“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It was my grandmother’s.”
“May I touch it?”
Iris nodded, puzzled. But she watched as Helena reverently traced the lines of her old typewriter. Touching the keys, the carriage return, the roller knob. She let out another disbelieving whistle.
“An Alouette! Do you even know what you have here, kid?”
Iris held her tongue, uncertain how to answer.
“This typewriter is a very rare beast,” Helena said, leaning closer to admire it. “Only three were made just like it. Haven’t you heard the old story?”
“No.”
“Then I should tell you, so you know exactly how precious this relic is. Decades ago, there was a rich man in the city named Richard Stone. He was a widower and had only one daughter, who was his pride and joy. Her name was Alouette, and she loved to write. Well, she fell sick with tuberculosis when she was only fifteen. Because of that, her two dearest friends could no longer visit her. Alouette was despondent. And Mr. Stone was driven to find a way for his daughter to communicate with her chums, and he found an old, cranky inventor who specialized in typewriters. Mr. Stone went into debt to allow three to be uniquely assembled. The legends claim the typewriters were constructed in a magical house on a magical street of Oath by a man with a magical monocle that could discern magical bonds—who soon vanished, by the way. But regardless … the typewriters were named after Alouette. She was given one, of course. And then her father gifted the other two to her friends. They sent letters and stories and poetry to each other for a full year, up until the night Alouette passed away. Shortly after that, Mr. Stone donated her typewriter to the museum, to be displayed with a few of her letters.”
“And the other two typewriters?” Iris asked quietly.
Helena cocked her brow. “They remained with her two friends, of course.” She lifted the typewriter and found the silver engraving. The one that Iris had spent years tracing and wondering about. “You said this belonged to your nan, correct? And were her initials by any chance D.E.W.?”
“They were,” Iris said.
Daisy Elizabeth Winnow had been a reserved woman, but she had often told Iris stories her of childhood. The saga of her typewriter, however, had never been shared, and Iris was struck by the whimsy of it, imagining her nan being friends with two other girls. How the three of them had written to each other, through their separation and sadness and joy.
“It makes you wonder where the third one is, doesn’t it?” Helena said, carefully setting the typewriter back down. “Or should I say, the second one, since this is technically the third.”
Iris had an inkling. She said nothing, but her mind wandered to the letters that were hiding in her bag. Her heart quickened as she thought, It isn’t the wardrobes connecting us. It’s our typewriters.
“So, Iris,” Helena said. “I have to ask this: are you sure you want to take your nan’s typewriter to war? Because you could sell it to the museum. They would probably pay you a fortune and be downright giddy at the opportunity, displaying it with The First Alouette.”
“I’m not selling it,” Iris replied curtly. “And it goes wherever I go.”
“I figured you’d say that,” Helena replied. “But I digress. This is how your correspondence will work: you’ll take the next train out of Oath, which leaves in half an hour. So we don’t have much time. You’re going to Avalon Bluff, a town six hundred kilometers west of here, close to the war front. Keep in mind you’ll be under a new chancellor and their jurisdiction, and that the laws you once knew in Oath and the Eastern Borough might not apply in the west. Things also change drastically in war, so pay close attention to the rules of daily life, so you remain safe.
“Your contact is Marisol Torres. She runs a bed and breakfast, and she’ll give you food and lodgings while you work. She doesn’t know you’re coming, but mention my name and she’ll take good care of you.
“The train runs through Avalon every sixth day. I expect you to have your reports typed, edited, and ready for me to publish. I want facts and I want stories. It’s the only way I’ll be able to get around the chancellor’s restriction on how much I can publish about the war—he can’t deny us a soldier’s story every now and then, nor the facts, all right? So make sure you cite your stuff so he can’t claim it’s propaganda. You’ll then slip and seal your typed articles in the brown classified envelopes that you’ll find in your bag, and you’ll hand them directly to the conductor. Supplies will also come in on the train, so if you need something, let me know. Do you understand everything I’ve told you, Iris?”
“Yes Ms. Hammond,” Iris said. But her mouth was dry, her palms sweaty.
Was she really doing this?
“Good,” Helena said. “Now, get dressed. You can’t take your valise, only the approved leather bag and your typewriter. Meet me out front on the pavement in five minutes.” She began to step out the door but tarried on the threshold. “Oh, what name are you writing under?”
Iris paused, uncertain. At the Oath Gazette, her articles had been published under Iris Winnow. She wondered if she should add her middle initial, like Roman did, but thought it sounded a bit pretentious. Roman Cocky Kitt.
As soon as she thought of him, her chest ached. The feeling surprised her because it was sharp and undeniable.
I miss him.
She missed irritating him by rearranging his desk. She missed stealing glances at his horribly handsome face, the rare sight of his smile and the fleeting sound of his laughter. She missed striking up banter with him, even if it was most often to see who could outsnark whom.
“Iris?” Helena prompted.
Iris shivered. That bewitching moment of longing for him faded as she set her resolve. She was about to go to the war front and she didn’t have time to wallow in … whatever these feelings were.
“Iris Winnow is fine,” she said, reaching for the jumpsuit.
“Just ‘fine’？” Helena looked pensive for a second, her mouth twisting. And then she winked at Iris and said, “I bet I can come up with something better.”
She slipped out the door before Iris could reply.
{16}
Attie
Six hundred kilometers feel like an eternity when you’re waiting for the unexpected. An eternity made of golden fields and pine forests and mountains that look blue in the distance. An eternity made of things you’ve never seen, air you’ve never tasted, and a train that rocks and clatters like guilt.
I wonder if this is how it feels to be immortal. You’re moving, but not really. You’re existing, but time seems thin, flowing like a current through your fingers.
I try to close my eyes and rest, but I’m too tempted to watch the world pass by my window. A world that seems endless and sprawling. A world that makes me feel small and insignificant in the face of its wildness. And then that sense of distance tightens my chest as if my bones can feel these six hundred kilometers—I’m leaving the only home I’ve ever known—and I withdraw his letters from my bag, and I reread them. Sometimes I regret leaving his last letter on the floor. Sometimes I’m relieved that I did, because I don’t think I’d be sitting here, pressing westward with nothing more than my courage, into a cloud of dust if I hadn’t.