Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(45)
The soldier merely stared at her, but his gaze dropped to the white badge on her jumpsuit, stitched over her heart. INKRIDDEN TRIBUNE PRESS.
“If you’re here to report, I’m sorry to say that’s prohibited. This is an active war zone, closed to civilians, and you—”
“We aren’t here to report,” Iris interrupted, her voice sharper than she intended. She made herself draw a deep breath, made her shoulders relax. “Like I said, I am carrying an extremely important message for Captain—”
“Yes, you mentioned that. What is the message?”
Iris hesitated. She could feel both Attie and Tobias watching her, waiting. The air suddenly felt tense. Many things had crossed her mind in the dark, but not once had she thought that they would be barred from Hawk Shire.
“It must be hand-delivered to the captain,” she replied firmly. “By me.”
A second soldier joined the first, drawn to the motorcar. Iris watched as the two of them spoke in low tones, glancing their way with arched brows. Sweat prickled along Iris’s palms as she waited; she was tempted to touch Roman’s letter but resisted, tracing her wedding band instead. She inhaled draughts of air, tasting the exhaust from the car, the redolent mist, the smoke from a campfire. The sun continued to rise; the fog was melting quickly now, like snow in spring. Hawk Shire looked dark and dismal, a chain of circular stone buildings reminiscent of the points of a crown.
“All right,” said the private who had first spoken to them. “Only one of you can come. I’ll escort you now.”
Iris’s heart leapt into her throat. But she looked at Attie, who nodded solemnly in encouragement, and then Tobias, who cut the engine.
“We’ll wait here for you,” he said, and by the tone of his voice Iris knew nothing would make him break his word.
It gave her the confidence to step out of the roadster, chin lifted high. Her legs felt weak from hours of sitting, but she followed the private around the barricade and up the road. They passed a sea of linen tents. Rings of soldiers sitting around campfires as they fried links of sausage and eggs in cast iron skillets. A line of parked lorries splattered with mud, the sunrise limning their cracked windshields and bullet-sprayed fenders. The air was solemn and silent and still, as if Enva’s forces had been defeated, and it made the hair stand up on Iris’s arms.
Wordlessly, she followed the private into town, gazing up at the buildings of Hawk Shire. One in the center of town caught her eye. It was very tall and wide—four stories high with several sets of chimneys—and built from red brick and shining glass windows. A factory, Iris realized, with modest houses strung around it like dew on a cobweb.
The private led her through a wide city market, and Iris stopped abruptly. Over the cobblestones, cots and makeshifts beds were set up in rows, wounded soldiers lying on tattered blankets. The soldiers far outnumbered the doctors and nurses, who seemed to be in constant motion, moving from cot to cot, carrying bedpans, bloodied bandages, and cups of water. Not even the gray-tinged sunshine could hide the exhaustion and concern etched onto their faces.
The staggering number of wounded stole Iris’s breath; it made her think of Forest. Of Roman. She forced herself to continue following the private into the factory, although her thoughts bent to one horrible question: how would Enva’s forces evacuate all the wounded before Dacre arrived?
The private led her up flights of metal stairs to the uppermost level, passing a few long-faced soldiers along the way. Again, Iris was surprised by how quiet it was, as if no one had the heart to speak. As if they were simply holding their breath and waiting for Dacre to come and crush them, one last time.
“In here,” the private said, opening a squeaky door. “The brigadier will meet with you soon.”
Iris stepped into the room, jolted by his words. “The brigadier? I asked to speak with Captain Keegan Torres.”
The private only sighed and shook his head. He closed the door, leaving her alone in the chamber, which Iris turned to take in. It was a long and narrow room, with a threadbare rug along the hardwood floor, a stained walnut desk covered in papers and wax-dribbled candelabras, and one wall full of windows. It was to these windows that Iris was drawn, realizing the glass afforded her a bird’s-eye view of Hawk Shire, as well as the deep blue horizon of the west.
She watched as the fog continued to recoil. She could see the market square once more, her heart aching as she studied the rows of wounded soldiers. A doctor strode from one building to another, blood on her clothes. Nurses carried a stretcher, the body draped in a white sheet.
Iris’s eyes eventually settled on a pair of vultures, perched on a nearby roof.
She stared at the birds as they sunned their wings, wondering if they had followed her from River Down. With an anxious twitch of her hands, Iris reached into her pocket and retrieved Marisol’s book. She sifted through the worn pages, admiring the intricate illustrations, until she came to the page devoted to nightingales. There her eyes remained, reading through the fine-print description:
A small and secretive bird that is rather plain to behold, the Nightingale is difficult to spot. They keep to thick cover, and while their feathers might be unexciting, they have a repertoire of more than two hundred different phrases that they can sing.
The door creaked open.
Iris closed the book, her mouth suddenly dry. All the words seemed to scatter from her thoughts as she turned away from the windows, preparing to ask for Keegan again. But Iris stopped short, her breath catching.