Divine Rivals (Letters of Enchantment, #1)(29)

Aster Winifred Winnow, age forty-two, passed away on Alva’s Day, the fifth day of Norrow. She is survived by her son, Forest Winnow, and her daughter, Iris Winnow. She was born in Oath and loved the city best during autumn, when she felt as if magic could be tasted in the air. She attended school at Windy Grove, and later worked as a waitress at the Revel Diner. She was fond of poetry, classical music, and the color purple, although she would only ever call it “violet,” and she loved to dance.



The words were blurring. Iris stopped typing and set her mother’s obituary in the stack with all the others, to be delivered to Zeb’s desk for tomorrow’s paper.



* * *



She walked home after work. She removed her mother’s too-small boots and Forest’s trench coat and lay down in bed. She fell asleep to the rain.



* * *



She was an hour late to work.

She had overslept again, the grief pulling her into deep, dark slumber, and now she was full of frantic butterflies as she darted up the stairs to the fifth floor, drenched from the rain. Hopefully no one but Sarah would notice her walking in late. Sarah and Roman, most likely, since he obviously liked to keep tabs on her.

Iris stepped into the Oath Gazette only to discover Zeb was waiting beside her desk. His expression was stormy; she braced herself as she walked the aisle, her boots squishing.

He said nothing but inclined his head, turning to stride into his office.

Iris followed tentatively.

She was shocked to see Roman was present. There was an empty chair beside him, and Iris surrendered to it. She glanced sidelong at him, but Roman’s eyes were dead set on something before them. His hands were on his thighs, his posture rigid.

For once, she wished he would look at her, because the longer she sat beside him, the more his tension coaxed her own, until she was cracking her knuckles and bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“All right,” Zeb said, easing into his chair with a slight groan. “I’m sure you’re aware why I’ve called the two of you in today. You’re both bright, talented writers. And I’ve given you each an equal opportunity to prove yourselves worthy of columnist. I’m pleased to say I’ve made my decision.”

He paused, and Iris tore her eyes from Roman to look at Zeb. He set down the morning’s newspaper at the edge of his desk. It was folded in such a way to reveal the column. Roman’s article. The one she had helped him write about missing soldiers. So Iris wasn’t surprised by the words that came next. In fact, she felt nothing as Zeb announced, “Kitt, this is the best article you’ve ever written. The position is yours. You’re reliable, industrious, and turn good pieces in on time. You’ll officially start first thing tomorrow.”

Roman didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to be breathing, and Iris’s gaze flickered back to him as she wondered what thoughts were haunting his mind to make him so unresponsive. Wasn’t this what he wanted?

Now Zeb was frowning, annoyed by Roman’s lack of enthusiasm. “Did you hear me, Kitt?”

“Sir, would you consider giving us both more time before you made the decision?” Roman asked. “Give us each another chance to write an essay.”

Zeb gaped at him. “More time? In what world would I do that?”

Iris’s heart beat swift and hard within her chest. When Roman finally looked at her, time seemed to stall. His eyes were keen, as if he could see everything that dwelled in her—the light and the shadows. Her threads of ambition and desire and joy and grief. Never had a man looked at her in that way.

A shiver traced her bones.

“I’ve had an unfair advantage, sir,” Roman said, directing his attention back to Zeb. “Winnow’s mother passed away a few days ago. She’s grieving, and she needs more time.”

The room fell painfully silent.

Iris drew a tremulous breath. Her pulse was in her ears. And Zeb was saying something, but his voice was nothing more than a pesky drone as Iris met Roman’s stare.

“How do you know that?” she whispered.

“I read your mother’s obituary,” he replied.

“But no one reads obituaries.”

Roman was quiet but his face flushed, and she had the frightening inkling that while she made it a point to never read anything of his, he might be reading everything she touched. Including the dry classifieds and tragic obituaries. Perhaps he did it to see if she’d left a typo behind, to taunt her with after it went to print. Perhaps he did it because she was his competition and he wanted to know who, exactly, he was up against. She honestly couldn’t think of a good enough reason, and she looked away from him.

“Winnow?” Zeb was barking. “Winnow, is this true?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why didn’t you say something yesterday?”

Because I didn’t want to cry in front of you. Because I don’t want your pity. Because I’m holding myself together by a thread.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Well,” Zeb said curtly. “I can’t help you if I don’t know, can I?” He heaved a sigh and rubbed his brow. His voice softened, as if he realized how callous he was sounding. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Winnow. It’s unfortunate. But I’m afraid my mind is made up. Kitt won the column, but if you need to take a few days off for bereavement … that would be fine.”