I never saw your face, but I knew it was you.
It was only a dream, but it has unquieted me.
Write to me and tell me how you are.
Yours,
—C.
P.S. Yes, hello. I’m able to write again, so expect my letters to flood your floor.
Dear Carver,
I can’t even begin to describe how happy I was to discover your letter had arrived. I hope everything is well with you in Oath, as well as whatever required your attention the past week. Dare I say I missed you?
An odd dream, indeed. But there’s no need to worry. I’m quite well. I think I would like to see you in a dream, although I still try to imagine your appearance by day and often fail. Perhaps you can grant me a few more hints?
Oh, I have news to share with you!
My rival from a previous employment has shown up as a fellow correspondent, just like a weed. I’m not sure why he’s here, although I think it’s to try and prove that his writing is far superior to mine. All of this to say … his arrival has caused a stir, and I’m not sure what to do with him being next door.
Also, I have more letters transcribed for soldiers. I’m sending them to you—there are more than usual, given that we just recently had an influx of wounded brought into the infirmary—and I’m hoping you can drop them in the post. Thank you in advance for doing this for me!
In the meantime, tell me how you are. How is your nan? I just realized that I have no inkling what you do for a living, or even for fun. Are you a student at university? Are you working somewhere?
Tell me something about you.
Love,
Iris
They had planted the garden but had completely forgotten to water it. Marisol grimaced when she realized this.
“I don’t even want to know what Keegan will think of me,” she said, hand on her forehead as she stared at the crooked rows Iris and Attie had made. “My wife is fighting on the front lines and I can’t even do something as simple as water a garden.”
“Keegan will be impressed that you instructed two city girls who have never tilled or planted or tended a garden to help you. And the seeds will be fine,” Attie said, but then quietly added, “won’t they?”
“Yes, but they won’t germinate without water. The soil needs to say wet for about two weeks. This is going to be a late summer garden, I suppose. If the hounds don’t trample it.”
“Do you have a watering can?” Iris asked, thinking of sirens in the daylight and rivals arriving unexpectedly and wounded soldiers returning to the front. How did any of them remember to eat, let alone water a garden?
“Yes, two, actually,” Marisol said, pointing. “In the shed there.”
Iris and Attie exchanged a knowing look. Five minutes later, Marisol had retreated to the kitchen to continue baking for the soldiers, and the girls had the metal cans full, watering the dirt mounds.
“Six mornings,” Attie said with a smirk. “Six mornings you’ve been late to breakfast, Iris. All due to running with that Roman Kitt.”
“Four mornings, actually. We’ve been on time two mornings in a row, now,” Iris replied, but her cheeks warmed. She turned to water a second row before Attie noticed. “It’s because he underestimates how slow I am. We wouldn’t be late if I were in better shape. Or if he chose a shorter circuit.” But she loved the view of the countryside on the hill that seemed destined to best her, even though Iris would never confess as much to Roman.
“Hmm.”
“You want to join us, Attie?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Then why are you smiling at me like that?”
“He’s an old friend of yours, isn’t he?”
Iris huffed. “He’s a former competitor, and he’s only here to outperform me once again.” The words had no sooner left her lips than a triangularly folded piece of paper crashed into the soil, right in front of her. Iris gaped at it before lifting her eyes to the ivy-laden house. Roman was leaning on the open sill of his second-story window, watching her with a smile.
“Can’t you see some of us are trying to work?” she shouted.
“Indeed,” he called back smoothly, as if he was well versed in arguing from a window. “But I need your assistance.”
“With what?”
“Open the message.”
“I’m busy, Kitt.”
Attie snatched the paper up before Iris could ruin it with water. She unfolded it and cleared her throat, reading aloud, “‘Alas, what is a synonym for sublime?’” Attie paused as if sorely disappointed, glancing up at Roman. “That’s it? That’s the message?”
“Yes. Any suggestions?”
“I seem to recall that you used to have three dictionaries and two thesauruses on your desk, Kitt,” Iris said, resuming her watering.
“Yes, which someone liked to frequently turn upside down and page-side out. But that’s beside the point. I wouldn’t be bothering you if I had my thesaurus handy,” he replied. “Please, Winnow. Give me a word, and I’ll leave you—”
“What about transcendent?” Attie offered. “Sounds like you’re writing about the gods. The Skywards?”
“Something along those lines,” said Roman. “And you, Winnow? Just one word.”
She glanced up in time to watch him rake his hand through his hair, as if he were anxious. And she had rarely seen Roman Kitt anxious. There was even a smudge of ink on his chin.
“I personally like divine,” she said. “Although I’m not sure I would attribute that to the gods these days.”
“Thank you both,” Roman said, ducking back into his room. He left the window open, and Iris could hear his typewriter clacking as he started to write.
The garden fell suspiciously quiet.
Iris looked at Attie to see her friend was biting her lip, as if to hide a grin.
“All right, Attie. What is it?”
Attie shrugged nonchalantly, draining her watering can. “I wasn’t too sure about this Roman Kitt at first. But he sure does bring the fire out in you.”
“You give him far too much credit,” Iris said, lowering her voice. “You would be the same if your old enemy showed up to challenge you again.”
“Is that why he’s here?”
Iris hesitated, and then fiddled with her watering can. “Do you need a refill?” She took Attie’s empty pail and was retreating to the well when she realized Marisol was standing in the open doorway to the kitchen, regarding them. How long had she been there?
“Marisol?” Iris asked, reading her tense posture. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Marisol replied with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “The captain is here and would like to take one of you with him to the front.”
* * *
Roman had just finished typing his letter to Iris and slipped it through his wardrobe when he heard the knock on the front door. It sent a shiver through the house, and he stood in his room, listening. He could faintly hear Iris and Attie’s conversation, drifting up from the garden through his window. But he could also hear Marisol as she answered the door.
A man had arrived and was speaking, his voice a muffle through the walls.