“Oh!” Iris’s voice finally worked its way free. “My luggage.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Winnow,” said Tobias, his eyes focused on his task as he withdrew an oilcloth from the trunk. “I’ll bring it in for you. As well as for Miss Attwood.”
“Thank you,” Attie said. “But in case you didn’t notice … I go by Attie.”
Tobias latched the trunk door, but his eyes flickered upward. “Very well then, Attie.”
As he returned to his task of covering the cab with the oilcloth, Marisol guided Attie and Iris along a brick path.
“Come,” Marisol said, her gaze alight with excitement. “Come meet my sister, Lucy.”
{10}
Laundry for Old Souls
Iris stood in the laundry room of Lucy’s house, typewriter case in hand. It was a small chamber with one window, but it held a large wooden tub and a well spigot. Rope was strung from one wall to the other, with clothes hanging from it, and jars of wash granules sat on a shelf. But most of all, there was a wardrobe. Tall and made of oak, and quite unassuming.
It was the only wardrobe in the house, which meant this would be where Iris would work.
She sat on the herringbone brick floor and opened the case. Drawing on her old rituals, she set the typewriter before her knees and the wardrobe door, and she waited.
Once more, nothing happened.
No letter arrived. No letter was returned.
Maybe this was all for nothing. Maybe the magic between us has broken.
Iris shivered as she reached for paper, tucked away in the case. She fed the blank sheet to the typewriter, her fingers touching the keys.
Dear Kitt
She watched those familiar words strike across the page but then stopped herself. He won’t remember you. Forest’s words echoed through her. She wrote in defiance of them:
Are you safe? Are you well? I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop worrying about you.
Please write to me, whenever you can.
Iris stared at her words for a long moment before she tore them from the typewriter.
I can’t send this, she thought, biting her lip until the pain swelled. I can’t put him at risk.
She rubbed the ache in her chest before she crumpled the paper and tossed it into the dustbin.
* * *
Roman stood in the upstairs room of a farmhouse, gazing out the window as evening spilled across the sky like ink. This was their stop for the night, a stone-walled house with a thatched roof and crooked floors, with a barn and sheds scattered around the muddy yard. A halfway point to their next destination, and a place abandoned not so long ago by its tenants.
One of the platoons had found preserves and smoked meat in the cellar. The soldiers had filed through the kitchen, jubilant and hungry for pickled beets and onions and pork links, and now they were camped in the farmyard with makeshift tents and campfires. Even Roman had devoured the food dished onto his plate; it had been a while since he had fully calmed the gnawing ache in his stomach.
He turned away from the window, studying the room Dacre had given him for the night. It must have belonged to the farmer’s daughter. The walls were covered in floral wallpaper, and there was a vast collection of poetry books on the fireplace mantel. The wardrobe was brimming with pastel dresses and blouses, and Roman studied the garments, unable to describe the twinge of sadness he felt.
What had happened to these people? Where had they gone?
He thought about the letter, tucked away in his pocket like a secret.
Roman read the three odd questions again before he set the paper down on the bedroom desk. His typewriter was waiting on the wood, the keys glinting in the candlelight. When the first stars burned through dusk, he began to type.
It felt good to write to someone, even if they were nameless. And he wanted answers. It would be wiser if he gathered useful information for Dacre before sharing the mysterious letter with him, and Roman was glad he had trusted his intuition to wait earlier.
Finished, he pulled the paper free and felt a tingling shock down his arm. This felt like a memory. Something he had done, time and time again. It was comforting, and he let himself follow those old movements.
Before he could think better of it, Roman folded the paper and slipped his letter beneath the wardrobe door.
* * *
Dinner at Lucy’s was a singular affair. The kitchen tapers were lit, and golden light danced over the mismatched china and green glass stemware. Faint music flowed from a radio on the counter, the notes occasionally smudged by static. Marisol cut fresh roses from the garden, the first blooms of the season, and set them in old metal tins along the table spine. Bowls of food were passed around, and Iris filled her plate with fried fillet, green beans that had been canned the previous summer, pickled peaches and figs, roasted potatoes with generous heaps of butter, and sourdough bread.