“I’m Prairie,” the girl said, glancing at Iris. “Like the grass.”
“I’m Iris. Like an eyeball.”
That coaxed a small smile from Prairie. “I haven’t seen you in here before, Iris Like an Eyeball.”
“I only arrived yesterday,” Iris replied, taking the cards Prairie dealt to her.
“Reporter, hmm?”
Iris nodded, uncertain what more to say. If it would even be right for her to ask Prairie if she could—
“I don’t speak to reporters,” Prairie said, clearing her throat. Her voice remained hoarse and weak. “But I’m always looking for someone to beat me in cards. Here, you go first.”
Well, that settles that, Iris thought. At least Prairie’s candid bluntness dimmed her nerves and expectations, and Iris could merely enjoy a hand of cards.
The girls were quiet as they played. Prairie was competitive, but Iris was close to matching her. They ended up playing two more rounds, until the nurses delivered lunch.
“I suppose I should let you eat in peace,” said Iris, rising from the stool.
Prairie dipped her spoon into her bowl of soup. It helplessly clattered with her shaky movements. “You might as well stay. Those who would talk to you will be eating right now.”
Iris glanced around to find Attie, who was seated with a soldier farther down the room. A young handsome soldier who was smiling at her, and Attie had her notepad out, writing down the things he was saying.
“I do have a question for you,” Iris said, easing back down onto the stool. “If I wanted to find out where a certain soldier is stationed, who would I write to?”
“You could write to the command center in Mundy, but chances are you won’t get a reply. They don’t like to reveal where soldiers are stationed. It’s a security measure. Things are also a bit chaotic right now. The mail isn’t very reliable.”
Iris nodded, trying to hide her despair. “If a soldier is wounded, is there a way for me to find that out?”
Prairie met Iris’s gaze. “Do you know the name of their platoon or company?”
Iris shook her head.
“What about their battalion?”
“No, I don’t know any of that information. Just their first and last name.”
Prairie grimaced. “Then it’ll be very difficult to find out any information or updates. Sorry to tell you that.”
“It’s all right. I was just wondering,” Iris said with a weak smile.
Her disappointment must have been evident, because Prairie set down her spoon and said, “I don’t speak to reporters, but perhaps there is something you could do?”
“What’s that?”
“Would you write out a letter for me?”
Iris blinked.
The hope in Prairie’s eyes shuttered with the moment of awkward silence, and she looked down. “Never mind.”
“Yes,” Iris said, recovering from her moment of shock. She reached for her back pocket, where her notepad and pen were stashed. “Yes, I would love to.” She flipped it open to a fresh page, waiting, pen poised.
Prairie stared down at her half-eaten meal. “It’s for my sister.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
It took Prairie a moment, as if she had fallen shy, but then she began to speak soft wistful words, and Iris wrote them all down.
* * *
She went soldier to soldier after that, offering to write a letter for each of them. She didn’t ask for details about the war, or why they had chosen to fight, or how they had sustained their injuries, or if they knew of a private named Forest Winnow. All of them had someone to write home to, and Iris tried not to think of her brother as she scribed letter after letter, as her notepad soon brimmed with homesick words and memories and encouragement and hope.
But a cold flicker of dread went through her.
Why hadn’t Forest ever written to her? He had made that promise, and her brother had never been one to break vows.
Iris was beginning to believe he might be dead.
To Whom It May Concern,
I am writing to you with the fervent hope that you will be able to tell me the current whereabouts or station of one private Forest Merle Winnow, who was recruited by Enva in the city of Oath, in Eastern Borough, Cambria, almost six months ago. His date of birth is the seventh day of Vyn, year 1892. His height is 182 cm, and he has chestnut brown hair and hazel eyes.
I am his only remaining blood relative and have been seeking to reach him by letter. I was never informed of his battalion or company, but neither have I received any news from a captain that he has perished in conflict. If you can assist me in obtaining this knowledge or pass on my letter to one who is able to, I would be eternally grateful.
Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Iris Winnow
{20}
The Music Below
That evening, Iris sat at the desk in her room, watching the sunlight fade over a distant field, and she began to type all the letters she had written down at the infirmary. She felt like a vessel, being filled up by the stories and questions and reassurances the soldiers had shared with her. Typing to people she didn’t know. Nans and paps and mums and dads and sisters and brothers and friends and lovers. People she would never see but was all the same linked to in this moment.
One after the other after the other. With each word she typed, the sun sank a little farther until the clouds bled gold. A breath later, the light surrendered to night. The stars smoldered in the darkness, and Iris took dinner in her room and continued to work by the flame of a candle.
She was drawing the final page from the typewriter when she heard the unmistakable rush of paper on the floor.
He had written her.
Iris smiled and rose, picking up the letter. She read:
I have good news, my friend. I found the latter half of the myth you want. Don’t ask me where and how I managed this great feat, but let’s just say I had to bribe someone over tea and biscuits. That someone just so happens to be my nan, who is renowned for her temper and likes to point out my flaws every time I see her. This time it was that I “slouch,” and that I “woefully” have my father’s pointed chin （as if it might have changed since the last time I saw her）， and that my “hair has grown exceedingly long. You could be a rogue or a knight errant on second glance.” I will be frank with you: I do slouch from time to time, mainly when I’m in her presence, but my hair is fine. Alas, I cannot do anything about my chin.
But why am I rambling? Forgive me. Here’s the second half, picking up where we last left off. When Enva agreed to go below with Dacre on her terms:
* * *
Enva, who loved the sky and the taste of the wind, was not happy in the realm below. Even though it was made of a different sort of beauty—whirls of mica and veins of copper, and stalactites that dripped into deep, mesmerizing pools.
Dacre served her in the beginning, eager to make her happy. But he knew that she was a Skyward, and she would never truly belong in the heart of the earth. There would always be a sense of restlessness within her, and he caught it from time to time, in the sheen of her green eyes and in the line of her lips, which he could never coax a smile from.
Desperate, he said to her, “Why don’t you play and sing for me and my court?” Because he knew her music would not only give him pleasure, but her as well. He remembered how transcendent she had looked, upon playing for the fallen. And she had yet to sing beneath.