Iris waited for him to speak, hoping perhaps he would break this strange silence between them, but his breaths became labored as the street steepened. She dwelled on that last letter of his, and suddenly Iris knew exactly what to say to Roman Carver Kitt.
She turned to face him, walking backward. He noticed, giving her an arched brow.
“Salty,” she said.
He chuckled, glancing down to the cobblestones as he crutched forward. “I know, I’m sweating.”
“No,” Iris said, drawing his eyes back to hers. “I prefer salty over sweet. I prefer sunsets over sunrises, but only because I love to watch the constellations begin to burn. My favorite season is autumn, because my mum and I both believed that’s the only time when magic can be tasted in the air. I am a devout tea lover and can drink my weight in it.”
A smile flickered over Roman’s face. She was answering the questions he had asked in his last letter to her.
“Now,” she said. “Tell me yours.”
“I have the worst sweet tooth imaginable,” Roman began. “I prefer sunrises, but only because I like the possibilities a new dawn brings. My favorite season is spring, because baseball returns. I prefer coffee, although I’ll drink whatever is placed in front of me.”
Iris grinned. Laughter slipped out of her, and she hurried to continue walking ahead of him, just out of his reach should he try to grab her. Because he had a hungry gleam in his eye, as if she were indeed a metaphorical carrot.
“You find my answers surprising, Winnow?”
“Not really, Kitt. I always knew you were my opposite. A nemesis usually is.”
“I prefer former rival.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “Tell me something more about you.”
“More? Such as what?”
“Anything.”
“Very well. I had a pet snail when I was seven.”
“A snail?”
Iris nodded. “His name was Morgie. I kept him in a serving dish with a little tray of water and some rocks and a few wilted flowers. I told him all of my secrets.”
“And whatever happened to Morgie?”
“He slinked away one day when I was at school. I came home to discover him gone, and he was nowhere to be found. I cried for a fortnight.”
“I can imagine that was devastating,” Roman said, at which Iris playfully batted him.
“Don’t poke fun at me, Kitt.”
“I’m not, Iris.” He effortlessly caught her hand in his, and they both came to a halt in the middle of the street. “Tell me more.”
“More?” she breathed, and while her hand felt hot as kindling, she didn’t pull away from him. “If I tell you anything else today, you’ll grow tired of me.”
“Impossible,” he whispered.
She felt that shyness creeping over her again. What was happening right now, and why did it feel like wings were beating in her stomach?
“What’s your middle name?” Roman asked suddenly.
Iris arched her brow, amused. “You might have to earn that morsel of information.”
“Oh, come now. Could you at least give me the initial? It would only be fair.”
“I suppose I can’t argue with that,” she said. “My middle name begins with an E.”
Roman smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “And whatever could it be? Iris Enchanting Winnow? Iris Ethereal Winnow? Iris Exquisite Winnow?”
“My gods, Kitt,” she said, blushing. “Let me save us both from this torture. It’s Elizabeth.”
“Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman echoed, and she shivered to hear her name in his mouth.
Iris held his stare until the mirth faded from his eyes. He was looking at her the way he had in Zeb’s office. As if he could see all of her, and Iris swallowed, telling her heart to calm, to slow.
“I need to say something to you,” Roman said, tracing her knuckles with his thumb. “You mentioned the other day that you think I’m only here to ‘outshine’ you. But that’s the furthest thing from the truth. I broke my engagement, quit my job, and traveled six hundred kilometers into war-torn land to be with you, Iris.”
Iris squirmed. This didn’t feel real. The way he was looking at her, holding her hand. This must be a dream on the verge of dashing. “Kitt, I—”
“Please, let me finish.”
She nodded, but she inwardly braced herself.
“I don’t really care to write about the war,” he said. “Of course, I’ll do it because the Inkridden Tribune is paying me to, but I would much rather that your articles live on the front page. I would much rather read what you write. Even if they aren’t letters to me.” He paused, rolling his lips together as if he was uncertain. “That first day you were gone. My first day as columnist. It was horrible. I realized I was becoming someone I didn’t want to be, and it woke me up, to see your desk empty. My father has had my life planned for me, ever since I could remember. It was my ‘duty’ to follow his will, and I tried to adhere to it, even if it was killing me. Even if it meant I couldn’t buy your sandwich at lunch, which I still think about to this day and despise myself for.”
“Kitt,” Iris whispered. She tightened her hold on his hand.
“But the moment you walked away,” Roman rushed on, “I knew I felt something for you, which I had been denying for weeks. The moment you wrote me and said you were six hundred kilometers away from Oath … I thought my heart had stopped. To know that you would still want to write to me, but also that you were so far away. And as our letters progressed, I finally acknowledged that I was in love with you, and I wanted you to know who I was. That’s when I decided I would follow you. I didn’t want the life my father had planned for me—a life where I could never be with you.”
Iris opened her mouth, but she was so full and overwhelmed that she said nothing at all. Roman intently watched her, his cheeks red and his eyes wide, as if he was waiting to hit the ground and shatter.
“Are you…” she began, blinking. “Are you saying you want a life with me?”
“Yes,” he said.
And because her heart was melting, Iris smiled and teased, “Is this a proposal?”
He continued to hold their stare, deadly serious. “If I asked you, would you say yes?”
Iris was quiet, but her mind was racing, full of golden thoughts.
Once, not long ago, in her life before the front lines, she would have thought this was ridiculous. She would have said no, I have other plans right now. But that was before, a time that was gilded by a different slant of light, and this present moment was now limned in the blue tinge of after. She had seen the fragility of life. How one could wake to a sunrise and die by sunset. She had run through the smoke and the fire and the agony with Roman, his hand in hers. They had both tasted Death, brushed shoulders with it. They had scars on their skin and on their souls from that fractured moment, and now Iris saw more than she had before. She saw the light, but she also saw the shadows.
Time was precious here. If she wanted this with Roman, then why shouldn’t she grasp it, claim it with both hands?
“I suppose you’ll have to ask me and find out,” she said.