Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(58)
She sent her letter through the wardrobe and waited. Night had almost fallen and the house beyond the laundry room suddenly became alive with voices, footsteps, and the clink of dishes. The scent of mutton stew and rosemary bread wafted down the hallway, and Iris knew one of the platoons had arrived at Marisol and Lucy’s to be fed that evening.
Iris remained on the floor, fingers drumming across her knees.
At last, Roman replied.
Dear Iris,
Should I be surprised that I was falling in love with you a second time? Should I be surprised that your words found me here, even in the darkness? That I’ve been carrying your E. letters close to my heart like they are a shield to protect me?
I know we are no longer rivals, but if we are keeping tally like the old days, you have far outshined* me with your wit and your courage. Which reminds me of one simple thing: how I love to lose to you. How I love to read your words and hear the thoughts that sharpen your mind. And how I would love to be on my knees before you now, surrendering to you and you alone.
For the past few weeks, I thought you were nothing more than a dream. A vision that my scrambled mind created to process the trauma I couldn’t even remember. But the moment I touched you, I remembered everything. And now I see that all this time, every night when I dreamt, I was trying to bring all the pieces back together. I was trying to find my way back to you.
I don’t know where you are now. I don’t know how many kilometers have come between us again, and I don’t know what awaits us in the days ahead, but I will give you as much information as I can so long as you promise me that you will be very careful. I know this is a strange thing to say—we are a country at war, and nowhere is safe. All of us must risk and sacrifice something dear to us—and yet I could not bear it if corresponding with me brings the end for you or gives you a burden that is too heavy to bear.
If you agree to this, write me back. If you don’t agree, still write me back. I want to know your thoughts. I confess that I am hungry for your words.
Love,
Kitt
Dear Kitt,
Your words have moved me, deeply. I also hunger for them, for you, and feel as if I could devour tomes of your writing and never be satiated. These letters will hold me over until we meet again.
We aren’t keeping tally, but your courage and your wit have kept you alive in a place where hearts have faltered and beat their last. You are the bravest person I know, Kitt.
And I do agree to what you ask, but only because you seem to have stolen the words from my mouth. You are in a precarious position—far more than me—and giving up Dacre’s movements and tactics is something I dread to ask you to do, even as it feels inevitable. It seems like this is the road we were destined to travel, you and I, given our typewriters and where we are. But I want, more than anything, to keep you safe. To protect you as best I can from afar.
Whatever information you come across that you want to provide, you can send it to me if you promise to be careful in return. That you will destroy all my letters as soon as you read them, so they cannot be traced to you. Perhaps you and I can help shorten this war, or at least dare to change the course of the tides. Or maybe that is too much to hope for. But I find that I am leaning more on the side of impossibility these days. I am leaning toward the edge of magic.
Love,
Iris
P.S. I noticed there was an asterisk by the word “outshine” in your previous letter. A typo?
My Dear Iris,
Agreed. Let us dare to change the tides. Write to me and fill my empty spaces.
Love,
Kitt
P.S. A typo? No, Winnow. I simply forgot to add a footnote, which should have read as:
*outshine: transitive verb
a. to shine brighter than
b. to excel in splendor or showiness
You remember how you said that word to me in the infirmary, post-trenches? You believed I had come to the Bluff to outshine you. And I would speak this word back to you now, but only because I would love to see you burn with splendor.
I would love to see your words catch fire with mine.
{26}
Tell Me of Iris E. Winnow
The pain and discomfort of Roman’s wounds had fully returned with his memories.
He thought about what this meant when he was lying in bed, staring into the darkness and struggling to breathe. When he was nauseous at the dinner table, eating meals with the officers, forcing himself to swallow down the food. When he was at his desk, fighting a dull throb at his temples as he typed propaganda for Dacre. When he had a moment alone in the night, and he would sit at his typewriter and try to make sense of what he was experiencing.
Dacre claims he healed me that day in the Bluff. He claims that I could live forever at his side, if only I remain faithful to him. And yet my memories suggest otherwise, and what I’m feeling in my body is a testament that I’m not fully mended.
He healed me just enough to be of use to him, as if covering my wounds with a bandage, holding things together. To make me numb and to forget what brought me here. But now that I remember who I was before … it seems his magic has lost a few threads of its power.
He has deceived me, as well as so many others, by making us believe we are whole and mended when he has intentionally left pieces of us broken so we remain close to his side. Submissive and obedient to what he wants.
Roman would type his thoughts but wouldn’t let them survive on the paper. He yanked them from the typewriter and watched them catch fire with a match.