“Well, yes. I go there every weekend with my dad.”
Iris chewed on her lip, knowing this was the moment of no return. And yet there was no other option. She was consumed by the thought of writing to Roman again. Of taking that magical connection into her hands once more, letting it slip over thresholds and cross war-torn kilometers.
“I need you to help me break into the museum, Prindle.”
Sarah, to her credit, only blinked. “All right. And why would we do that?”
“Because I need to steal a typewriter.”
{6}
We Like Our Middle Names Best
By all rights, I should be dead. I shouldn’t be sitting at my desk, writing these words for you to read. I shouldn’t be drawing air—inhale, exhale, inhale—and staring at the stars, feeling how immense beautiful cold the world is now that I’ve evaded death, like a house guest who has overstayed their welcome. I don’t know what else fuels me to keep rising at dawn and continuing forward other than this: there is a song a story hiding in my scars. One that whispers to me, even though I have yet to fully capture the words.
“You should be buried in a grave,” the world says, so loudly it drowns out all other sound.
And yet I press my fingers to the scars in my skin—soft, tender, warm as the blood beneath—and I hear, “There is a divine … There is someone who has kept you here, breathing, moving, living.”
Roman’s hands slid from the typewriter keys. What he should have been doing was writing his next article for Dacre, except when he sat down to work, different words had emerged.
Night had just fallen, and the house was quiet. But if Roman focused, he could catch the faint rumble of Dacre’s voice, speaking on the floor below. He could hear the hardwood creak beneath walking boots, the rattle of the front door opening and closing.
Every day was like this, full of mysterious meetings and comings and goings. Roman remained out of sight on the upper floor, taking his meals in his room and transcribing for Dacre when the god visited with ideas for articles. Roman would have felt like a prisoner if he hadn’t experienced the terror of being locked in a chamber below ground.
He thought of the door in the parlor, opening into another realm.
Dacre wanted the next article ready to go by tomorrow, and Roman sighed, staring at his sad words. His head was aching, as if he had pushed his mind too far that day, trying to remember the years that remained lost to him. He rubbed his eyes and resigned himself to the fact that the words simply weren’t there to harvest that night.
He stood, shoulder blades twinging after hours of sitting. He extinguished the candles until he stood in the dark, breathing in shadows and wisps of smoke. Slowly, he felt his way to his pallet and lay down on the cold blankets, still wearing his jumpsuit and boots.
He must have been far more exhausted than he realized.
Roman felt asleep within moments.
* * *
There was a girl. A small, dainty child with two braided pigtails, her hair the color of a raven’s feathers. The same shade as his. Her cheeks were rosy from the summer heat, and she was smiling, tugging on his hand.
“This way, Carver!” she cried.
Roman only laughed, letting her draw him across the grass. They were barefoot and wearing daisy crowns, which they could only do when their father was away. The garden unspooled before them with ivy-laden arbors and perfectly trimmed hedges. The roses had bloomed; bees and damselflies droned through the sultry afternoon light.
“Where are you taking me, Del?” he asked as his sister continued to drag him along.
“To a secret place,” Del said with a giggle.
They strayed toward the back end of the garden, into a thicket and out of sight from the grand house. Blackberries grew wild among the thorns, and Roman and Del ate handfuls of them, their fingers stained violet by the time they heard their mother calling for them.
“Roman? Georgiana? It’s time for supper.”
I remember now, Roman thought with a jolt. We like our middle names best.
More memories flared, melting into each other. Days Roman had lived that had once seemed dull and insignificant—the same routine, over and over—but were now comforting, spellbinding to rediscover. He hadn’t been alone in that vast, sprawling house. He had his sister Del, and she was light and courage and whimsy.
He saw the day she was born. The first time he carefully held her, the rain pouring beyond the windows. And then he saw the day she died. The pond reflecting the storm clouds overhead, her body floating face down—I just closed my eyes for a moment—and the ripples on the water as he flung himself toward her.