Dear Iris,
Last night, I had a dream. I was standing in the middle of Broad Street in Oath, and it was raining. You walked past me; I knew it was you the moment your shoulder brushed mine. But when I tried to call your name, no sound emerged. When I hurried to follow you, you quickened your steps. Soon, the rain fell harder, and you slipped away from me.
I never saw your face, but I knew it was you. It was only a dream, but it has unquieted me. Write to me and tell me how you are.
P.S. Yes, hello. I’m able to write again, so expect my letters to flood your floor.
Yours,
—C.
Dear Carver,
I can’t even begin to describe how happy I was to discover your letter had arrived. I hope everything is well with you in Oath, as well as whatever required your attention the past week. Dare I say I missed you?
An odd dream, indeed. But there’s no need to worry. I’m quite well. I think I would like to see you in a dream, although I still try to imagine your appearance by day and often fail. Perhaps you can grant me a few more hints?
Oh, I have news to share with you!
My rival from a previous employment has shown up as a fellow correspondent, just like a weed. I’m not sure why he’s here, although I think it’s to try and prove that his writing is far superior to mine. All of this to say … his arrival has caused a stir, and I’m not sure what to do with him being next door.
Also, I have more letters transcribed for soldiers. I’m sending them to you—there are more than usual, given that we just recently had an influx of wounded brought into the infirmary—and I’m hoping you can drop them in the post. Thank you in advance for doing this for me!
In the meantime, tell me how you are. How is your nan? I just realized that I have no inkling what you do for a living, or even for fun. Are you a student at university? Are you
working somewhere?
Tell me something about you.
Love,
Iris
They had planted the garden but had completely forgotten to water it.
Marisol grimaced when she realized this.
“I don’t even want to know what Keegan will think of me,” she said, hand on her forehead as she stared at the crooked rows Iris and Attie had made. “My wife is fighting on the front lines and I can’t even do something as simple as water a garden.”
“Keegan will be impressed that you instructed two city girls who have never tilled or planted or tended a garden to help you. And the seeds will be fine,” Attie said, but then quietly added, “won’t they?”
“Yes, but they won’t germinate without water. The soil needs to say wet for about two weeks. This is going to be a late summer garden, I suppose. If the hounds don’t trample it.”
“Do you have a watering can?” Iris asked, thinking of sirens in the daylight and rivals arriving unexpectedly and wounded soldiers returning to the front. How did any of them remember to eat, let alone water a garden?
“Yes, two, actually,” Marisol said, pointing. “In the shed there.”
Iris and Attie exchanged a knowing look. Five minutes later, Marisol had retreated to the kitchen to continue baking for the soldiers, and the girls had the metal cans full, watering the dirt mounds.
“Six mornings,” Attie said with a smirk. “Six mornings you’ve been late to breakfast, Iris. All due to running with that Roman Kitt.”
“Four mornings, actually. We’ve been on time two mornings in a row, now,” Iris replied, but her cheeks warmed. She turned to water a second row before Attie noticed. “It’s because he underestimates how slow I am. We wouldn’t be late if I were in better shape. Or if he chose a shorter circuit.” But she loved the view of the countryside on the hill that seemed destined to best her, even though Iris would never confess as much to Roman.
“Hmm.”
“You want to join us, Attie?” “Not in the slightest.”
“Then why are you smiling at me like that?” “He’s an old friend of yours, isn’t he?”
Iris huffed. “He’s a former competitor, and he’s only here to outperform me once again.” The words had no sooner left her lips than a triangularly folded piece of paper crashed into the soil, right in front of her. Iris gaped at it before lifting her eyes to the ivy-laden house. Roman was leaning on the open sill of his second-story window, watching her with a smile.
“Can’t you see some of us are trying to work?” she shouted.
“Indeed,” he called back smoothly, as if he was well versed in arguing from a window. “But I need your assistance.”
“With what?”
“Open the message.” “I’m busy, Kitt.”
