Marisol rose and stormed from the kitchen, to Iris’s great shock. It felt like a rock was in her stomach, weighing her down, when she heard Marisol weeping down the hall.
“Should I … should we…？” Iris could hardly find the words through the pain in her chest.
Lucy shook her head. “My sister loves you both. It’s hard for her to acknowledge that you’ll be driving toward the fray.”
“And she’s worried about Keegan’s safety,” Attie said.
“She is very worried about her wife.” Lucy left the kitchen, seeking to comfort Marisol.
Iris fiddled with the edge of her napkin but eventually looked up when Attie stood and turned the radio off.
“Do you want me to take you both home?” Tobias asked. “If you do, just say the word.”
Iris looked at him, but his mahogany brown eyes were focused on Attie.
“That’s kind of you to offer, Bexley,” Attie said, leaning against the counter. “But I want to keep going, just as I said I would.”
“As do I,” Iris said.
Tobias nodded, but his expression was grave. “Then we need to discuss our plans.”
“Plans?” Attie frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If something should happen to me while I’m away delivering your articles, you’ll be stranded in town. And you need to stay put unless there’s an emergency evacuation. If so, take the first ride you can find back to Oath.”
“What could happen to you on the road?” Attie asked.
“Anything, really. A flat tire. An overheated engine. Impassable roads.”
“I thought you don’t worry about those sorts of things.”
“I don’t,” he said. “But I’ll be worried about you. What I’m trying to say is … don’t panic if I fail to return on time. It’s extremely unlikely because not much comes between me and assignments. But I don’t want the two of you waiting on me if a situation arises that calls for you to immediately evacuate. It’s been an easy trip so far, but beyond River Down, I don’t know what to expect. Do you both agree to that?”
“Yes,” Iris said, even as her heart pounded at the thought of evacuating without Tobias.
The furrow in Tobias’s brow eased until he realized Attie had yet to respond.
“Miss Attwood?” he prompted.
Attie was gazing out the window, watching the rain trickle down the glass panes. “Of course I agree,” she said, meeting his gaze. “But let us hope it never comes to that.”
{11}
R.
Iris left Attie and Tobias in the kitchen with a pot of fresh-brewed coffee, drawn back to the laundry room. She was prepared to work for most of the night and was surprised to discover a cushion had been set on the floor beside her typewriter, as well as a soft blanket. There were also three candles and a matchbook, so she could work by firelight rather than by the exposed lightbulb in the ceiling.
Marisol must have thought of it, and Iris smiled as she lowered herself down to the cushion. She struck a match and lit the candles. That was when she finally saw it.
There, on the floor before the wardrobe, was a folded sheet of paper.
Someone had finally written her back.
Iris stared at it until her sight blurred. She blew out her match and crawled to the wardrobe. She felt dizzy as she took the paper in her hand, returning to sit on the cushion.
She stared at the folded page. There were most certainly words on it, even though they looked sparse. Iris could see them, a dark chain of thought.
This could change nothing, or it could change everything.
She swallowed and opened the letter.
Who are you? What magic is this?
Iris closed her eyes, the terseness striking her like a fist. If this was Roman, then he didn’t remember her. The mere thought made her breath catch. But before she did anything else, she needed to be certain it was him. She needed to be clever.
Iris wrote and sent:
Your typewriter. There should be a silver plaque bolted to the inside of the underframe. Can you tell me what it says?
She paced while she waited for the reply, careful not to disturb the hanging laundry. Perhaps he wouldn’t write her back, but if she knew anything about Roman … he liked a challenge. He also had a curious mind.
His reply came a minute later:
THE THIRD ALOUETTE / MADE ESPECIALLY FOR D.E.W.
Should I assume you are D.E.W.? For I’m certainly not.
P.S. You have yet to answer my questions.
Iris traced the bow of her lips as she read his letter. Odd that he has my typewriter, she thought, but a comforting warmth spread through her chest. She had worried that her nan’s typewriter had been lost, and that had grieved her. The Third Alouette was a piece of her childhood, a thread of her legacy. She had written so many words with those strike bars and keys.