Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(57)

The brigadier rose from the table but remained silent.

Marisol swung back around, fire in her eyes. “You told me they were in the procession, Keegan. You told me they were safe.”

Lucy set the kettle on the stove, but her eyes darted back and forth, taking note of everything.

“We had an agreement,” Keegan said calmly. If Marisol was fire, she was water. “What happened?”

“A flat tire,” Tobias answered. “We were able to fix it in time but some of Dacre’s soldiers saw us retreat.” He glanced at Iris, as if uncertain what else to say.

Keegan noticed.

“Iris?” the brigadier said.

Iris cracked her knuckles. “Dacre set his hounds loose.”

The kitchen fell deathly quiet. Not even the birds sang their melodies from the backyard.

Marisol laid her hand over her throat, as if hiding the erratic beat of her pulse, and finally said, “The hounds? The hounds chased you?”

“Bexley outran them in his roadster,” Attie stated. Her shoulder was close to Tobias’s; there was only a fraction of space between their fingers, hanging at their sides. “We have all the dents and mud to prove it.”

“There shouldn’t be any dents or mud to prove it,” Marisol said, her cheeks flushing. “There shouldn’t be any hounds, or eithrals, or bombs. You should get to be children, young people, adults who can dream and love and live your lives without all of this … horrible mess.”

Once more, the kitchen fell silent. A breeze stirred the curtains from the open window, and it was a soft reminder of constancy. The sun would continue setting and rising, the moon would persist in waxing and waning, the seasons would bloom and molt, and the war would still rage until one god or both fell to their grave.

The tense lull finally broke when the kettle began to hiss. Lucy moved to tend to it.

“Mari,” Keegan whispered gently.

Marisol sighed, but despair passed over her expression, as if she had been struck by an arrow and didn’t know how to pull it free from her bones. Iris understood, because she felt it also—that heavy, terrible sorrow—but the words were thick, catching behind her teeth. She swallowed them back down and told herself she would type them all out later. When it was dark. When it was just her and the keys and a blank page, waiting for her to mark it with ink.

“Join us at the table,” Marisol said. “I know I cannot keep you safe or protect you from the worst of this war. But for now, let me feed you. I know you must be hungry.”



* * *



After Lucy’s perfectly brewed tea and a ham-and-mustard sandwich from Marisol, Iris retreated with her typewriter to the laundry room.

It felt odd to be here again, the sunset staining the windowpanes, the laundry hanging like ghosts. The wardrobe waiting for her to kneel before it.

Iris set down the typewriter case. She lowered herself to her knees, feeling the sting of her bruises and scabs. Slowly, she unlocked the First Alouette. The keys gleamed in response, as if beckoning her to write. And yet Iris realized she didn’t know where to begin. She was gripped by a sudden wave of grief and covered her face with her hands, tasting traces of dirt, metal, and rye on her palms.

Over the uneven rhythm of her breath, she heard a familiar sound.

Iris wiped her eyes and glanced up to see two different letters waiting for her at the wardrobe door. There was no way for her to know what she was about to read. Something wonderful or something that would shred her heart even further.

She steeled herself for anything, unfolding the closest page to read:

Morgie was the name of your pet snail. (I will never grow tired of hearing all your “sad snail stories,” in case you were wondering.)

Your middle name is Elizabeth, in honor of your nan. (Hi, E.)

Your favorite season is autumn, because that is when you believe magic can be tasted in the air. (You have almost made me a convert.)



She paused in shock, staring at Roman’s typed words. It was the answers to the three questions she had sent days ago.

A pang scraped along her ribs. She was ravenous for more and swiped the next letter, unfolding it in her hands. She read:

It would be remiss of me not to return the same unto you, so let me ask my questions, as if I am sowing three wishes into a field of gold, or conjuring a spell that requires three answers from you in order for it to be whole:

How do I take my tea?

What is my middle name?

What is my favorite season?



P.S. Apologies for stealing two of your questions. Quite unoriginal, I know, but I don’t think you’ll mind.

Iris smiled. She typed her reply effortlessly, and sent:

Three questions, three answers. Here is the second half of the spell you ask for:

You prefer coffee, not tea. Although I saw you drink it enough times at the Gazette, and you only put in a spoonful of honey or sugar. No milk.

Carver. (Or should I affectionately say “C.”?)

Spring, because that is when baseball returns. (Confession: I know next to nothing about this sport. You will have to teach me.)



Iris hesitated. She wanted to say more but held back, still uncertain. How much did he remember? But she closed her eyes and imagined him sitting in that strange bedchamber far away, typing by firelight. Her wedding ring slipped onto his littlest finger, guiding him to regather all the moments Dacre wanted him to forget.