In spite of all of that hope, my fear is sharper. It’s a knife in my lungs, cutting me a little more, a little deeper with each breath I take. I fear I will never see you again. I fear that I won’t get the chance to say all the things I never said to you.
I don’t have my typewriter. I don’t even have pen and paper. But I have my thoughts, my words. They once connected me to you, and I pray that they’ll reach you now. Somehow, someway. An old trace of magic in the wind.
I’ll find you whenever I can.
Yours,
Iris
On the fourth day of traveling with Forest, the road came into view. Iris tried to tamp down her excitement, but it must have been evident when she suggested they walk along it.
“It’ll be faster, Forest,” she said.
He only shook his head, as if he was loath to be seen by anyone but her.
He made sure to pull them deeper into the woods. And while they could hear the lorries rumbling by, Iris couldn’t see them.
Attie and Marisol.
Their names rolled through her like a promise. She hoped Attie hadn’t waited too long for her. That Attie had sensed the awful truth—that she and Roman weren’t coming—when the minutes had continued to pass without them appearing. Or perhaps Attie had found Roman, and he was currently with them.
I will find you at River Down, Iris thought, watching the wind whisper through the trees. Keep going, Attie. Don’t slow down for me. Don’t worry about me.
That night, Forest moved slowly when he built the fire. He moved like he was wounded, and when patches of blood began to seep through the chest of his jumpsuit, Iris jumped to her feet.
“Forest … you’re bleeding.”
He glanced down at the bright red spots. He winced but waved her away. “It’s nothing, Iris. Eat your dinner.”
She stepped closer to him, dismay eclipsing her thoughts. “Let me help you.”
“No, it’s fine, Iris.”
“It doesn’t look fine.”
“It’ll stop in a moment.”
She bit her tongue, watching him touch the blood. “I didn’t know you were wounded. You should have told me.”
Forest grimaced. “They’re old wounds. Nothing to worry about.” But his voice was ragged, and she was sorely worried about him.
“Sit down,” she said. “I’ll fix your dinner.”
To her relief, Forest heeded her. He settled close to the fire, his shoulders hunched as if he was holding the pain close.
Iris opened a tin of beans and found a wedge of cheese in the dash-pack. She thought of Marisol, and her eyes stung as she brought the food to her brother.
“Here. Eat this, Forest.”
He accepted her offering. His movements were choppy, as if the pain in his chest was overwhelming. Her eyes drifted to the chords of his throat, to the open collar of his jumpsuit. She could see a flash of gold around his neck.
Iris paused. Her eyes narrowed, watching the necklace gleam in the firelight.
It was her mother’s locket. The one Iris had worn ever since her death.
“Forest,” she breathed. “Where did you find it?” She reached out to touch the taunting gold, but Forest leaned back, his face pallid.
He said nothing as he stared at Iris.
She had lost it in the trenches. When the grenade’s blast had pushed her to the ground.
She had lost it in the trenches, which meant Forest had been there. He had found it after she had retreated, and the truth unfolded with a brutal, cold scrape to her ribs.
Iris met her brother’s bloodshot gaze.
At last, she understood his hesitance to be seen by Enva’s army, his constant worry. Why he stole Roman’s jumpsuit. Why he was running. Why he had never written to her.
He had been fighting for Dacre.
“Forest,” Iris whispered. “Why? Why Dacre?”
He pushed upward to his feet, trembling. She remained on her knees, gazing up at him, incredulous.
“You don’t understand, Iris,” he said.
“Then help me!” she cried, throwing her arms wide. “Help me understand, Forest!”
He walked away without another word.
Iris watched as he melted into the night. Her breaths turned ragged as she slid to lie facedown on the ground.
* * *
He walked away, but he soon returned to her.
She was lying next to the fire when he came back to the camp. Her eyes were closed, but she listened as he settled on the other side of the flames.
He sighed.
And Iris wondered what her brother had lived through. She wondered what other wounds he was hiding.
Dear Kitt,
I should have known my brother wasn’t you. I should have known the moment he took hold of my arm. His touch was too hard, too firm. As if he was terrified I would slip through his fingers. I shouldn’t have taken the mask. I should have insisted we give them to the soldiers who actually needed them, using them to draw survivors from the gas. I should have insisted that my brother stop his frantic running. I should have looked behind me.
I am broken, full of contradictions.
I wish I were brave, but I am so afraid, Kitt.
They boarded a train, but not before Forest took a day to wash his jumpsuit in a river.
Iris caught a glimpse of his bare chest as he scrubbed the blood from the linen. She saw the scars on his skin. They didn’t look like recent wounds, and yet they had bled the other night. She counted three of them, and she could only imagine what it must have felt like to have those bullets pierce his skin.
Once the jumpsuit was clean and dry, they walked into a town on the other side of the woods. To any observer, they were two war correspondents heading back to Oath. Forest held her hand, his palm clammy. Iris had a creeping feeling that he was worried she would make a run for it.
She didn’t.
She had given him her word, and he owed her more answers.
She sat across from him in the train compartment. And while she kept her gaze on the window, watching the land pass by in a blur … she thought about Forest’s scars. One just below his heart. One where his liver rested. One even lower, striking his intestines.
They had been fatal wounds.
He should be dead.
He shouldn’t be here with her, breathing the same air.
She didn’t know how he had survived them.
Dear Kitt,
I never told you how relieved I was to discover you were Carver.
I never told you how much I loved those morning runs with you.
I never told you how much I loved to hear you say my name.
I never told you how often I reread your letters, and how I now feel agonized, to know they are lost to me, scattered somewhere in Marisol’s B and B.
I never told you that I think the world of you, that I want to read more of your words, that I think you should write a book and publish it.
I never thanked you for going to the front lines with me. For coming between me and the grenade.
I never told you that I love you. And I regret that, most of all.
Oath was exactly as she had left it.
The streets were crowded, the pavement gleaming from a recent rain. The trams ran their courses, bells ringing. The buildings were tall and the shadows were cold. The air smelled like a rubbish bin and sugared bread.
The war felt distant, no more than a dream.
Iris followed her brother to their flat.
She was exhausted. They had been traveling in near silence for days now, and it had worn her down. She hadn’t told him yet about their mother. The words suddenly beat in her chest, frantic to find their way out.