The tension clinging to Iris’s shoulders eased; she let the music trickle through her, and she didn’t realize how parched she was for the notes, how daily life had become a drought without the sound of strings to refresh the hours.
“Isn’t this against the chancellor’s law?” she asked her mother. “To listen to music like this?”
Aster took a long draw on her cigarette, but her eyes gleamed like embers in the dim light. “Do you think something so lovely could ever be illegal, Iris?”
“No, Mum. But I thought…”
“Just listen,” Aster whispered again. “Listen to the notes, darling.”
Iris glanced across the room and noticed Nan’s radio on the sideboard. The music poured from the small speaker, clear as if the violinist stood in their presence, and Iris was so pleased to see the radio that she rose and crossed the room.
“I thought it was lost,” she said, reaching out to trace its dial.
Her fingers passed through the radio. She watched, astounded, as it melted into a puddle of silver and brown and gold. The music suddenly became dissonant, a screech of a bow on too-tight strings, and Iris whirled, eyes widening as Aster began to fade.
“Mum, wait!” Iris lunged across the room. “Mum!”
Aster was nothing more than a smudge of violet paint, woven with smoke and smeared with ash, and Iris screamed again as she tried to hold her mother.
“Don’t go! Don’t leave me like this!”
A sob cracked her voice. It felt like she held the ocean in her chest, her lungs drowning in salty water, and she gasped as a warm hand on her shoulder became a sudden anchor, pulling her up to the surface.
“Iris, wake up,” said a deep voice. “It’s only a dream.”
Iris startled awake. She blinked against a wash of gray light to see Forest sitting on the edge of her bed.
“It was just a dream,” he repeated, although he looked just as shaken as her. “It’s all right.”
Iris made a strangled noise. Her heartbeat was rapid, but she nodded, gradually returning to her body. The vision of Aster clung to her, though, as if burned behind her eyes. She realized it was the first time she had dreamt in weeks.
“Forest? What time is it?”
“Half past eight.”
“Shit!” Iris lurched upright. “I’m late to work.”
“Take it easy,” Forest said, his hand falling from her shoulder. “And since when do you curse?”
Since you left, Iris thought but didn’t say, because while part of that was true, part of it wasn’t. She couldn’t blame her brother for the words that came out of her mouth these days.
“Dress for rain.” Forest rose from the bed but gave her a pointed look. “It’s storming.”
Iris glanced at the window. She could see the rain streaking down the glass and realized the dour light of the storm had made her oversleep. Quickly, she drew on a linen dress with buttons down the front and laced up her wartime boots. She had no time to fix her hair, and she combed her fingers through the long tangles as she flew out of the bedroom, gathering her small purse, her trench coat, and her typewriter, locked firmly in its black case.
Forest was standing by the front door, a cup of tea in one hand and a treacle biscuit in the other.
“Should I walk with you?” he asked.
“No need. I’ll take the tram today,” she said, surprised when he extended both the tea and the biscuit to her.
“Something to hold you over, then.”
His way of apologizing for last night.
She smiled. It almost felt like old times, and she accepted the lukewarm tea, draining it in one long gulp. She gave the cup back to him in exchange for the biscuit, and he opened the door for her.
“I should be home by five thirty,” she said, stepping into the damp morning air.
Forest nodded, but he stayed in the doorway wearing a concerned expression. Iris could feel him watching her as she descended the slick stairs.
She ate the biscuit before the rain could ruin it, dashing to the tram stop. It was a crowded, jostling ride, most people seeking shelter from the storm on their commutes. Iris stood toward the back, and she slowly became aware of how quiet it was. No one was conversing or laughing, as they normally did on the tram. The mood felt strange, off-balance. She thought it must be the weather, but the feeling followed her all the way to the Inkridden Tribune’s building.
She stopped on the pavement when she saw the words painted over the lobby doors. Bright as fresh blood and dripping down the bricks.