Roman sighed. He didn’t want to be vulnerable with Elinor Little. But perhaps he should take Iris’s advice.
Slowly, he began to find words to give to the page.
* * *
The sun was at its zenith when a huge lorry rumbled into town. Iris was walking with Marisol down High Street, carrying baskets of goods they had just bartered for at the grocer, when the truck arrived without warning. Iris didn’t know what to think of it—its massive tires were coated in mud, its metal body dinged by bullets.
It rolled in from the western road, which Iris knew led to the war front.
“Oh my gods,” Marisol said with a gasp. She dropped her basket and ran, following the lorry as it drove down another road.
Iris had no choice but to set down her basket and follow her. “Marisol! Marisol, what’s happening?”
If Marisol heard her, she didn’t slow. Her black hair was like a pennant as she raced, as everyone around them followed suit, until a huge crowd gathered around the lorry. It parked at the infirmary, and that was when Iris, sore for breath with a stitch in her side, realized what this was.
The lorry had brought a load of wounded soldiers.
“Quickly, get the stretchers!”
“Easy, now. Easy.”
“Where’s a nurse? We need a nurse, please!”
It was madness as the lorry’s back doors were opened and the wounded were carefully unloaded. Iris wanted to help. She wanted to step forward and do something—Do something! her mind screamed—but she could only stand there, frozen to the road, watching.
The soldiers were dirty, smeared in grime and blood. One of them was weeping, his right leg blown off at the knee. Another was missing an arm, moaning. Their countenances were blanched in shock, creased in agony. Some were unconscious, with battered faces and ripped uniforms.
Iris felt the world tilt.
But no one paid her any attention as she turned and vomited.
Get a grip on yourself, she thought, hands on her knees, eyes closed. This is war. This is what you signed up for. Don’t look away from it.
She straightened and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She turned, envisioning her brother. If Forest were in that lorry, she would go to him with confidence. She would be calm and collected and helpful.
She wove through the crowd and helped a soldier down from the lorry bed. Iris noticed the girl could hardly stand upright; she had a gut wound. The blood on her dark green uniform was sticky—it smeared onto Iris’s hand and jumpsuit, crimson as a rose—and the girl groaned as Iris eased her inside the infirmary.
There weren’t enough beds.
A nurse at the door motioned for Iris to take the girl down the right-hand corridor after looking at her wounds.
“Find any place you can where she’ll be comfortable,” the nurse had said, and Iris was now searching for a spot. But there was only the floor—even all the chairs were taken—and Iris could feel the girl slowly losing consciousness.
“You’re all right,” Iris said to her when she whimpered. “You’re safe now.”
“Just … put me down … on the … floor.”
Iris did, gently, leaning her against the wall. The girl closed her eyes, hands pressed to her stomach.
Overwhelmed, Iris found the closest nurse, who was rushing by with a bucket of bloody water and rags.
“Please, there’s a soldier over there who needs attention. I’m not sure what to do to help her.”
The nurse, haggard, glanced over Iris’s shoulder. He studied the girl sitting on the floor and then whispered to Iris, “I’m sorry, but she’s not going to make it. We can’t heal a wound like that. Just make her as comfortable as you can. There are spare blankets in that wardrobe over there.”
Dazed, Iris turned to fetch a blanket. She brought it back to the soldier and draped it over her, the girl’s eyes remaining shut, her face tense with pain.
“Thank you,” she whispered before drifting unconscious.
Iris remained beside her, uncertain what to do, until she heard Marisol call for her down the hall.
“Iris? We need your help,” Marisol said, taking Iris’s hand to draw her out of the tumult through a side door. “All the beds here are full. Will you come with me and Attie and help me gather the mattresses from the B and B? And some spare linens, which we can tear into bandages?”
“Yes, of course,” Iris said, but her voice sounded tinny.
Peter had agreed to drive his lorry so they could easily transport the mattresses, and he helped Marisol, Attie, and Iris drag the feather-stuffed pallets from the B and B bedrooms down the stairs and out the front door. They even gave their own mattresses, leaving behind nothing but bed frames and quilts.
By the time they returned to the infirmary, all of the wounded had been unloaded and a middle-aged man dressed in a threadbare officer’s uniform was standing in the street, speaking to one of the doctors.
Iris could hear them arguing as she climbed out of the back of Peter’s truck.
“You keep bringing me soldiers that I can’t heal,” the doctor was saying, her voice tinged in frustration. “There’s not much I can do for them.”
“All I ask is they have some dignity in death,” the officer replied. “I refuse to leave them vulnerable on the battlefield.”
The doctor’s frown faded. Her exhaustion was nearly tangible as she said, “Of course, Captain. But I won’t be able to save many of these soldiers.”
“You and your staff providing them a safe and comfortable place to expire is more helpful than you could ever know,” the captain said. “Thank you, Dr. Morgan.”
He turned to open the door of the lorry, which was now loaded down with supplies that the town had provided, when his gaze snagged on Iris. The captain froze and then immediately approached her.
“You’re a war correspondent?” he asked, noticing her badge. “When did you arrive?”
“Last week, sir,” Iris replied.
“We both did, Captain.” Attie spoke up from behind her.
“I can take one of you with me to the front now, if the infirmary can spare you,” he said. “And I can bring you back on the next transport, which would be in seven days, if all goes smoothly.”
Iris turned to face Attie, heart thundering in her chest. This was unexpected.
“Should we flip a coin for it, Iris?” Attie whispered.
Iris nodded. From the corner of her eye, she could just discern Marisol, pausing to watch what would happen.
Attie reached into her pocket and procured a coin. She held it up to the light and asked, “Mountain or castle?”
Iris licked her lips. She felt parched. She didn’t know what she wanted, and the indecision felt like a knife in her side. Perspiration began to prickle her palms. “Castle.”
Attie nodded and flicked the coin, high into the air. She caught the tumbling copper in her hands and opened her palm, extending it so Iris could see.
It was the mountain side of the coin.
Attie would go, then.
* * *
Roman stepped into Monahan’s at ten till one, hoping to be the first to arrive. To his shock, Elinor Little was already sitting at their table, waiting on him.
“Roman,” she greeted him in a cool voice. Her blond hair was crimped, her lips painted blood red. She was dressed in a navy dress with a fringed shawl, and her blue eyes were cold as she watched him take the chair across from hers.