Iris crouched in the boughs of an oak tree, waiting for Attie. It was one in the morning, and a cool mist spun through the night, turning the lamplights below into hazy rings of amber. The city felt strangely quiet, although if Iris held her breath, she could hear faint conversation spilling from a pub a few streets over, and the occasional clop of horses’ hooves as constables rode their sleepy rounds.
She carefully shifted her weight to keep her feet from going numb, mindful of the leather bag she carried on her back. The tree bark was slick from the mist, and Iris had just discovered she wasn’t keen on heights, or scaling trees in the dark. But this was the only way to gain access to the museum without setting off the alarm. Or so Sarah Prindle had said, and she had taken two full days to come up with a watertight plan.
Iris frowned and felt the mask stick to her face. She resisted the temptation to scratch her nose through the damp fabric and sighed.
She had been waiting in this oak tree, staring at the back wall of the museum and its third story window, for what felt like an hour now. Sarah and Attie had been waiting for much longer within, entering the museum as unassuming visitors and then concealing themselves in the lavatory before the doors magically locked at dusk. There they would hide until midnight, when the two of them would catch the night guard by surprise on his security rounds. Only then would Attie be able to open the window for Iris to climb through.
“The museum is an enchanted building,” Sarah had said at breakfast that morning, when the three girls had gathered to solidify their plan. “Once the doors are locked and bolted at nightfall, there is no opening them without setting off a horrendous alarm.”
“So how do we do this?” Iris set down her toast, stomach churning. “Is it even possible?”
“It’s possible, thanks to a window that was added to the third floor a few decades ago,” Sarah explained. “One of the museum’s best-kept secrets is that that window isn’t enchanted like the original windows and doors are. As long as we don’t trigger the alarm, it will be our way out.”
“How did you discover this, Prindle?” Attie asked.
“My father knows one of the guards,” Sarah replied with a shrug. “They’ve been friends since childhood. And men like to talk when they get drunk.”
“Is this particular guard going to be on watch tonight?” Iris said.
“No.” Sarah smiled, wrapping her fingers around her teacup. “Grantford is on duty tonight, and he’s renowned for his laziness. It’ll be perfect.”
There was no question of the thievery taking place that night, Grantford or not. Iris and Attie were supposed to head west to River Down the next morning.
Iris now stared at the window until it blended into the darkness. She could just discern the gleam of glass panes and she continued to wait, relieved when she finally heard a squeak.
The window was lifting.
Stage one of the heist had been successful.
Iris released a deep breath, tasting salt on her lips. She began to move along the branch until she could see Attie within the narrow window frame, whistling a mourning dove’s song.
Iris returned the sound and prepared herself, one hand holding fast to the bough above her, the other outstretched. Dimly, she saw Attie hurl the rope her way, its thick body like a snake striking the night. The end of the rope hit somewhere to Iris’s left, and just a few feet shy as it tore through the leaves. While Attie reeled it back in, preparing for a second attempt, Iris’s nerves sang.
She could sense the distance beneath her. If she fell, the ground would break her into pieces.
Three more tosses, and Iris finally grasped hold of the rope.
She was trembling as she walked it back to the trunk of the oak. Two deep inhales to calm her mind, and then she deftly began to knot the rope to the tree. Iris and Attie had practiced tying this particular knot endless times that day, because if they did it wrong, they would be plunging to their deaths. Yet one more number to add to the failed museum heists.
But once the rope was secured, Iris hesitated, feeling the tingling draw of the fall.
There was a courtyard below. Plots of wildflowers and a small reflection pond. The oak’s gnarled branches shaded half of a cobbled patio where museum employees and guests could sit and enjoy a cup of afternoon tea.
Another whistle of birdsong.
Iris glanced up, measuring the distance between herself and Attie. It felt as vast as the ocean, although it was just over ten meters. Her friend was still waiting, a shadow in the frame. Waiting to take hold of Iris’s hand and haul her in through the window.
She just needed to take that first step into midair.
Carefully, Iris did, letting herself hang from the rope. It held firm overhead, but five arm-lengths down the line, her hands began to sting, her grip inevitably weakening. Her gloves were slick; she clenched her jaw and welded her focus to the task.
She was halfway to the window when she heard a clatter beneath her.
She paused, glancing down at the courtyard.
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.
Iris bit her lip, heart thrumming in alarm. Was this another heist in progress? Surely not, but she didn’t dare move as the figures strode directly beneath her. If one of them happened to glance up and see her, it would all be over.
Her shoulders burned as she held still, the cords of her neck tense. The seconds felt like years, but to Iris’s relief, the figures continued on their way, crossing the street before they melted into the night.
She continued to move along the rope, grinding her teeth when she reached the brick wall.
“Take my hand,” Attie urgently whispered.
Iris pried her right hand off the rope. She could scarcely feel her fingers as Attie’s firm grip came around them, hauling her upward and in through the window.
“Did you see them?” Iris asked, struggling to catch her breath. She reached out to lean on a battered chair, realizing they were standing in a storage room. It was overcome with crates and busted frames; the clutter made Iris feel even more anxious.
“Yes,” Attie replied. “I counted four of them. All wearing masks. Thought another heist was about to happen.”
“So did I. Who do you think they were?”
“Gods only know. Thieves with a different destination, maybe?”
Iris removed one of her gloves to wipe the sweat from her eyes. “You don’t think they saw me, do you?”