Attie snatched the paper up before Iris could ruin it with water. She unfolded it and cleared her throat, reading aloud, “‘Alas, what is a synonym for sublime?’” Attie paused as if sorely disappointed, glancing up at Roman. “That’s it? That’s the message?”
“Yes. Any suggestions?”
“I seem to recall that you used to have three dictionaries and two thesauruses on your desk, Kitt,” Iris said, resuming her watering.
“Yes, which someone liked to frequently turn upside down and page- side out. But that’s beside the point. I wouldn’t be bothering you if I had my thesaurus handy,” he replied. “Please, Winnow. Give me a word, and I’ll leave you—”
“What about transcendent?” Attie offered. “Sounds like you’re writing about the gods. The Skywards?”
“Something along those lines,” said Roman. “And you, Winnow? Just one word.”
She glanced up in time to watch him rake his hand through his hair, as if he were anxious. And she had rarely seen Roman Kitt anxious. There was even a smudge of ink on his chin.
“I personally like divine,” she said. “Although I’m not sure I would attribute that to the gods these days.”
“Thank you both,” Roman said, ducking back into his room. He left the window open, and Iris could hear his typewriter clacking as he started to write.
The garden fell suspiciously quiet.
Iris looked at Attie to see her friend was biting her lip, as if to hide a grin.
“All right, Attie. What is it?”
Attie shrugged nonchalantly, draining her watering can. “I wasn’t too sure about this Roman Kitt at first. But he sure does bring the fire out in you.”
“You give him far too much credit,” Iris said, lowering her voice. “You would be the same if your old enemy showed up to challenge you again.”
“Is that why he’s here?”
Iris hesitated, and then fiddled with her watering can. “Do you need a refill?” She took Attie’s empty pail and was retreating to the well when she realized Marisol was standing in the open doorway to the kitchen, regarding them. How long had she been there?
“Marisol?” Iris asked, reading her tense posture. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong,” Marisol replied with a smile that didn’t reach her
eyes. “The captain is here and would like to take one of you with him to the front.”
 |
Roman had just finished typing his letter to Iris and slipped it through his wardrobe when he heard the knock on the front door. It sent a shiver through the house, and he stood in his room, listening. He could faintly hear Iris and Attie’s conversation, drifting up from the garden through his window. But he could also hear Marisol as she answered the door.
A man had arrived and was speaking, his voice a muffle through the walls.
Roman couldn’t catch the words. He eased his bedroom door open, straining to hear more.
“… to the front. You have two correspondents here, correct?”
“Three, Captain. And yes, come in. I’ll gather them to speak with you.”
Roman drew in a deep breath and quietly hurried down the stairs. All he could think was that he had to be the one chosen. Not Attie and certainly not Iris. And yet as he moved down the corridor, his heart clenched, stung by fear. He came to a pause in the doorframe, gazing into the kitchen.
Iris was walking in from the garden, dirt on her knees. She had been wearing her hair loose these days, and it never ceased to shock him—to see how long and wavy it was. She came to a stop beside Attie, her hands anxiously fidgeting. Roman couldn’t take his eyes from her. Not even when the captain began speaking.
“I have one seat available in my lorry,” he said in a clipped tone. “Which one of you would like to go?”
“I will, sir,” Iris said before Roman could so much as flinch. “It’s my turn.”
“Very good. Go and fetch your bag. Only bring the essentials.”
She nodded and turned toward the hall. That was when she saw Roman standing in her way.
He didn’t know what sort of expression was on his face, but he watched her surprise descend into something else. It looked like worry and then annoyance. Like she knew the words that were about to come from his mouth, before he even spoke them.
“Captain?” he said. “If she goes, I would like to go with her, sir.”
The captain spun to look at him, brow cocked. “I said I only have one
seat in the lorry.”
“Then I’ll ride on the side step, sir,” Roman said. “Kitt,” Iris hissed at him.
