Of course, he would be in the room next to hers.
She closed her eyes.
She thought of Carver, but she fell asleep to the metallic song of Roman Kitt’s typing.
{27}
Seven Minutes Late
He was late for breakfast.
Iris drank her amusement along with her tea as Marisol huffed, watching the porridge grow cold on the table.
“I told him eight sharp, didn’t I?” she said.
“You did,” Attie confirmed, forgoing manners to reach for a scone. “Perhaps he overslept?”
“Perhaps.” Marisol’s gaze flickered across the table. “Iris? Will you go knock on Roman’s door and see if he’s awake?”
Iris nodded, setting her teacup down. She hurried up the shadowed stairs, her reflection spilling across mirror after mirror. She approached Roman’s bedroom door and knocked loudly, pressing her nose to the wood.
“Get up, lazybones. We’re waiting to eat breakfast because of you.”
Her words fell on silence. She frowned, knocking again.
“Kitt? Are you awake?”
Again, there was no answer. She couldn’t describe why her chest constricted or why her stomach suddenly dropped.
“Answer me, Kitt.” Iris reached for the door, only to find it was locked. Her fears rose, until she told herself she was being ridiculous and to shake them off.
She returned to the heat of the kitchen, both Marisol and Attie glancing at her with expectation.
“He didn’t answer,” Iris said, sliding into her chair. “And his door was locked.”
Marisol paled. “Do you think I need to climb the roof and look through his window, to ensure he’s all right?”
“You will leave all roof climbing to me,” Attie stated, pouring herself a third cup of tea. “But don’t you have a skeleton key, Marisol?”
That was when the back doors swung open and Roman burst into the kitchen, bright-eyed and windblown. Marisol screeched, Attie spilled tea all over her plate, and Iris jumped so hard she banged her knee against the table leg.
“Forgive me,” Roman panted. “I lost track of the hour. I hope the three of you weren’t waiting on me.”
Iris glowered. “Yes, of course we were, Kitt.”
“My apologies,” he said, closing the twin doors behind him. “I’ll see that it doesn’t happen again.”
Marisol’s hand was clamped over her mouth, but it gradually lowered to her neck as she said, “Please, have a seat, Roman.”
He took the chair across from Iris’s. She couldn’t help but study him beneath her lashes. His face was flushed as if the wind had kissed him, his eyes gleamed like dew, and his hair was tangled as if fingers had been raked through it. He looked half wild and smelled like morning air and mist and sweat, and Iris couldn’t keep her mouth shut a moment longer.
“Where were you, Kitt?”
He glanced up at her. “I was on a run.”
“A run?”
“Yes. I like to run several kilometers every morning.” He shoveled a spoonful of sugar into his tea. “Why? Is that acceptable to you, Winnow?”
“It is, so long as we don’t expire from hunger waiting for you every sunrise,” Iris quipped, and she thought she saw a smile tease his lips, but perhaps she imagined it.
“Again, I’m sorry,” he said, glancing at Marisol.
“There’s no need to apologize.” Marisol handed him the pitcher of cream. “But all I ask is you refrain from running when it’s dark, due to the first siren I told you about.”
He paused. “The hounds, yes. I waited until first light before I left this morning. I’ll see to it that I’m back on time tomorrow.” And he winked at Iris.
She was so flustered by it she spilled her tea.
Dear Carver,
It’s only been five days since you last wrote, and yet it feels like five weeks for me. I didn’t realize how much your letters were grounding me, and while I feel far too vulnerable confessing this … I miss them. I miss you and your words.
I was wondering when
A knock on her door interrupted her.
Iris paused, her fingertips slipping off the keys. It was late. Her candle had burned half of its life away, and she left her sentence dangling on the paper as she rose to answer the door.
She was shocked to find Roman.
“Do you need something?” she asked. Sometimes she forgot how tall he was, until she was standing toe to toe with him.
“I see you’re working on more front-page war essays.” His gaze flickered beyond her to the typewriter on her desk. “Or perhaps you’re writing to someone?”
“I’m sorry, is my nocturnal typing keeping you up?” Iris said. “I suppose we’ll have to ask Marisol to move you to a different roo—”
“I wanted to see if you would like to run with me,” he said. Somehow he made the possibility sound sophisticated, even as they stood facing each other in wrinkled jumpsuits at ten o’clock at night.
Iris’s brow raised. “I’m sorry?”
“Run. Two feet on and off the ground, pushing forward. Tomorrow morning.”
“I fear I don’t run, Kitt.”
“I beg to disagree. You were like wildfire in the field yesterday afternoon.”
“Yes, well, that was a special circumstance,” she said, leaning on the door.
“And perhaps another occasion like that will arise again soon,” he countered, and Iris had nothing to say, because he was right. “I thought I’d ask, just in case you’re interested. If so, meet me tomorrow morning in the garden at first light.”
“I’ll consider it, Kitt, but right now I’m tired and need to finish this letter that you interrupted. Good night.”
She gently shut the door in his face, but not before she noticed how his eyes flashed, widening as if he wanted to say something more but he lost the chance.
Iris returned to her desk and sat. She stared at her letter and tried to pick up where she had left off, but she no longer had the desire to write to Carver.
He was to write her first. Whenever he was able or cared to.
She needed to wait. She shouldn’t sound so desperate to a boy she hadn’t even met.
She pulled the paper from the typewriter and tossed it in the dustbin.
* * *
She really didn’t want to exercise with Roman. But the more she remembered the sight of him returning from his run—all vigor and fire, as if he had drunk from the sky, untamed and unburdened and alive—the more she wanted to feel that herself.
It also helped that she conveniently woke just before dawn.
Iris lay on her pallet, listening to him move in his room. She listened as he quietly opened his door and walked past hers on gentle tread, down the stairs. She imagined him standing in the garden, waiting for her.
She decided she would go, thinking it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get in better shape before she was summoned to the front lines.
Iris dressed in her clean jumpsuit, rushing to don her socks and lace her boots in the dark. She braided her hair on the way downstairs, and then had a stab of worry. Perhaps he wouldn’t be waiting for her. Perhaps she had taken too long, and he had left her.
She opened the twin doors and found him there, pacing the edges of the garden. He stopped when he saw her, his breath hitching as if he hadn’t believed she would come.