“Why didn’t you tell someone you were feeling ill the other day? You just … left, and none of us knew where you went or what had happened.”
“It’s really none of your business, Kitt.”
“It is, because people here were worried about you, Winnow.”
“Yes, they’re quite worried about the classifieds not getting done on time.”
“Now that isn’t a fair statement, and you know it,” he said, his voice dropping low.
Iris shut her eyes. Her composure was about to crack, and it had taken all of her will to even get up and dress herself that morning, to brush her hair and force some lipstick on, all so that she gave the appearance that she was fine, that she was not coming apart at the seams. She didn’t want anyone to know what she was going through, because gods forbid they pity her—he pities you!—and she drew in a breath through her teeth.
“I don’t see why you care, Kitt!” she whispered sharply, opening her eyes to meet his steady gaze. “If I’m not here, you finally get what you want.”
He didn’t answer, but his gaze held hers, and she thought she saw something flicker through him, like a star falling from the cosmos, or a coin underwater, reflecting the sun. Something fierce and vulnerable and very unexpected.
As soon as it came, it was gone, and he scowled at her.
She must have imagined it.
For once, Zeb had good timing.
“Winnow? In my office. Now,” he called.
She stood from her desk and Roman had no choice but to ease away. She left him in the aisle, closing the door behind her as she stepped into Zeb’s office.
He was pouring himself a drink. It crackled over ice cubes as she sat in the chair across from him, his desk a chaotic sprawl of paper and books and folders. She waited for him to speak first.
“I take it you have your essay ready for me?” he asked after taking a sip.
Her essay. Her essay.
Iris had forgotten about it. She laced her fingers together, hands shaking. Her knuckles drained white.
“No, sir,” she said. “I’m sorry, but it’s not ready.”
Zeb only stared at her. “I’m disappointed in you, Winnow.”
She wanted to weep. She swallowed the tears until they flooded her chest. She should tell him why the essay was late. She should tell him she had lost her mother, and her world had upended, and the last thing she was thinking about was becoming a columnist.
“Sir, my—”
“If you’re going to lay out of work, you need to call it in, so your tasks for the day can be shifted to someone else,” he said curtly. “Now, don’t let it happen again.”
Iris rose and left. She went directly to her desk and sat, pressing her cold fingers to her flaming face. She felt like a doormat. She had just let him walk all over her, because she was too afraid of crying in front of him.
Who was she becoming?
“Here are the obituaries for tomorrow’s paper,” Sarah said, seeming to appear out of thin air. She dropped a stack of notes on Iris’s desk. “Are you all right, Winnow?”
“I’m fine,” Iris said with a strained smile and a sniff. “I’ll get these done.”
“I can give them to Kitt.”
“No. I have them. Thanks.”
After that, everyone left her alone. Even Roman didn’t glance her way again, and Iris was relieved.
She typed up the obituaries and then stared at her blank paper, wrestling with her feelings. She should type one for her mother. But it felt vastly different now. Being someone touched by the anguish of an obituary. Someone who felt the root of the words.
Iris began to write the first thing that came to mind, her fingers striking the keys with vehemence:
I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have
She stopped herself, jaw clenched, even as the wound in her ached. If Zeb caught her wasting paper and ink ribbons, he would fire her. And so she ripped the paper from her typewriter, crumpled it, tossed it in her dustbin, and tried again.
Aster Winifred Winnow, age forty-two, passed away on Alva’s Day, the fifth day of Norrow. She is survived by her son, Forest Winnow, and her daughter, Iris Winnow. She was born in Oath and loved the city best during autumn, when she felt as if magic could be tasted in the air. She attended school at Windy Grove, and later worked as a waitress at the Revel Diner. She was fond of poetry, classical music, and the color purple, although she would only ever call it “violet,” and she loved to dance.
The words were blurring. Iris stopped typing and set her mother’s obituary in the stack with all the others, to be delivered to Zeb’s desk for tomorrow’s paper.
* * *
She walked home after work. She removed her mother’s too-small boots and Forest’s trench coat and lay down in bed. She fell asleep to the rain.
* * *
She was an hour late to work.
She had overslept again, the grief pulling her into deep, dark slumber, and now she was full of frantic butterflies as she darted up the stairs to the fifth floor, drenched from the rain. Hopefully no one but Sarah would notice her walking in late. Sarah and Roman, most likely, since he obviously liked to keep tabs on her.
Iris stepped into the Oath Gazette only to discover Zeb was waiting beside her desk. His expression was stormy; she braced herself as she walked the aisle, her boots squishing.
He said nothing but inclined his head, turning to stride into his office.
Iris followed tentatively.
She was shocked to see Roman was present. There was an empty chair beside him, and Iris surrendered to it. She glanced sidelong at him, but Roman’s eyes were dead set on something before them. His hands were on his thighs, his posture rigid.
For once, she wished he would look at her, because the longer she sat beside him, the more his tension coaxed her own, until she was cracking her knuckles and bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“All right,” Zeb said, easing into his chair with a slight groan. “I’m sure you’re aware why I’ve called the two of you in today. You’re both bright, talented writers. And I’ve given you each an equal opportunity to prove yourselves worthy of columnist. I’m pleased to say I’ve made my decision.”
He paused, and Iris tore her eyes from Roman to look at Zeb. He set down the morning’s newspaper at the edge of his desk. It was folded in such a way to reveal the column. Roman’s article. The one she had helped him write about missing soldiers. So Iris wasn’t surprised by the words that came next. In fact, she felt nothing as Zeb announced, “Kitt, this is the best article you’ve ever written. The position is yours. You’re reliable, industrious, and turn good pieces in on time. You’ll officially start first thing tomorrow.”
Roman didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to be breathing, and Iris’s gaze flickered back to him as she wondered what thoughts were haunting his mind to make him so unresponsive. Wasn’t this what he wanted?
Now Zeb was frowning, annoyed by Roman’s lack of enthusiasm. “Did you hear me, Kitt?”
“Sir, would you consider giving us both more time before you made the decision?” Roman asked. “Give us each another chance to write an essay.”