Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(131)

Iris climbed it alone, carrying the urn with Forest’s ashes.

It wasn’t a steep hill, but the grass was long and verdant from summer storms, and wildflowers bloomed, thick and dusted with pollen. When Iris reached the crest, she was awed by the sight that unrolled before her. Valleys and sparkling creeks. Patches of evergreens and birch trees.

“I think I’ve been here before,” she whispered to the wind, remembering the place Enva had showed her in the dream. A goddess she might never see again, but who Iris knew still walked the streets of Oath in disguise.

Iris opened the urn.

She held it for a breath before turning it over. Eyes burning, she watched Forest’s ashes spill into the breeze, becoming part of the land. The pines and the grass, the vales and the streams. Iris would have been content for a while, standing in ankle-deep wildflowers, but then she felt the first drop of rain on her face, mingling with her tears.

Another summer storm was billowing in, and Iris hurried back down the path to the road, where Tobias, Attie, and Roman waited. The roadster shone bright as a newly minted coin, even with all its dents and marks and flecks of mud from the road.

Iris slid into the back seat with Roman, while Attie sat up front with Tobias.

“Where to next?” Tobias asked, cranking the motor.

“Where to?” Attie echoed. “It’s about to rain, Tobias.”

“This car has outlasted more storms and flat tires than I can count.” He met Iris’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “What do you say, Iris?”

Iris smiled. “To home.”

Tobias turned the motorcar around, shifting into second gear. They sped along the road, leaving thunder and swells of rain behind. Iris was tempted to glance back at the hill she had given to Forest, but a break in the clouds stopped her. A ray of sunlight pierced the gloam up ahead, promising a blue-skied afternoon.

Roman reached for her hand, weaving their fingers together.

Iris closed her eyes, savoring the warmth of his palm against hers. The way the wind blew through her hair. The sunlight on her face. And for a moment, it almost felt like she had wings.





{55}

The Last Word




ONE YEAR LATER

Iris knelt in the garden.

Her flower beds were coming to life as the days grew warmer and longer, and the first green unfurling of vegetables was breaking the soil. She smiled as she plucked weeds from the aster and daisy patches, and then she shifted to the rows of dirt, feeling how dry the soil was.

She was just about to rise and fetch her water pail when a triangular folded piece of paper crashed into the loam, right at her knees.

Iris glanced up, not at all surprised to see Roman regarding her from the second story window. His elbow was propped on the open sill, his chin on his palm, and he only smiled as he waited for her to read his message.

“Are they ready for me?” she called up.

“You’ll have to read the note to find out.”

She scowled up at him, but it was playful, and she enjoyed their games as much as he did. She took the paper in her dirt-stained hands and unfolded it, reading:

Dear Iris,

I’m sure they’re an absolute waste, but here are waiting for you on the kitchen table. If you hurry, the perfectly* brewed pot of tea will still be warm.

Love,

Your Favorite

Kitt

*always up for debate

P.S. If I hand over too many pages at one time, I have an inkling my dense prose will put you to sleep, Winnow.

Iris smiled, but when she looked back to the window, Roman was gone. If she listened, though, she could hear the metallic clink of his typewriter as he returned to his manuscript. She could hear the birds flit through the shrubs and sing from the willow tree in the neighbors’ yard. She could hear the distant rapids of the river, which was a short walk from their tiny town house, a stone, ivy-laden structure that had withstood the bombings, located on the edge of the park.

Iris tucked the page into her pocket and rose.

She knocked the dirt from her coveralls and left her boots at the back stoop, stepping inside the very cramped but cozy kitchen.

On the table, she found here tucked beneath the corner of her typewriter, just as Roman had promised, and a pot of tea that still steamed. Iris poured herself a cup, stirred in far too much milk and honey, and then sat in her favorite chair and read Roman’s pages.

They were beautiful, transportive. Every time Iris read a new chapter of his, she felt as if she belonged within the story. It was about a boy who sailed a ship in the clouds, and the adventures and challenges and friends he met along the way. It was not always a happy story, although it was an honest one, and hope never faded for the boy and his friends, even in their moments of loss and grief.

She also found two typos and had three questions about a side character’s motivations, and so she took up the fountain pen Roman had left beside the teapot, and she wrote them down on the page margins. Sometimes she thought he intentionally left typos behind, just to see if she would catch them.

She always did.

Tea drained to the dregs, Iris gathered up the pages and climbed the stairs to Roman’s favorite place to write, which was a small nook of a bedroom at the back of the house, with a view of the river and Iris’s garden. The door was cracked and she nudged it open farther; he was sitting at his desk, his fingers flying over the keys of the First Alouette.