“Thea Attwood,” he finished, and he set down his typewriter case to extend his hand to Attie, reveling in her renewed shock. “It’s an honor to finally meet you.”
Iris was confused, glancing between the two of them. But Attie’s own surprise melted and suddenly she was grinning.
She shook Roman’s hand and asked, “Do you have a copy with you?”
Roman slid the leather bag from his shoulder. He untethered it and procured a newspaper, wound tight to ward off wrinkles. He gave it to Attie, and she viciously unfurled it, her eyes racing across the headlines.
“Gods below,” she murmured, breathless. “Look at this, Iris!”
Iris moved to stand at Attie’s side, only to stifle her own gasp. Attie’s war article was on the front page of the Inkridden Tribune. A major headline.
THE PATH OF DACRE’S DESTRUCTION by THEA ATTWOOD
Iris read the first few lines over Attie’s shoulder, awe and excitement coursing through her.
“If you’ll both excuse me, there’s a letter I need to write,” Attie said abruptly.
Iris watched her bolt down the hallway, knowing she was probably going to wax vengefully poetic to the professor who had once dismissed her writing. Iris’s smile lingered, thinking about Attie’s words on the front page and how many people in Oath had most likely read them.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Roman reaching into his bag again. There was another crinkle of paper, and she resisted looking at him until he spoke.
“Did you think I wouldn’t bring one for you, Winnow?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, a touch defensively. She finally glanced at him to see he was extending another rolled newspaper to her.
“Read it for yourself,” he said.
She accepted the paper, slowly unrolling it.
Another edition of the Inkridden Tribune, from a different day. But this time, it was Iris’s article on the front page.
THE UNEXPECTED FACE OF WAR by INKRIDDEN IRIS
Her eyes passed over the familiar words—A war with the gods is not what you expect it to be—and her vision blurred for a moment as she gathered her composure. She swallowed and rolled the paper back up, extending it to Roman, who was watching her with an arched brow.
“Inkridden Iris,” he said, his rich drawl making her sound like a legend. “Oh, Autry fumed for days when he saw it, and Prindle cheered, and suddenly the city of Oath is reading about a not-so-distant war and realizing it is only a matter of time before it reaches them.” He paused, refusing to take the paper she continued to hold in the space between them. “What made you want to come here, Winnow? Why did you choose to write about war?”
“My brother,” she replied. “After I lost my mum, I realized my career really didn’t matter to me as much as family did. I’m hoping to find Forest, and in the meantime make myself useful.”
Roman’s eyes softened. She didn’t want his pity, and she was steeling herself for it as his mouth parted, but whatever he planned to say never came, because the front door opened and slammed.
“Girls? Girls, are you all right?” Marisol’s frantic voice called through the house, her footsteps rushing to the kitchen. She appeared in the archway, black hair escaping her braided crown, her face flushed as if she had just sprinted from the infirmary. Her eyes traced Iris with relief, but then they shifted to the stranger standing in her kitchen. Marisol’s hand slipped away from her chest as she straightened and blinked at Roman. “And who might you be?”
“Kitt. Roman Kitt,” he said smoothly, granting her a bow as if they dwelled in medieval ages, and Iris almost rolled her eyes. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Torres.”
“Marisol, please,” Marisol said with a smile, charmed. “You must be another war correspondent?”
“Indeed. Helena Hammond just sent me,” Roman replied, lacing his fingers behind his back. “I was supposed to arrive on tomorrow’s train, but it broke down a few kilometers away, and so I walked. I apologize that my arrival has been unexpected.”
“Don’t apologize,” Marisol said with a wave of her hand. “Helena never gives me notice. The train broke down, you said?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then I’m glad you were able to reach us safely.”
Iris’s eyes slid to Roman. He was already looking at her, and in that shared moment, they were both remembering the sway of a golden field and their mingled breaths and the shadow of wings that had rippled over them.
“Do you two know each other?” Marisol asked, her voice suddenly smug.
“No,” Iris said quickly, in the same instant that Roman replied, “Yes.”
An awkward pause. And then Marisol said, “Which one is it, then?”
“Yes, actually,” Iris amended, flustered. “We’re acquaintances.”
Roman cleared his throat. “Winnow and I worked together at the Oath Gazette. She was my greatest competition, if I must confess.”
“But we really didn’t know each other all that well,” Iris rambled on, as if that mattered. And why was Marisol pressing her lips together, as if she were concealing a smile?
“Well, that is lovely,” Marisol remarked. “We’re happy to have you join us, Roman. I’m afraid I gave the infirmary all of the B and B mattresses, so you’ll be sleeping on the floor, like the rest of us. But you’ll have your own private room, and if you’ll follow me up the stairs, I can show it to you.”
“That would be wonderful,” Roman said, gathering his bags. “Thank you, Marisol.”
“Of course,” she said, turning. “Come this way, please.”
He made to pass by Iris, and she realized she was still holding the newspaper with her headline.
“Here,” she whispered. “Thank you for showing me.”
He glanced down at the paper, at her white-knuckled hand that was holding it, before his gaze shifted to hers.
“Keep it, Iris.”
She watched him disappear down the hall. But her thoughts were tangled.
Why is he here?
She feared that she knew the answer.
Roman was the sort of person who thrived in competition. And he had come to Avalon Bluff to outshine her, once again.
* * *
That night, Iris lay on her pallet in a tangle of blankets. She stared up at the ceiling and watched the shadows dance to candlelight. It had been a long, strange day. Her grief sat like a rock in her chest.
It was at moments like these, when she was too exhausted to sleep, that Iris inevitably thought of her mother. Sometimes all she could see was Aster’s body beneath the coroner’s sheet. Sometimes Iris would weep into the darkness, desperate for swift, dreamless sleep so she wouldn’t have to remember the last time she saw her mother.
A cold, pale, broken body.
Iris resisted the urge to glance at her desk, where the jar of ashes sat beside her typewriter. A jar of ashes, waiting to be spread somewhere.
Are you proud of me, Mum? Do you see me in this place? Can you guide me to Forest?
Iris wiped the tears from her eyes, sniffing. She reached for her mother’s locket, an anchor about her neck. The gold was smooth and cool.
She soaked in old memories—the good ones—until she realized she could hear through the thin walls as Roman clacked on his typewriter. She could hear his occasional sigh and the chair creak beneath him when he moved.