Part 2 – Drawn to the Flame
The sun was shining and last night’s rain glimmered in shallow puddles when Tobias drove away from River Down. He carried Iris’s and Attie’s articles for Helena, as well as post from the town to be delivered in Oath.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he had said at the yard gate, his roadster shined and ready for the haul. “We’ll leave for Bitteryne first thing tomorrow.”
Iris nodded.
Attie only said, “The muddy roads won’t slow you down? It poured yesterday, in case you forgot.”
“I don’t forget anything,” he replied, opening the driver’s door. “And no, the roads won’t slow me down.”
The girls watched him depart, the familiar sound of the motor fading in the morning haze.
Iris glanced sidelong at Attie. “You’re worried he’ll get stranded?”
“No. I’m worried we’ll be stranded if he doesn’t make it back.” But Attie continued to stare down the street, her fingers gripping the iron scrollwork of the gate. “I’m going for a walk.”
Iris stood in the yard, until Attie was out of sight. Only then did she turn to the house, seeking Marisol. She found her in the backyard, kneeling in the garden with a pocket-sized book open on her lap.
“This is a lovely garden,” Iris said.
Marisol glanced up with a smile. But her eyes were bloodshot, as if she hadn’t slept the night before. Her dark hair was caught in a braided crown, and she was wearing a pair of work coveralls, stained with dirt.
“Yes, Lucy is an avid gardener. She inherited our aunt’s green thumb.” Marisol returned her attention to the book, her fingertips tracing the illustration of a bird on the page. “But I’m trying to identify this singer in the bushes. Do you hear him?”
Iris lowered herself down to her knees, listening. Over the clatter of a wagon on the neighboring street, and children calling to one another, she could hear a bird’s song. It was rich and melodic, full of trills and gurgles.
“He’s just there, in the thicket,” said Marisol.
Iris found him a moment later. A small bird with soft brown feathers was perched in the shrubbery at the back of the garden.
“I’ve never heard a bird sing like that.” Iris was spellbound, watching him warble again. “What is he?”
“A nightingale,” Marisol replied. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen or heard one, but when I was younger, I remember they would appear every spring in Avalon Bluff. I would often sleep with the windows open at night so I could hear their songs. I fell asleep to their tunes, dreamt of them sometimes.” She gently closed the book, as if lost in memory. But then she added, “Years ago, a study was done on nightingales, and quite a number were caught and put into captivity.”
“Why?” Iris asked.
“They wanted to trade the birds, as well as study their songs. Most of the nightingales died, but the ones who lived until autumn … they eventually killed themselves trying to escape, bashing their wings and their bodies against the cages that held them. They felt the need to migrate, and they couldn’t.”
Iris studied the nightingale in the bush. The bird had fallen silent, cocking his head to the side, as if he were also listening to Marisol’s doomed story. But then he gathered his wings and flew away; the garden felt quiet and wistful without his song.
“I’m sorry,” Marisol said, to Iris’s surprise. “About how I acted last night. We only have such a brief amount of time together and I feel like I ruined it.”
“Marisol,” Iris whispered, her throat narrow. She reached out to gently touch her arm.
“But then I woke up this morning and heard that nightingale sing in the garden, and it reminded me of my aunt’s story of the captive birds,” Marisol continued. “It reminded me that I cannot hold those I love in a cage, even if it feels like protecting them.”
She exhaled, as if a weight had fallen from her shoulders. And then she extended the book to Iris. It was small, the pages tinged caramel with age. A bird was embossed on the green cover.
“I’d like to give this to you, Iris.”
“I can’t take this,” Iris began to protest, but Marisol set it firmly in her hands.
“I want you to have it,” she insisted. “As you travel west once more and encounter new towns and stories, perhaps you will still have moments of rest when you can sit and watch the birds. When you do, think of me, and know that I will be praying for you and Attie and Tobias and Roman every morning and every evening.”
Iris blinked back tears. It was only a book, but it felt far more than leather and paper and ink. It felt like something to tether her in the coming days, something to protect her as well as encourage her to keep going, and she traced the bird on the cover before glancing up to meet Marisol’s gaze.
“I will. Thank you.”
Marisol smiled again. “Good. Now, why don’t you come help me pack a few welcome baskets for our new guests in River Down. I’d like for you to meet them.”
Iris nodded and rose, brushing the damp soil from her knees. But she felt a shadow flicker over her, and she paused, watching as two vultures settled on the rooftop next door. They spread their wings, dark feathers gleaming in the sun.
With a shiver, she held the book close to her heart and followed Marisol inside.
Dear Elizabeth,
Tonight, I can’t sleep, and so I find myself writing to you again. You can’t see me, but I’m sitting at a desk before a window, gazing into the darkness, and I’m trying to envision you.
I have no idea what you look like, or where you reside, or what your voice sounds like. I don’t know your age, or your history. I don’t know the events you have lived through, moments that have shaped you into who you are now. I don’t know which side of the war you fall beneath.
I don’t have to know these things, I realize. Perhaps you shouldn’t tell me. But I think I would like to know something about you that no one else does.
—R.
