Divine Rivals (Letters of Enchantment, #1)(49)

Dear Carver (I confess, it’s so nice to finally be able to address my letters to you!), Most people instantly think of an eyeball when they learn my name. It bothered me so greatly when I was younger in school. Some boys relentlessly teased me, so that’s why Forest nicknamed me “Little Flower.”

Even then, I disliked my name, and asked my mother (whose name was Aster, by the way) why she didn’t name me something fashionable, like Alexandra or Victoria.

“The women in our family have always been named after flowers,” Mum said. “Be proud of your name.”

Alas, I’m still striving to be.

—Iris

He replied:

Dear Iris,

I have to say that an eyeball is the furthest image from my mind. Even the fierce flower that inspired your mother to name you wasn’t the first thing I thought of. Rather: iris: transitive verb: to make iridescent.

Let us make our names exactly what we want them to be.

—C.

Dear Commanding Officer of the E Brigade,

My name is Iris Winnow, and I am currently seeking the whereabouts of my brother, Private Forest M. Winnow. I was informed by the Brigadier-General’s second assistant that my brother was sorted into Second E Battalion, Fifth Landover Company, under Captain Rena G. Griss.

I haven’t heard from Forest since the day he enlisted nearly six months ago, and I am concerned about his well-being. If you could provide me with an update on the Fifth Landover Company, or an address that I may write to, I would be deeply grateful.

Sincerely,

Iris Winnow

War correspondent for the Inkridden Tribune Stationed at Avalon Bluff, Western Borough, Cambria





{23}





Champagne & Blood


Roman had told Iris his middle name, and he winced every time he thought about it. He thought about it as he rode the lift to the Gazette. He thought about it as he prepared his tea at the sideboard, wishing it were coffee. He thought about it when he sat at his desk and turned his dictionaries paper side out, as she had often done to irk him.

He was thinking about her far too much, and he knew this was going to doom him.

But the truth was he was anxious. Because whenever he saw her again, he would have to tell her he was Carver. He worried she would feel like he had been lying to her, although he had only ever granted her truth, even if it had been in roundabout ways.

I want her to know it’s me, he thought, staring at his typewriter. He wanted her to know today, and yet it would be foolish to impart such a load by letter. No, it needed to be done in person. Face-to-face, where he could explain himself.

“You look hard at work,” said a familiar voice.

Roman stiffened, turning to look up at the last person he expected to see in the Gazette. He set down his teacup and rose. “Father.”

Mr. Kitt’s eyes roamed the office. It took Roman a moment to realize his father was looking for her. For Iris.

“She’s not here,” Roman said in a cold voice.

Mr. Kitt’s gaze returned to his. “Oh? And where is she?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since I was promoted.”

An awkward silence came between them. Roman could feel Sarah’s glance as she passed by, granting Mr. Kitt a wide berth. A few of the editors had also halted, watching through swirls of cigarette smoke.

Roman cleared his throat. “Why are you—”

“I made lunch reservations for you and Miss Little,” Mr. Kitt said tersely. “Today. One o’clock sharp at Monahan’s. You’ll be marrying her in three weeks, and your mother thought it would be nice if the two of you spent some time together.”

Roman forced himself to swallow a retort. This was the last thing he wanted to do today. But he nodded, even as he felt the life drain from him. “Yes. Thank you, Father.”

Mr. Kitt gave Roman an appraising glance, as if he were surprised that Roman had given in so easily.

“Good, son. I’ll see you tonight for supper.”

Roman watched his father leave.

He sank back to his chair and stared at the blank page in his typewriter. The dictionaries he had turned paper side out. He forced his fingers to rest on the keys but he couldn’t write a word. All he could hear was Iris’s voice, as if she were reading her letter aloud to him.

You remove a piece of armor for them; you let the light stream in, even if it makes you wince. Perhaps that is how you learn to be soft yet strong, even in fear and uncertainty. One person, one piece of steel.

Roman sighed. He didn’t want to be vulnerable with Elinor Little. But perhaps he should take Iris’s advice.

Slowly, he began to find words to give to the page.



* * *



The sun was at its zenith when a huge lorry rumbled into town. Iris was walking with Marisol down High Street, carrying baskets of goods they had just bartered for at the grocer, when the truck arrived without warning. Iris didn’t know what to think of it—its massive tires were coated in mud, its metal body dinged by bullets.

It rolled in from the western road, which Iris knew led to the war front.

“Oh my gods,” Marisol said with a gasp. She dropped her basket and ran, following the lorry as it drove down another road.

Iris had no choice but to set down her basket and follow her. “Marisol! Marisol, what’s happening?”