She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, her shoulders hunched. She was so exhausted; why couldn’t she sleep?
When she opened her eyes, her gaze fixed on the narrow wardrobe door on the other side of her room. She wondered if this threshold would work just like the one in her bedroom. If she typed on Nan’s typewriter, would her letters still reach the nameless boy she had been writing?
Iris wanted to find out how strong this magical bond was. If six hundred kilometers would break it. She slipped off her mattress and sat on the floor, opening her typewriter case.
This was familiar to her, even in a different place, surrounded by strangers who were becoming friends. This motion, her fingers striking words onto a blank page, cross-legged on a rug. It grounded her.
I know this is impossible.
I know this is a bloody long shot.
And yet here I am, writing to you again, sitting on the floor with a candle burning. Here I am reaching out to you and hoping you’ll answer, even as I’m in a different house and nearly six hundred kilometers away from Oath. And yet I can’t help but wonder if my words will still be able to reach you.
If so, I have a request.
I’m sure you remember the first true letter you wrote me. The one that detailed the myth of Dacre and Enva. It was only half complete, but do you think you could find the corresponding piece? I would like to know how it ends.
I should go. The last thing I want is for my typing to wake someone up, because this place is so quiet, so silent that I can hear my own heart, beating in my ears.
And I shouldn’t hope. I shouldn’t try to send this. I don’t even know your name.
But I think there is a magical link between you and me. A bond that not even distance can break.
Iris gently removed the paper and folded it. She rose with a pop in her knees and approached the wardrobe door.
This will be wild if it works, she thought, proceeding to slip the letter beneath the door. She counted three breaths, and then opened the closet.
To her shock, the paper was gone.
It was wonderful and terrible, because now she had to wait. Perhaps he wouldn’t write her back.
Iris paced her room, wrapping tendrils of hair around her fingers.
It took him two minutes to reply, the paper whispering over her floor.
She caught it up and read:
SIX HUNDRED KILOMETERS FROM OATH?!!! Answer me, and I’ll do my best to find the other half of the myth:
Did you go to war?
And before you ask, yes. I’m relieved to discover more paper of yours on my floor.
P.S.—Forgive my lack of manners. How are you these days?
She smiled.
She typed her reply and sent:
A war correspondent, actually. Don’t worry—I’ve seen no battle. At least not yet.
The first thing I’ve learned is to expect the unexpected, and to always be prepared for anything. But I only just arrived, and I think it’s going to take me some time to adjust to life this close to the front lines.
It’s different. Like I said earlier, it feels quieter, in a strange way. You would think it would be loud and seething, full of gunpowder and explosions. But so far it’s been shadows, and silence, and locked doors, and whispers.
As for how I’m doing these days … the grief is still heavy within me, and I think it would be dragging me into a pit if I wasn’t so distracted. Some moments, I feel okay. And then the next, I’ll be struck by a wave of sadness that makes it hard to breathe.
I’m learning how to navigate it, though. Just like you once said to me.
I should go now. I should also probably think more about conserving my paper and ink ribbons. But if you do find the myth, I’d love to read it. And you know where to find me.
He replied almost instantly:
I can’t make you any promises that I’ll be able to find the other half. I found the first portion on a whim, handwritten and tucked away in one of my grandfather’s old books. But I’ll scour the library for it. I’m certain Enva outwitted Dacre in the realm below, and men have since then read and hidden that portion of the myth with wounded pride.
In the meantime, I hope you will find your place, wherever you are. Even in the silence, I hope you will find the words you need to share.
Be safe. Be well.
I’ll write soon.
{19}
Homesick Words
The infirmary was an old, converted school building, two-storied and shaped as a U with a courtyard garden. Most of the windows were curtained, blocking out the bright midday sun. Iris studied it as she helped unload the countless loaves of bread Marisol had baked that morning. Marisol’s neighbor Peter had a rusted green lorry, and they had loaded up the back with basket after basket of bread and two massive pots of soup before driving across town to the infirmary.
Iris shivered as she carried a basket into the back of the building, where a few nurses were preparing lunch trays. Her palms were sweaty; she was nervous. She didn’t know how to prepare for this—speaking to wounded soldiers.
She was also full of anxious hope. Perhaps Forest was here.
“Did you prepare questions ahead of time?” Attie whispered as they passed each other.
“No, but I’ve been thinking about them,” Iris replied, walking the path back to the lorry to fetch another basket.
“I didn’t either,” Attie said as they passed again. “I suppose we’ll both just do what feels right?”
Iris nodded, but her mouth went dry. If she was wounded and lying in an infirmary bed, in pain, would she want some stranger interviewing her? Probably not.
Marisol remained with the nurses in the kitchen, preparing lunches, but Attie and Iris were allowed to wander the ground floor. A few rooms were off-limits, but they were told most of the soldiers were in the great assembly hall, and that should be the focus of their task.
It was a wide room, lined with windows and beds. The floors were scuffed hardwood, creaking beneath Iris’s steps as her gaze wandered. Immediately, she looked for Forest. She sought her brother in a sea of white sheets and slants of sunlight.
Some of the soldiers were missing limbs. Some of them had bandaged faces, burns, scars. Some of them were upright and talkative; some of them were lying down, sleeping.
Overcome, Iris was worried that she wouldn’t recognize her brother, even if he was here. But she drew in a deep breath, because she knew these soldiers had been through more than she could even begin to imagine. The air tasted like cherry medicine syrup and lemon floor cleaner and cold stainless steel, all cloaking a hint of sickness. She closed her eyes and envisioned Forest, exactly as he had looked the day he departed.
I would know you anywhere.
When Iris opened her eyes, her attention caught on a particular soldier. The girl was sitting upright in her bed. She looked to be Iris’s age, dealing a worn deck of playing cards on her quilt. Her hair was a soft shade of blond, like corn silk, and cut to her shoulders. Her skin was pallid, and her hands were shaking as she continued to set out cards. But her eyes were warm and brown and fierce, and the moment they met Iris’s gaze, Iris found herself walking toward her.
“You play?” the girl asked. Her voice was brittle.
“Only when I can find a good partner,” Iris replied.
“Then pull up that stool and join me.”
Iris obliged. She sat at the girl’s bedside and watched as she reshuffled the cards with her quaking hands. Her fingers were long, like a pianist’s.