Dear R.,
I fear I’m not much to see at the moment, but to give you a glimpse: I’m sitting on the floor of a laundry room as I type, with hanging shirts and dresses for company. My hair is long and braided and quite messy, and there is a book about Cambria’s many birds beside me.
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.
Here is something no one else knows about me, because it just happened today:
I would like to one day be adept enough to simply hear a song and know which bird it belongs to.
I’ve cracked the window tonight, hoping I might hear something familiar, or even unexpected. A song that will remind me that even when I feel lost, the birds still sing, the moon still waxes and wanes, and the seasons still cycle.
—Elizabeth
P.S. A fact most people know: I’m eighteen, but I’ve always had an old soul.
P.P.S. Tell me a fact about you. It could be something everyone knows or something no one knows.
Roman didn’t write Elizabeth back.
What could he tell her? That he couldn’t remember his past?
Irritated, he shoved his bedroom window open. They were still camped at the abandoned farmhouse, which made him feel uneasy. But the moment he breathed in the cool night air, damp from spring rain, the tension in his body eased.
With a sigh, he unlaced his boots and lay down on his bed. He blew out the candle and as the night embraced him, he listened.
Beyond the open window, he could hear crickets chirping and leaves rustling in the wind. There were the distant voices of soldiers drifting from their tents. But beneath all those sounds was the haunting song of an owl.
Roman drifted off to sleep.
His dreams were stark, vivid.
He sat at a desk with a typewriter. Dictionaries and thesauruses were aligned before him. A tin of pencils, a notepad, and a stack of obituaries rested at his elbow. The vast room smelled like cigarette smoke and strong black tea, and the air was metallic with the sound of keys and strike bars and ringing typewriters as new paragraphs were born.
He was at the Oath Gazette. And it nearly felt like home to him, more than the mansion on the hill he still dreamt of.
“Kitt? In my office, now,” Zeb Autry said as he walked past Roman’s desk.
Roman gathered his notepad and followed his boss. He shut the door behind him and anxiously sat across from Zeb.
“Sir?”
“I wanted to give you a heads-up,” Zeb said, reaching for the decanter of whiskey on his desk. It sparkled in the slant of morning sunshine. “I have a new hire coming in. She’ll split the obituaries, classifieds, and advertisements with you.”
“She?” Roman echoed.
“Don’t sound so surprised. I read an essay of hers and couldn’t let her slip by me. I’d like to see what she could do here.”
“Does this mean I’m no longer getting the columnist position you offered me, sir?”
Zeb was quiet for a moment, mouth puckering. “It means the two of you both have a fair shot at it. A little competition will be good for you, Kitt.”
Roman took that as everything has been handed to you. He felt his face flush, irritation catch in his throat. But he nodded, jaw clenched.
“Don’t look so glum!” Zeb said with a chuckle. “She didn’t even graduate Windy Grove School. Chances are the promotion will still go to you.”
If she had attended Windy Grove School, then she came from a part of town where Roman rarely ventured. He didn’t know whether that should comfort or worry him. Whoever she was, she was going to have a different viewpoint on things. Her writing could be either atrocious or exquisite, but most of all, Roman didn’t feel like competing for something that he needed.
“When is her first day?” he asked.
“Today. She’ll be here soon.”
Wonderful, Roman thought drolly. Although perhaps it was for the best. To get this torture over with as soon as possible.
For the next few hours, he kept his attention divided between the obituaries and the glass doors of the Gazette, waiting for this enigma who could potentially ruin everything to appear. At noon sharp, she did, as if by spell.
She was petite and pale with a heart-shaped face. Freckles spilled across her nose; her eyes were wide as she took in her new surroundings. Her chestnut brown hair was slicked back in a tidy bun, but she wore a tattered trench coat that seemed to swallow her, belted tightly at her waist. She was cracking her knuckles when Sarah Prindle pounced on her with a lively welcome.
“Here, let me introduce you to everyone!” Sarah was saying, linking their arms as she walked Roman’s worst nightmare around the Gazette.
He got up from his desk and moved to the sideboard, to pour a cup of tea and continue watching as the new girl met the editors, the assistants, Zeb. The only person whose hand she had left to shake was his.
He couldn’t avoid it forever. Sarah had shot him a few pointed glances as she settled the girl in at her new desk—only two away from his own—and Roman stifled a groan.
He set down the teacup and walked the aisle to meet her.
She was tracing her typewriter keys, still wearing that drab coat, although her high heels gave her an air of command. She must have sensed him coming, like a storm building on the horizon. Or perhaps she felt his cold gaze. She glanced up to meet it, giving him a bold assessment before she smiled.
“I’m Iris,” she said in a bright tone, extending her hand. “Iris Winnow.”
What sort of name is that? he inwardly grumbled, already picturing it as a byline. It was a good name. One that he was tempted to taste, but he refrained.
“I’m Roman Kitt,” he said gruffly. “Welcome to the Gazette.”
Her hand was still between them, waiting for his. It would be rude for him to ignore it. In fact, it already was rude that he had left it hanging for so long. He reluctantly let his hand meet hers and was promptly surprised by how firm her grip was. How touching her sent a shock up his arm.
Roman gasped awake.
