Divine Rivals (Letters of Enchantment, #1)(75)

“I owe you a story in return,” Lark said after Iris had finished. “You once asked me about the Sycamore Platoon. Where our name came from.”

“Yes,” Iris whispered.

“I want to tell you now. We all grew up in the same town, you see,” Lark began. His voice was low and raspy. Iris had to bend closer to catch his words. “It’s a place north of here, hard to find on a map. We’re farmers; we toil under rain and sun, we know everything about the loam, and we count our lives by seasons more than years. When the war broke out … we decided we should join the fight. There was a group of us that could form our own platoon. And we thought that if we joined, the conflict would end sooner.” He snorted. “How wrong we were.”

Lark quieted, his eyes closing. The lorry hit a pothole, and Iris watched as his face grooved in pain.

“Before we left home,” he continued, even fainter now, “we decided to carve our initials into the great sycamore tree that overlooked one of the fields. The tree was on a hill, like a sentry. It had been struck by lightning twice but had yet to split and fall. And so we believed there was magic in that tree, that its roots gave nutrients to the soil we tilled and planted and harvested. That its boughs watched over our valley.

“We carved our initials into its bark. It was a prayer for the magic of home to watch over us, even as the kilometers came between us. A prayer and a promise that we would all return someday.”

“That’s beautiful, Lieutenant,” Iris said, touching his arm.

He smiled, opening his eyes to look upward. Blood bubbled between his teeth.

“I didn’t even want to be lieutenant,” he confessed. “I didn’t want to lead us. But that’s how the cards fell, and I carried that weight. Carried the worry that some of us might not return home. That I would have to go to these mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and wives and husbands. People I had known all my life. People who were like family. And say … I’m sorry. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more to protect them.”

Iris was silent. She wondered if he was about to slip into unconsciousness. If the pain of his wounds was too great. She wondered if she should keep him talking, keep him awake.

She reached for his hand.

Lark said, “I’ll have to say it over and over and over, now. If I live, I’ll be full of nothing but regrets and apologies, because I’m the last one. The Sycamore Platoon is gone, Miss Winnow. We woke up this morning to one world, and now the sun is setting on another.”

When he closed his eyes again, Iris remained quiet. She held his hand, and the last of the light waned. Eventide was giving way to the night, and once she would have been terrified of Dacre’s hounds and the possibility of their attack. But now there was nothing to fear. There was only grief, raw and sharp.

She was still holding Lieutenant Lark’s hand an hour later when he died.

There was smoke in her hair, smoke in her lungs, smoke in her eyes, burning her up from within.

And Iris covered her face and wept.





{33}





The Snow in Kitt’s Bag


They rolled into Avalon Bluff in the middle of the night. The air was cool and dark and the stars blistered the sky as Iris climbed down from the lorry on shaky legs.

She was suddenly surrounded by nurses, doctors, townspeople. She was swept up and away into the light of the infirmary, so exhausted she could hardly speak—I’m fine, don’t waste your efforts on me. Before she could protest, a nurse had her inside the hall, cleaning her scrapes and cuts with antiseptic.

“Are you injured anywhere else?” the nurse asked.

Iris blinked. She felt like she was seeing double for a moment. She couldn’t remember the last time she had drunk or eaten something, the last time she had slept.

“No,” she said, her tongue sticking to her teeth.

The nurse reached for a cup of water and dissolved something in it. “Here, drink this. Marisol is just down the hall. I know she’ll want to see you.”

“Iris!” Attie’s voice cut through the clamor.

Iris jumped and frantically looked around, finding Attie weaving through the crowd. She set down the cup of water and launched herself into her friend’s arms. She drew a deep breath and told herself to be calm, but the next moment she was sobbing into Attie’s neck.

“You’re all right, you’re all right,” Attie whispered, holding her tightly. “Here, let me get a good look at you.” She angled herself back, and Iris dashed the tears from her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Iris said, sniffing.

“Don’t apologize,” Attie said firmly. “I’ve been worried sick about you, ever since the first lorry pulled up hours ago. I’ve literally looked at everyone who arrived, hoping to find you.”

Iris’s heart stalled. She felt the color drain from her face. “Kitt. Is he here? Did you see him? Is he all right?”

Attie grinned. “Yes, he’s here. Don’t worry. He just got out of surgery on the upper floor, I believe. Here, I’ll take you to him, but grab your water first.”

Iris reached for her cup. She didn’t realize how badly she was shaking until she tried to take a sip and spilled half of it on her chest. Attie noticed but said nothing, leading her to the lift. They ascended to the second floor. It was quieter on the upper story; the corridors smelled like iodine and soap. Iris’s throat narrowed as Attie led her farther down the hallway, around a corner and into a dimly lit room.