“I don’t want you to go without me, Winnow.” “I’ll be perfectly fine. You should stay here and—”
“I’m going with you,” he insisted. “Will that be acceptable, Captain?”
The captain sighed, tossing up his hand. “The two of you … go pack.
You have five minutes to meet me out front by the lorry.”
Roman turned and hurried up the stairs. That was when it hit him: he had just sent Iris a very important letter, and now was an immensely bad moment for her to read it. He was wondering whether he had enough time
to sneak into her room and sweep it up off the floor when he heard her pursuing him.
“Kitt!” she called. “Kitt, why are you doing this?”
He was at the top of the staircase and had no choice but to glance back at her. She was hurrying after him, an indignant blush staining her cheeks.
All opportunities of recovering his bumbling letter were gone, unless he wanted to spill the news to her this instant, with the space closing between them as she climbed the stairs. With a lorry parked out front, waiting to carry them west.
They might be killed on this venture. And she would never know who he was and how he felt about her. But when he opened his mouth, his courage completely crumbled, and different words emerged instead.
“They might as well let both of us come,” he said, gruffly. He was trying to hide how his heart was striking against his breast. How his hands were shaking. He was terrified to go, and terrified that something would befall her if he didn’t, but he couldn’t let her know that. “Two writers, twice the articles, am I right?”
She was glaring at him now. That fire in her eyes could have brought him to his knees, and he loathed the façade he was wearing. He rushed along his way to pack before he said anything else that would further demolish his chances with her.
|
Iris was fuming as she slipped into her room. She didn’t want Roman going to the front. She wanted him here, where he would be safe.
She groaned.
Focus, Iris.
Her leather bag was tucked away in the wardrobe, and she stepped on a stack of paper as she reached for the door handle. She paused, glancing down at the heap of typed letters. The letters she had transcribed for the soldiers.
Dread pierced Iris’s chest as she knelt and gathered the papers. Had a draft pushed them back into her room? She had sent them to Carver that morning, and she wondered if the magic between them had broken at last.
She opened the folded sheet that was on top of the pile, relieved to find it was a letter from him. She stood in a slant of afternoon sunshine, fingertips tracing her lips as she quickly read:
Dear Iris,
Your rival? Who is this bloke? If he’s competing with you, then he must be an utter fool. I have no doubt you will best him in every way.
Now for a confession: I’m not in Oath. Or else I would put these letters in the post this
afternoon. I’m sorry to cause you any delay and inconvenience, but I’m sending them back to you, as I feel like it’s the best option. Again, I apologize I can’t be of more assistance to you, as I fervently wish to be.
As for your other inquiries, my nan is fine, albeit quite put out with me at the moment—
I’ll tell you why when I finally see you. She sometimes asks if
“Winnow?” Roman called to her through the door, softly knocking. “Winnow, are you ready?”
She crumpled Carver’s half-read letter into her pocket. She didn’t have time to wonder at the oddness of his words—I’m not in Oath—as she took the soldiers’ letters and set them on the desk, tucking their edges under her typewriter.
It hit her like a brick to her stomach. She was about to go to the front lines.
She was about to be gone for days, and she had no time to write Carver and explain to him the reason for her impending silence. What would he think of her suddenly going quiet?
“Winnow?” Roman spoke again, urgent. “The captain’s waiting.”
“I’m coming,” Iris said, her voice thin and strange, like ice crackling over warm water. She stole one last second of peace, touching the jar that held her mother’s ashes. It sat on her desk, next to the Alouette.
“I’ll return soon, Mum,” Iris whispered.
She turned and took inventory—blanket, notepad, three pens, a tin of beans, canteen, extra socks—and hastily packed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. When she opened the door, Roman was waiting for her in the dim hallway, his own leather bag hanging from his back.
He said nothing, but his eyes were bright, almost feverish, when he looked at her.
She wondered if he was afraid as he followed her down the stairs.
