* * *
The Inkridden Tribune was chaos.
To be fair, it was in the drafty basement of an ancient building downtown, in a room half the size of the Oath Gazette. Tables were haphazardly arranged as desks, exposed bulbs shed light from above, and it smelled like fresh-cut paper and mildew with a whirl of cigarette smoke. Editors were busy at their typewriters, and assistants moved back and forth as if they were on a track, delivering chipped cups of tea and strips of messages from the one telephone—which rang shrilly off its hook—to certain desks.
Iris stood at the foot of the stairs, staring into the hustle, waiting for someone to notice her.
No one did. There were only a handful of staff to do the same amount of work that the Oath Gazette did. And she couldn’t deny that while the working conditions here were vastly different from her old employer, the air teemed with something electric. There was excitement and passion and that breathless feeling of creation, and Iris felt it catch in her lungs, as if she were falling ill to whatever fever was fueling these people.
She stepped deeper into the room and snagged the first assistant who passed by.
“Hi, I’m looking for Helena Hammond.”
The assistant, a girl a few years older than Iris with short black hair, halted as if she had just stepped into a wall. “Oh, you must be here to apply as a war correspondent! Here, see that door over there? That’s her office. She’ll be thrilled to meet you.”
Iris nodded her thanks and wove through the madness. Her breath felt shallow when she knocked on Helena Hammond’s door.
“Enter,” a gruff voice said.
Iris stepped into the office, surprised to see a trail of sunlight. There was a tiny square window high up on the wall, cracked to welcome fresh air and the distant sounds of the city. Helena Hammond, who couldn’t have been taller than five feet, stood puffing on a cigarette, staring into that beam of light. She had auburn hair that was cut into a bob and a fringe that brushed her eyelashes every time she blinked. Her cheeks were freckled, and a long scar graced her jaw, tugging on the corner of her lips. She was dressed in a set of high-waisted trousers and a black silk shirt, and a silver ring gleamed on her thumb.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice pitched deep and scratchy. She kept her focus on the sunlight, breathing out a long curl of smoke.
“I’m here to apply as a war correspondent,” Iris said. Her shoulders were aching from lugging around her typewriter and valise, but she stood as tall and elegant as possible. Because she could tell that the moment Helena looked at her, the woman would be able to see through her and weigh her mettle.
“Two in one day,” Helena remarked, at last turning her face to Iris. “Whatever have they put in the water?”
Iris wasn’t sure what she implied. But she held still as Helena walked around her desk to scrutinize her.
“Why do you want to be a correspondent, Miss…？”
“Iris. Iris Winnow.”
“Miss Iris Winnow,” Helena said, flicking ash off the end of her cigarette. “Why are you here?”
Iris shifted her weight, ignoring the pain in her wrists. “Because my brother is fighting.”
“Mm. That’s not a good enough answer for me to send you, kid. Do you have any idea how difficult it’ll be as a correspondent? Why should I send an innocent thing like you to see and digest and report such terrible things?”
A bead of sweat trickled down Iris’s spine. “People in Oath think they’re safe. They think that because the war is far away, it will never reach us here. But I believe it will come to the city one day, sooner than later, and when it does … there will be a lot of people unprepared. Your choice to report the news on the war front is going to help change that.”
Helena was staring up at her, and a lopsided smile crept over her lips. “You still didn’t answer why I should send you, Iris Winnow.”
“Because I want to write about things that matter. I want my words to be like a line, cast out into the darkness.”
“That’s rather poetic of you,” Helena said, eyes narrow. “What’s your previous experience?”
“I worked three months at the Oath Gazette,” Iris replied, belatedly hoping that wouldn’t dampen her chances.
“You worked for good ole Autry, did you? My, now that’s a surprise.” Helena chuckled, crushing her cigarette into an ashtray. “Why’d you leave such a splendid opportunity? Did he fire you for double spacing?”
“I resigned.”
“I like you more already,” Helena said. “When can you start?”
“Immediately,” Iris replied.
Helena glanced at Iris’s valise and her typewriter case. “You came prepared, didn’t you? I like that in a person. Come, follow me.” She walked out the door, and Iris had to scramble to catch up with her, weaving through the chaos again.
They ascended the stairs, leaving behind the chill of the basement for a small room on one of the upper floors. It was well lit and clean, with a table and two chairs.
“Have a seat, Iris,” Helena said. “And fill this out for me. I’ll be back in a moment.” She set down a waiver and a pen before striding away, leaving Iris alone.
Iris glanced over it. The waiver was filled with things like I agree to not hold the Inkridden Tribune responsible for anything which may befall me, including but not limited to: dismemberment, sickness, perforated and ruined organs, starvation, long-lasting disease of any kind, broken bones, and even death. I will take full responsibility for whatever happens to me—bodily and mentally and emotionally—while I am on the campaign to report.
She read through the fine print; she signed where applicable, and she didn’t think twice about it. But Forest came to mind. She wondered how many scars the war had given him.
“Here we go,” Helena said, returning with an armload of supplies. She set down what looked to be a folded uniform and a narrow leather bag with a thick strap, to be carried across one’s back. “Your jumpsuit. There’s another one in the bag, for when you need to do laundry. Also socks, boots, menstrual supplies. I can’t stress enough how vital it is you wear the jumpsuit, because of this little thing right here…” She snapped the jumpsuit so it would unfold. It was gray and plain, with buttons up the front. But Helena pointed to a white badge stitched with the words INKRIDDEN TRIBUNE PRESS, just over the right breast pocket. “If you get into a hairy situation—which gods willing you won’t but we must prepare for anything—this proclaims you are neutral in the war—that you are only reporting what you see and should not be perceived as a threat. You understand?”
“Yes,” Iris said, but her mind was whirling.
“Food rations are also in the bag,” Helena said, tossing the jumpsuit onto the table again. “In case you need them, but you’ll be assigned to a house, which will feed you and give you a safe place to sleep. Now, may I look at your typewriter?”
Iris unlatched the locks and lifted the lid to the case. And she didn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t for Helena to go wide-eyed and let out a whistle.
“This is your typewriter?” she asked, inclining her head so her fringe would shift out of her eyes.