Divine Rivals (Letters of Enchantment, #1)(64)

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 fa?ade 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.





PART THREE


The

Words

In-Between





{29}





The Sycamore Platoon


She unfortunately had to sit on Roman Kitt’s lap, nearly all the way to the front lines.

The lorry was packed to the brim with food and medicine and other resources, leaving one seat available in the cab. Just as the captain had forewarned. One seat for Iris and Roman to fight over.

Iris hesitated, wondering how to handle this strange situation, but Roman seamlessly opened the passenger door for her, as if it were a vehicle in Oath and not a massive truck, rusted by war. She avoided eye contact as well as his offered hand and hauled herself up the metal side step into the dusty cab.

It reeked of sweat and petrol. The leather seat was beaten and worn beneath her. There looked to be an old streak of blood across it, and the dash was freckled with mud. Pray it doesn’t rain, Attie had said to her before kissing her cheeks in farewell, and Iris cleared her throat and slipped her bag onto the floorboard between her legs. It must be something about rain and the trenches, Iris surmised, although Attie still hadn’t spoken much of her experience on the front lines.