He decided to read her feedback first, thankful she caught his typos and then mulling over her other notes. He scrawled down a few other questions to ask her later, and then he reached into his pocket.
His fingers met a crinkle of paper, folded so tiny he would have never found it until laundry day.
Roman drew it out to the light. A note with typed words that said:
This is not the true message but a prequel. You’ll find the other in our wardrobe, hidden in the pocket of your red coat jacket.
—I.W.K.
P.S. This only applies if you gave me new chapters today. If not, expect me to beg for them tonight … in bed.
Roman smiled. He decided he was done for the day and rose, following Iris’s intriguing message down the stairs and into their bedroom. They only had one wardrobe in this house, and they shared it, their clothes packed tightly together. But Roman found his dark red jacket, and the letter Iris had just typed, tucked within the pocket.
He carried the folded page into the kitchen, so he could see her though the open doorway. She was weeding the garden, her braid falling over her shoulder, nearly touching the ground as she bent.
Sometimes, she distracted him when he was trying to write, but most of the time, he felt a deep sense of peace and comfort when he was in her presence. When he looked at her, watching her go about simple but lovely everyday tasks. When she sat in her favorite chair by the hearth and read to him in the evenings. When she woke in the mornings—always after him—and when she stole most of the blankets at night. When she came home from the Inkridden Tribune, smelling of newspapers and spilled coffee, full of brilliant ideas.
And that, he had come to realize, was when his best words emerged.
When he was with her.
Roman unfolded the paper. He, of course, would always let her have the last word, and he read:
Dear Roman,
Books are difficult things to write, or so I hear. As the author, you will love the words one day, and despise them the next. But I’m going to echo what a very smart, very handsome, and very infuriating former rival once said to me:
“Keep writing. You will find the words you need to share. They are already within you, even in the shadows, hiding like jewels. —C.”
I look forward to the next chapter. The one you will write in your story, as well as the one we write together.
Love,
Iris
P.S. Impossible, Kitt.
{Epilogue}
Coda
She ordered the same tea and cake every Dacre’s Day when she visited the café. The same blue-eyed waiter served her each time, and while he knew her favorite order by heart, he tended to forget the exact features of her face by the time she paid and left.
To him, she was like all the other customers he encountered. A polite but reserved individual who enjoyed a table for one on the patio, so she could watch the bustle of Oath pass her by while drinking a pot of tea that never went cold.
On this particular Dacre’s Day, Enva spent longer than usual at Gould’s. It was springtime, and the first afternoon of the year that was warm enough to sit outside without a coat. She didn’t truly need one—she had been born in the coldest reaches of the sky—but she wore one regardless when it seemed useful, to blend in among the mortals as she walked the streets and visited certain shops.
Enva closed her eyes when she felt the sunlight warm her hair. Reflexively, she reached for the iron key she wore about her neck.
Iris had surrendered it, leaving it hidden on the altar of Enva’s cathedral.
And if she wanted, Enva could open thresholds and reawaken the under realm. It slept again, dwindling down to embers with Dacre’s death. But as long as there was a divine breathing, it wouldn’t collapse. Once, it had been home to her, even if she hadn’t been able to root her windblown heart to the rocks.
The blue-eyed waiter approached her table, a round tray tucked beneath his arm.
“Another pot of tea, madam?” he asked.
Enva knew he must have noticed how long she was lingering that day. A break in her usual pattern. She smiled and said, “No. I’ll take the check.”
He set it beside her teacup with a bow of his head before hurrying to tend to another table. Enva overpaid, as was the norm for her, before rising and studying the tall buildings on the other side of the street. Oath had been rebuilding over the years, but there were still scars from the war, if one knew where to look.
Rather than continue on her typical route to watch the opera rehearsal, Enva stepped inside Gould’s. She stood for a moment, soaking in the fluster of movement and the tart air of freshly baked scones. Slowly, she began to weave through the café. She passed by the table she had sat at during the bombing, a blue shawl around her shoulders and a poetry volume in hand. Iris and Attie hadn’t realized it had been her, but Enva had watched as the girls descended below.