary at last came into view. Iris noticed how Keegan’s strides lengthened until she was almost running. The yard was teeming with nurses and doctors assisting wounded patients into the trucks.
What should I do? Should I stay or go? Iris’s thoughts helplessly rolled, just like the siren that continued to wail.
Keegan fought the flow of traffic into the infirmary hall, Iris in her shadow. Most of the cots were empty by now. Footsteps rang hollow off the high ceilings. Sunlight continued to faithfully pour into the windows, illuminating the scuffs on the floor.
The air smelled like salt and iodine and spilled onion soup. Keegan came to an abrupt halt, as if she had stepped into a wall. Iris looked beyond her to behold Marisol, a few paces away. The sun gilded her as she bent down to lift a basket of blankets, Attie at her side.
Iris held her breath, waiting. Because Keegan was like a statue, frozen to the spot, watching her wife.
At last, Marisol glanced up. Her mouth went slack, the basket tumbling from her hands. She ran to Keegan with a shriek, weeping and laughing, leaping into her arms.
Iris felt her vision blur as she watched them reunite. She dashed her tears away, but not before she met Attie’s gaze.
Keegan? Attie mouthed with a grin.
Iris smiled and nodded.
And she thought, Even when the world seems to stop, threatening to crumble, and the hour feels dark as the siren rings … it isn’t a crime to feel joy.
“I want you to evacuate, Mari. You’ll go with one of my sergeants, and they’ll take good care of you.”
“No. No, absolutely not!”
“Marisol, darling, listen to me—”
“No, Keegan. You listen to me. I’m not leaving you. I’m not leaving our home.”
Iris and Attie stood in the infirmary yard, awkwardly listening as Marisol and Keegan argued between kisses.
Keegan glanced at Iris and Attie, waving a hand toward them. “And what of your girls, Mari? Your correspondents?”
Marisol paused. A stricken expression overcame her face when she looked at Iris and Attie.
“I want to stay,” Attie said. “I can help in any way I’m needed.”
Iris hesitated. “I also want to stay, but with Kitt’s injury…”
“You should evacuate with him,” Marisol said gently. “Keep him safe.”
Iris nodded, torn. She didn’t want to leave Attie and Marisol. She wanted to stay and help them fight, defending the place that had become a beloved home to her. But she couldn’t bear to leave Roman.
Keegan broke the tense moment by drawling to her wife, “So you can want Iris and her Kitt to be safe, but the same can’t be said for me over you?”
“I’m old, Keegan,” Marisol argued. “They’re still young.”
“Marisol!” Attie cried. “You’re only thirty-three!”
Marisol sighed. She stared up at Keegan and said firmly, “I’m not leaving. My girls can do whatever they feel is best.”
“Very well,” Keegan conceded, rubbing her brow. “I know better than to argue with you.”
Marisol only smiled.
“I suppose Kitt and I should catch a ride on one of the lorries?” Iris said, the words thick in her mouth. Her guilt flared as she glanced down at her hands, lined with garden dirt and smudged by ink ribbons.
“Yes,” Keegan said, her tone grave. “But before you go, I have something for you.”
Iris watched, spellbound, as the captain reached into her pocket, withdrawing what looked to be a letter. Keegan extended the envelope to her, and for a moment, all Iris could do was stare at it. A letter, addressed to her, wrinkled from war.
“What is this?” Iris faintly asked. But her heart knew, and it pounded in dread. This was the answer she had been waiting for. An update on her brother.
“It got sorted with my post,” Keegan explained. “I think because your address is Avalon Bluff. I was going to mail it along with my letter to Marisol, but then we were on the move and I’m sorry I wasn’t able to send it to you sooner.”
Numb, Iris accepted the letter. She stared at it—her name scrawled in dark ink over the envelope. It wasn’t Forest’s handwriting, and Iris suddenly thought she might be sick.
She turned away from her friends, uncertain if she should read it in their presence or go find a private place. She took four steps away and then thought her knees might give out, so she halted. Her hands were icy, even as she squinted against the brunt of the sun, and she finally opened the envelope.
She read:
Dear Iris,
Your brother was indeed fighting in the Second E Battalion, Fifth Landover Company, under Captain Rena G. Griss. He was unfortunately wounded in the Battle of Lucia River and was taken via transport to an infirmary in the town of Meriah. As his captain was one of the casualties, this news failed to reach you.
A fortnight later, Meriah came under fire, but Private Winnow was evacuated in time. As his injuries were sustained some months ago and his entire company perished at Lucia River, he was incorporated into a new auxiliary force and is fighting bravely for Enva’s cause. If any further news of his current station reaches my desk, I will pass it onto you.
Lt. Ralph Fowler
Assistant to the Commanding Officer of the E Brigade
“Iris?”
She pivoted, blinking away her tears as Marisol touched her shoulder.
“My brother,” Iris whispered, overcome with hope. “He was wounded, but he’s alive, Marisol. That’s why I never heard from him, all these months.”
Marisol gasped, drawing Iris into an embrace. Iris clung to her, battling the sob of relief that threatened to split her chest.
“Good news?” Keegan asked.
Iris nodded, slipping from Marisol’s arms. “How far away is Meriah?” she asked Keegan.
A shadow passed over the captain’s face. She must be remembering the battles, the bloodshed. How many soldiers had died.
