“In case you didn’t know, I’m allergic to cats,” Roman drawled.
“I’ll keep Lilac in my room. I promise.”
“And if her fur gets on your jumpsuit, I’ll wash it for you,” Iris offered. If cats truly were good luck charms, they were going to need it.
“Then I’d have nothing to wear,” Roman said, returning his attention to the potato in his hand. “Because my second jumpsuit is missing.”
“What?” Iris breathed. “What do you mean, Kitt?”
“I mean it was hanging in my wardrobe this morning, and now it’s gone.”
She continued to study him, realizing his dark hair was damp, slicked back like in the old days at the office. His face was freshly shaven, his nails scrubbed clean. She could smell a faint trace of his cologne, and her heart quickened.
“Did you just take a shower, Kitt?” It was the most ridiculous thing she could’ve asked, but it felt so strange to her. That he would wash in the middle of the day, when things were about to collapse. Although perhaps it shouldn’t take her by surprise. He had always liked to look his best. Why should the end of the world change that?
Roman met her gaze. He didn’t say anything, but a flush was creeping across his cheeks, and before Iris could say anything further about it, Marisol strode through the kitchen and set a heavy basket of carrots in her hands. “Peel and chop these for me, please, Iris.”
That ended the deliveries and building barricades and running through the streets and imagining Roman Kitt in the shower. As the sun began to set, they all worked together to make several pots of vegetable soup and fresh bread for the soldiers.
Iris’s stomach was growling by the time Marisol said, “Attie? Why don’t you see if Iris can help you with that particular matter upstairs.”
“Right,” Attie said, jumping up from her chair. “Come on, Iris.”
Iris frowned but rose. “What do you need my help with?”
“It’s hard to explain, so just follow me,” Attie said, waving her hands. But she glanced over Iris’s shoulder and widened her eyes, and Iris turned just in time to see Roman drop his gaze.
“What’s going on, Attie?” Iris asked, trailing her up the stairs. It was almost dusk.
“In here,” Attie said, stepping into the lavatory.
Iris stood on the threshold, confounded, as Attie turned on the faucet. “Why don’t you shower while I go and find—”
“Shower?” Iris demanded. “Why would I shower at a time like this?”
“Because you’ve been running up and down a hill all day and cutting up carrots and parsnips and onions and your jumpsuit smells like lorry exhaust,” Attie said. “Trust me, Iris. Use the fresh shampoo there, in that tin.”
She shut the door, leaving Iris in the steamy room.
Iris shed her jumpsuit and stepped into the shower. She would go quickly, because there was still so much left to do. But then she studied the dirt beneath her nails and thought of Roman. A curious feeling stole over her, inspiring a shiver.
She took her time washing, until every trace of onion and exhaust and sweat and dirt was gone, and she smelled like gardenias with a hint of lavender. She was drying her hair when Attie knocked.
“I have a clean jumpsuit for you.”
Iris opened the door to find Attie standing with a pressed jumpsuit in one hand, a crown of flowers in the other.
“All right,” Iris said, her gaze hanging on the flowers. “What’s going on?”
“Here, get dressed. I need to braid your hair.” Attie stepped into the lavatory, shutting the door behind her.
Iris intended to protest until Attie arched her brow. Iris meekly drew on the jumpsuit and fastened the buttons up the front. She sat on a stool so Attie could tame her hair into two thick braids, which she clipped up to crown her head with pearl-tipped pins. It was similar to how Marisol wore her hair, and Iris thought she looked older when she caught her reflection in the mirror.
“Now for the best part,” Attie said, gathering the flowers. They were freshly cut, woven together. Daisies and dandelions and violets. Flowers that grew wild in the garden.
Iris held her breath as Attie set the flowers over her braids.
“There. You look beautiful, Iris.”
“Attie, what’s happening?”
Attie smiled, squeezing Iris’s hands. “He asked for my approval. At first I said I wasn’t sure if I could grant it, because you were falling in love with a boy named Carver who wrote you enchanting, soul-stirring letters, and how on earth could Kitt even compare to that? Upon which he informed me that he is Carver and showed me proof. And what else could I say but yes, you have my approval, a hundred times over.”
Iris breathed, slow and deep. But her heart was dancing, stirring a heady song in her blood.
“When?” she panted. “When did he ask you?”
“When we were delivering food earlier today. You ran out ahead of me at one point, remember? And yes, he’s already asked for Marisol’s permission. Even Keegan’s. He’s very thorough, that Kitt of yours.”
Iris closed her eyes, hardly able to believe it. “You don’t think this is foolish, do you? With Dacre on his way? For me to be celebrating when death is coming?”
“Iris,” Attie said, “it only makes this all the more beautiful. The two of you have found each other against great odds. And if this is your one and only night with him, then savor it.”
Iris met Attie’s gaze. “Are you telling me…”
Attie smiled, tugging on her hand. “I’m telling you that Roman Carver Kitt is in the garden, waiting to marry you.”
{39}
Vows in the Dark
Roman stood with Keegan and Marisol at the edge of the garden, watching the light fade. The vows would have to be quick, Keegan had warned him earlier, which sounded perfectly fine to him. He had been shocked by how supportive and excited everyone had been about his plans. He thought for sure one of them would say, No, there are more important things at hand, Roman. Look around you! There’s no time for a wedding.
He had been met by the opposite, as if Attie and Marisol and Keegan were eager for something to lift the heaviness of their spirits.
He continued to wait for Iris, and he didn’t know what to expect, but the moment he saw her walk through the doors with her hair swept up, adorned with flowers … he felt a rush of pride. Of immense joy, so deep there was no end to it, nor a way to measure it. He felt it break across his face in a wide smile, create a skip in his breath.
Attie brought her to him over the stone pathway, and there was a brightness in Iris’s eyes he had never seen before. It seemed like he waited hours for her, and yet it only felt like a breath had passed when Iris reached for his hand.
She was warm, flushed from her shower. Her palm was like silk in his.
Roman studied her face. He wanted to memorize it, the way she looked in the dusk. We are really doing this, he thought with a shiver. They were getting married in their jumpsuits on the eve of battle, six hundred kilometers away from home.
He didn’t know why she suddenly began to blur. Why her edges melted before him, as if she were a vision. A dream about to fade. Not until he blinked and tears slipped down his face.