She returned to her station. Around her, the Gazette was coming to life. Lamps flickered on, cigarettes burned, tea was poured, calls were taken, paper was crumpled, typewriters clacked.
It felt like it was going to be a good day.
“I love your hair, Winnow,” Sarah said as she came to a stop at Iris’s desk. “You should wear it like that more often.”
“Oh.” Iris self-consciously touched the wild curls that framed her shoulders. “Thanks, Prindle. Did Kitt call in sick today?”
“No,” Sarah replied. “But I just received this, which Mr. Kitt would like published in tomorrow’s paper, front and center in the announcements column.” She handed Iris a message sheet.
“Mr. Kitt?” Iris echoed.
“Roman’s father.”
“Ah. Wait a minute, is this a…？”
“Yes,” Sarah said. She leaned closer to add, “I hope it doesn’t upset you, Winnow. I swear, I didn’t know he was courting someone.”
Iris tried to smile, but it failed to reach her eyes. “Why would this upset me, Prindle?”
“I always thought the two of you would make such a striking pair. A few of the editors—not me, of course—cast bets that you would end up together.”
“Me and Kitt?”
Sarah nodded, biting her lip as if she feared Iris’s reaction.
“Don’t be silly,” Iris said with a half-hearted laugh. But her face suddenly felt hot. “Kitt and I are like fire and ice. I think we’d probably kill each other if we had to be in the same room for too long. And besides, he’s never looked at me in that way. You know what I mean?”
Gods, shut your mouth, Iris! she told herself, realizing she was rambling.
“What do you mean, Winnow? Once, I saw him—” Whatever Sarah was about to reveal was cut short when Zeb hollered for her. She cast a worried glance at Iris before she hurried away.
Iris sank deeper in her chair as she read:
Mr. & Mrs. Ronald M. Kitt are overjoyed to announce the engagement of their son, Roman C. Kitt, to Miss Elinor A. Little, the youngest daughter of Dr. Herman O. Little and Mrs. Thora L. Little. The wedding will take place one month from now, at the venerable Alva Cathedral in downtown Oath. More details and a photograph to come.
Iris covered her mouth, only to belatedly recall she was wearing lipstick. She wiped the red smudge off her palm and set the message down like it had scalded her.
Roman Coddled Kitt was engaged, then. Which was fine. People got engaged every day. Iris didn’t care what he did with his life.
Perhaps he had been up late last night with his fiancée, and she had made him run late.
As soon as Iris imagined that, she recoiled from it with a grimace, returning to her typewriter.
Not five minutes later, Roman walked into the office. He was dressed impeccably as usual, in a freshly starched shirt, leather braces on his shoulders, and black trousers without a speck of lint on their pressed front. His dark hair was slicked back, but his countenance was pale.
Iris watched beneath her lashes as he set his messenger bag down with a heavy thud at his cubicle. She waited for it—for him to notice the disorder at his desk. To frown and cast a glare at her. Because she was the only one who took the time to annoy him in such a way.
She waited, but Roman made no response. He was staring at his desk, but his face was frozen. There was hardly any light in his eyes, and she knew that something was wrong. Even dressed to the nines and only a few minutes late, something was eating at him.
He walked to the sideboard, selecting one of the teapots—there were always at least five brewing at a time—and poured the biggest cup he could find, carrying it back to his chair. Once he sat, she could no longer see him, and even though the office was humming with noise, Iris knew Roman Kitt was sitting there, staring blankly at his typewriter. As if all the words had vanished within him.
She typed up her stack of announcements and classifieds by noon, setting them on the corner of Zeb’s desk. And then she grabbed her bag and stopped at Roman’s desk.
She noticed two things: First the paper tucked into his typewriter was woefully blank, even though his handwritten notes were scattered across his desk. Second, he was taking a sip of tea, scowling at that blank piece of paper as if it owned him.
“Congratulations, Kitt,” said Iris.
Roman startled. The tea spewed from his mouth as he coughed, and then those blue eyes of his cut upward to where she stood, pinning her with a furious gleam. She watched as that anger burned away into shock. His gaze traced her long, wild hair. Down her body, although she was wearing her typical drab raiment. And then back up to her cherry-red mouth.
“Winnow,” he said carefully. “Why are you congratulating me?”
“Your engagement, Kitt.”
He winced, as if she had hit a bruise. “How do you know about that?”
“Your father wants it announced in the paper tomorrow,” she replied. “Front and center.”
Roman glanced away, back to his blank page. “Wonderful,” he said drolly. “I cannot wait.”
This wasn’t the reaction she was expecting from him. It only heightened her curiosity.
“Do you need help with your missing soldier article?” she asked on a whim. “Because I can give that to you.”
“How?” He sounded suspicious.
“Because my brother is missing at war.”
Roman blinked, as if he couldn’t believe those words had come out of her mouth. She could hardly believe it either. She thought she would instantly regret telling him something so intimate, but she discovered the opposite. It was a relief to finally voice the words that constantly shadowed her.
“I know you hate sandwiches,” she added, tucking a curl behind her ear. “But I’m going to a deli to buy two, to eat on the park bench. If you want my help, then you’ll know where to find me. I’ll try to resist eating the second sandwich, in case you decide to come, but I make no promises.”
She began to stride to the door before the sentence had even cleared her mouth. It felt like a coal was smoldering in her chest as she waited for the slow-as-tar lift. She was halfway mortified until she felt the air stir at her elbow. Iris knew it was Roman without looking at him. She recognized his cologne—some heady mix of spice and evergreen.
“I don’t hate sandwiches,” he said, and he sounded more like his old self.
“You dislike them, though,” Iris stated.
“I’m simply too busy for them. They’re a distraction. And distractions can be dangerous.”
The lift doors opened. Iris stepped inside, turning to look at him. A smile teased her lips.
“So I’ve heard, Kitt. Sandwiches are quite troublesome these days.”
She suddenly had no idea what they were discussing—if it truly was about sandwiches or about her or about how he regarded her or about this tentative moment they were sharing.
He hesitated so long that her smile faded. Tension returned to her posture.
You’re a fool, Iris, her mind railed. He’s engaged! He’s in love with someone. He doesn’t want to share lunch with you. He only wants your help with his article. Which … why on the gods’ bloody earth are you helping him?