“About eighty kilometers,” Keegan replied. “Southwest of here.”
“So not that far,” Iris whispered, tracing the bow of her lips. Forest was fighting with another company. One that might be near Avalon Bluff.
“Iris?” Attie said, breaking her reverie. “Does this mean you’re staying?”
Iris opened her mouth to respond, but the words hung in her throat. She glanced from Attie to Keegan to Marisol, and then blurted, “I need to speak to Kitt.”
“You’d best hurry,” Keegan said. “The last evacuee lorry will be leaving soon.”
Her announcement sent a shock wave through Iris. She nodded and turned, sprinting down the street. The town still felt frantic, but lorries of residents were beginning to drive away, pressing east. Iris jumped over a discarded suitcase, over a sack of dropped potatoes, over a crate of tinned vegetables.
High Street was surprisingly quiet. Most of the residents here had already been transported, but as Iris drew closer to the B and B, she saw that the front door was wide open.
“That should do it, Kitt. Thank you, son.”
Iris slowed to a walk, her eyes following the voice. It was Peter, the next-door neighbor. He and Roman were loading possessions into the back of his small lorry.
“Happy to help, sir,” Roman was saying, securing the crate. As Iris approached, she could see his jumpsuit was dampened with sweat. She reflexively looked at his right leg, worried she would find blood seeping through the fabric again.
“Kitt,” she said, and he turned. She watched the tension in his posture ease at the sight of her, and he reached for her hand, pulling her closer.
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes.” But the words seemed to crumble, and she quietly handed Roman the letter.
He frowned, confused until he began to read. When he looked at Iris again, his eyes glistened with tears.
“Iris.”
“I know,” she said, smiling. “Forest is alive, and he’s with another company.” Iris swallowed. She couldn’t believe she was about to say these words. She couldn’t believe that she was standing in such a moment, one that could seal her fate. “I was planning to evacuate with you. But after this letter, I need to stay here. The whole reason why I became a correspondent was for Forest. He is the last of my family, and I traveled west in the hopes that my path would cross with his. And now that I know he could be heading this way, preparing to defend Avalon Bluff against Dacre … I have to stay and help.”
Roman’s arm tightened around her as he listened. His eyes were so blue they pierced her to the bone, and she wondered what sort of expression was on her face. She wondered what he saw in her, if she looked determined or frightened or worried or brave.
“I won’t ask you to remain here with me,” Iris continued, her voice wavering. “In fact, I know it’s best if you go, because you’re still recovering, and most of all, I want you to be safe.”
“I came here for you, Iris,” Roman said. “If you stay behind, then so will I. I’m not leaving you.”
She sighed, surprised by the relief she felt to hear his decision—he wasn’t going to abandon her, no matter what the next day brought—and she wrapped her arms around his waist. And yet she couldn’t help but glance down at his leg again.
“Can I give you two a lift?” Peter asked. “My wife will be in the cab, but if you want to sit in the back, there’s room.”
“No, but thank you, Mr. Peter,” Roman replied. “We’re staying put to help.”
Iris watched as Peter and his wife drove away with a cloud of exhaust. She felt a pit in her stomach, and she wondered if she was making a huge mistake, if she would come to regret this decision to stay. To resist flying to the east with Roman when she still had the chance.
The street fell quiet and still, save for a few soldiers marching by. A newspaper fluttered over the cobblestones. A bird trilled from the hedges.
Iris began to walk back to Marisol’s, her hand in Roman’s. She thought about the wedding they had been so close to having. How they had been mere hours from weaving their lives together. How everything had just changed, as if the world had turned inside out.
But Forest is alive.
She clung to the hope of seeing him, of their paths crossing. Even if it seemed improbable in the chaos that was bound to unfold.
Quietly, Iris and Roman returned to the kitchen. Their typewriters sat on the table, and the twin doors leading to the terrace remained open just as they had left them. A breeze had stolen into the room and blown a few loose papers onto the floor.
Iris, uncertain what else she should be doing while she waited for Keegan and Marisol and Attie, knelt and began to clean up the mess. Roman was saying something, but her attention was snared by one of the papers on the floor. There was a muddy boot print on it.
She held the paper up to the light, studying the mark.
“What’s wrong, Winnow?” Roman asked.
“Did you walk over these papers with dirty boots, Kitt?”
“No. The papers were on the table when I left to help Peter. Here, let me see that.”
She handed the page to him and realized there was another sheet on the floor with a boot mark. Iris stood, her eyes straying to the open doors. She followed the light to the terrace and stood on the threshold, studying the backyard.
The gate was open, creaking in the wind. The tree boughs groaned. The chimes sang. And there were boot marks, marring the garden. Someone had tromped directly through it, over the carefully tended rows and sprouting plants.
Iris clenched her jaw, staring at the path. All that hard work and devotion and toil. Someone had stridden through it without a second thought.
She felt Roman’s warmth as he stood close behind her. She felt his breath stir her hair as he saw the trail.
“Someone came into the house,” he murmured.
She didn’t know what to say, what to think. It had been tumultuous when the infantry arrived in the lorries. Residents had been given only a handful of minutes to evacuate. It could have been anyone in the backyard.
Iris knelt and quickly began to smooth over the tracks, fixing the garden before Keegan returned. She wanted it to be perfect for her. She wanted to make Marisol proud.
The siren at Clover Hill finally fell silent.