“No.” Attie’s attention darted back out the window, as if she didn’t quite believe it. “But in case I’m wrong … let’s not waste any time here.”
Iris followed Attie down two flights of stairs to the ground floor. At night, the museum felt like a different place, full of dangerous gleams and moving shadows. Or perhaps it was only a play of the low-lit lamps and the darkness in between? Iris wasn’t certain, but she shuddered when she thought she saw one of the marble busts move on its pedestal.
“Where’s Prindle?” she whispered.
“In the main office, guarding Grantford,” Attie replied in a low tone. “He didn’t put up much of a fight. He’s gagged and blindfolded.”
Iris nodded, turning down one of the wide hallways. The air felt cold and thick when she at last arrived at the chamber of mismatched, odd things. A pair of pointed leather shoes worn by one of the dead gods, a pocket watch that was rumored to provoke rainstorms every time it struck midnight, a sword named Draven that had once seen battle against the divines centuries ago, a small inkwell that brimmed with glimmering liquid, and a magic-forged typewriter. All enclosed in glass and set on display.
Iris eased the bag from her shoulders as she approached the First Alouette. Her fingers felt slow and numb as she unbuckled the pack, withdrawing the baseball bat.
This feels wrong, she thought with a prick of guilt. But she studied the glass case that held the First Alouette and a collection of old letters, and she added, I didn’t come all this way to turn around empty-handed.
She envisioned Roman in the west, trapped within Dacre’s cloying hold.
Iris swung.
The bat collided with the display case, shattering the glass. The pieces scattered across the floor, gathering like crystals between the typewriter’s keys. One of the letters fluttered down and rested amid the glittering carnage like a white flag of surrender.
Iris set the bat aside and stepped over the glass, feeling it crunch beneath the soles of her boots. She picked up the typewriter and turned it over to check the underside. A few more pieces of glass rained down as the strike bars shifted, but Iris found what she sought. The silver plaque was bolted to the inside of the frame, engraved with THE FIRST ALOUETTE, MADE ESPECIALLY FOR A.V.S.
This was what she needed. What she wanted.
She was holding magic in her hands, and she carefully set the typewriter into the black case she had brought, buckling the lid closed. Attie helped her slip the case into the pack, along with the bat. The thievery was over and done within heartbeats, but Iris couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that someone was watching them.
“I’ll go get Prindle,” Attie said. “We’ll meet you at the foot of the stairs?”
Iris nodded, hefting the pack onto her shoulders. She crouched to pick up the letter that had fluttered to the floor, a letter Alouette Stone had written decades ago, gently setting it on the glass-strewn pedestal. But her eyes caught on a line of typed words.
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.
A light rain was falling, and the night felt ancient by the time Iris reached her flat. She had parted ways with Sarah and Attie at the museum once the three of them had made it safely out the window and back onto solid ground. They had been breathless and giddy and a touch paranoid from the fact that they had just pulled off a successful heist.
They would revel in this secret later, at a nice restaurant. When the war was over. Iris would treat her friends to a fine dinner. And then she would return the First Alouette to the museum. Anonymously, of course.
Despite those promises and the aches in her hands, none of this felt real. Iris could have convinced herself she was dreaming until she was safe in her room and had shed the bag from her shoulders. Her mask and dark clothes, her gloves and her boots. She drew on a nightgown and pinned up her damp hair. Carefully, she retrieved the typewriter and sat on the floor in the very place where she had once typed letter after letter to her brother, then to Roman.
She set the First Alouette before her crossed knees, feeding a fresh page into the roller.
The minutes began to pass; the night crept to its coldest hour. The rain started falling in earnest beyond her window, and Iris stared at the blank page, wondering what she should say to Roman. She didn’t know where he was. She didn’t know if he was safe, if he was imprisoned. If he even had his typewriter with him.
There were too many unknowns and communicating with him could put him in danger.
The silence broke when paper began to whisper over the floor. 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. One Roman had written to her when she had known him only as C.
She reached for another and was shocked to discover it was one of hers. Iris went through them all until she realized she was familiar with every single letter. She had either authored them or read them so many times the words had become imprinted on her mind.
Iris exhaled a shaky breath, sitting back down on the rug. 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.
Iris reread her favorite ones until it felt like her chest had cracked. Roman’s words echoed in her bones, waking a fierce ache in her.
She set down the letters, resolved. She would be shrewd and careful, although a part of her believed her letters wouldn’t be able to find him.
He won’t remember you.
Forest’s words haunted her.
Iris felt bruised by the memory. She chewed on a hangnail, wondering if Forest had spoken truth or if he was only trying to wound her. To keep her home and safe. To keep her from reaching out into the darkness again.
Be mindful, she told herself, her fingertips finding their place on the keys. Make sure it’s him before you reveal yourself or say anything important.
Iris typed a brief message. Her hands trembled as she drew the paper from the roller and folded it. It felt like no time had passed as she slid the page beneath her wardrobe door. No time at all, and yet it also felt like seasons bloomed and molted in a single unsteady breath. How odd that magic could be two different things at once. Young and old. New and familiar. Worry and comfort.
She didn’t know what she was expecting, whether it was for the wardrobe to return her letter unopened or for Roman to write her back within seconds. To her shock, neither happened.
Iris paced, bleary-eyed and exhausted, realizing … nothing had happened.
Her letter was gone, magically delivered elsewhere, but Roman hadn’t replied.
Defeated, she sank onto the bed. She fell asleep to the rain, but her dreams were nothing more than a gray, empty expanse.
