“It doesn’t look like she’s home,” said Attie before swearing under her breath. “Are the lower windows boarded up, or am I imagining it?”
Iris stared harder at the windows. Yes, they looked to be boarded up, but from the inside.
“What are we going to do if she doesn’t answer?” Attie turned to survey the remainder of the town, which didn’t look promising.
“Wait,” Iris said. “I think I hear her.”
The girls held their breath, and sure enough, there was the inner pattering of feet, and then a dulcet voice, drawn with an accent, spoke through the front door: “What do you want?”
Attie arched her brow, exchanging a dubious glance with Iris.
“Helena said she wasn’t expecting us,” Iris reminded her in a whisper, before replying, “We’ve been sent by Helena Hammond, of the Inkridden Tribune.”
There was a beat of silence, and then the sound of a lock turning. The green door creaked open a sliver, revealing a woman holding a candle. She had light brown skin and her black hair was bound in a thick braid, spilling over her shoulder. Her bold eyebrows slanted with a frown until she saw the girls, and her face softened instantly.
“Blessed Enva, there’s two of you? And you look so young!” she said, full lips parted in shock. “Please, please come inside. I’m sorry, but you took me by surprise a moment ago. These days, you don’t know who comes knocking at night.”
“Yes, we noticed it’s rather quiet here,” Attie said, a bit dryly.
“It is, and there’s a reason for it, which I’ll explain in a moment,” Marisol said, opening the door further in welcome.
Iris stepped inside. The foyer was spacious, with a cold floor of flagstones covered with vibrant rugs. The walls gleamed in the shadows, and Iris realized there was an array of gilded mirrors of all shapes and sizes hanging upon them, even all the way up the stairwell. She caught her dim reflection and felt as if she had stepped back in time.
“Have you two eaten?” Marisol asked, locking the door behind them.
“Train biscuits” was all Attie had to say.
“Then follow me into the kitchen.” Marisol led them down a corridor and into the firelight.
The kitchen was large, rustic, and warm. The windows were covered with boards, though, as well as the double doors. As if Marisol needed to keep someone or something out.
Herbs and copper pots hung from the rafters above, and there was a table that could seat ten people. This was where both Attie and Iris collapsed, as if they hadn’t just been sitting for nine hours.
Marisol was busy opening cupboards and a small fridge, which let Iris know there was electricity in the house, she was just simply opting not to use it to light the room.
“What can I fix you to drink? My specialty is hot cocoa, but I also have some milk and tea,” Marisol said as she set an onion and a red pepper on the counter.
“Cocoa sounds heavenly,” Attie said with a sigh, and Iris nodded her agreement. “Thank you.”
Marisol smiled, rising up on her tiptoes to pull down one of the copper pots. “It was my grandmother’s recipe. I think you’ll both love it. And good gods! Forgive me, but I just realized I don’t even know your names!”
Attie spoke first. “Thea Attwood, to be formal. Attie to friends.”
“Nice to meet you, Attie,” Marisol said, her doe eyes shifting to Iris next.
“Iris Winnow. You can call me by either one.”
“Iris,” Marisol echoed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I’m Marisol Torres and this is my bed and breakfast, but I think you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yes, and your place is charming,” Attie said, admiring the kitchen. “But if I may ask … why are you burning candles? Are you conserving electricity?”
“Ah,” Marisol said, beginning to boil water on her cooker and chop up the onion. “I’m glad you asked. No, not really, although the past few months have taught me much about conservation. It’s due to the war, and the front lines being so close to Avalon Bluff.”
“How close?” Iris asked.
“About eighty kilometers away.”
Iris looked at Attie. Attie was already gazing at her with an inscrutable expression. She wondered how long it would take before the war felt real to them. Before they felt how close it was, like a tremor in the ground beneath them.
“All right,” Marisol said, wielding a knife. “How old are you two? Because I will chew Helena up one side and down another if she sent underage children to me.”
“I’m eighteen,” Iris said.
“Twenty,” Attie replied. “By law, we’re both legal adults who can drink and be formerly charged for murder, so Helena’s safe for now.”
“That’s still too young to be reporting on the war.”
Attie dared to ask, “And how old are you, Marisol?”
Marisol wasn’t offended. “I’m thirty-three, but I know I look like I’m twenty-five.”
“That’s not a bad thing,” Attie commented.
“I suppose,” said Marisol with an arched brow. But a smile lit her face, and Iris thought she might be one of the loveliest people she had ever met. “All right. Tell me about you two while I cook.”
“Do you need help?” Iris asked, rising.
“Absolutely not!” Marisol said. “Stay in that chair. No one cooks in my kitchen but me, unless they have my approval.”
Iris quickly lowered herself back down. Attie was nearly shaking with laughter, and Iris shot her a stern look. Which only made Attie laugh, and gods, if she didn’t have a contagious one, just like Roman Kitt.
The thought of him made Iris go cold.
She pushed him away, far from her mind, and was exceedingly glad when Attie began to talk about her life. She was the oldest of six kids—three boys, three girls—and Iris gaped at her, trying to imagine what that would be like. To live in a house overflowing with siblings.
“I love them more than anything,” said Attie, turning her attention to Iris. “What about you? Any brothers or sisters?”
“I have an older brother,” Iris said. “He’s fighting in the war. For Enva.”
That made Marisol pause. “That’s very brave of him.”
Iris only nodded, but her face flushed when she thought about all the times she had resented her brother for leaving. She absently touched her mother’s locket, hidden beneath the jumpsuit.
“And you, Marisol?” Attie asked.
“I have two younger sisters,” Marisol replied. “I would do anything for them.”
Attie nodded, as if she understood perfectly. Iris struggled with a bout of jealousy until Marisol said, “They’re not even my sisters by blood, but I choose them. And that sort of love is everlasting.” She smiled and brought two mugs to the table.
Iris wrapped her fingers around hers, breathing in the rich, spicy steam. She took a sip and groaned. “This is delicious.”
“Good.” Marisol said, returning to the cooker, where onions and peppers and fried eggs were crackling in a skillet.
The kitchen fell quiet for a moment, but it was comfortable silence, and Iris felt herself truly relax for the first time in weeks. She drank the hot cocoa and felt a warmth in her chest as she enjoyed listening to Attie converse with Marisol. But in the back of her mind, she wondered why this place was so dark and quiet.