But to imagine Roman typing on it now, keeping something of her close, made her hope rekindle.
“You always were fond of postscripts, weren’t you, Kitt?” she whispered. And then it hit her.
This was Roman, and he didn’t remember her.
The realization was like a knife, plunging into her side, and she let herself melt to the floor, her cheek pressed to the bricks. Roman’s letter remained clutched in her fingers, crinkling beneath her body.
Forest was right.
Iris let herself feel the gravity of that statement; she let herself feel the pain and the anguish rather than bury them for another day. It was okay to feel sorrow, anger. It was okay for her to weep, in sadness, in relief. When she was able to push herself back up, Iris read Roman’s letter again.
He didn’t remember her yet, but he would. Soon. The memories would return to him, just as Forest’s had resurfaced.
Most important, Roman was writing to her again. She had a way to communicate with him.
Dacre believed he had the upper hand, grooming Roman to be his dutiful correspondent. But little did the god know that he was not the only source of magic.
“You will regret ever taking him from me,” she whispered through her teeth, feeding paper into her typewriter.
Fingertips on the keys, she thought she was ready to write Roman back but hesitated.
As much as she longed to, she couldn’t come out directly and say who she was to him. She couldn’t risk him panicking or overwhelming him to the point that he would cease writing or, even worse, that Dacre would interfere. She also needed to protect her own identity.
It needed to be a gradual experience. She needed to go slowly.
She wrote:
I’m not D.E.W., nor am I a goddess who possesses the enchantment of sending letters to someone who doesn’t want to read them. I must give credit to the wardrobe doors for that. But I know the history you touch, and the Third Alouette was crafted with magic, connected to two other typewriters. One was the First, which is now mine, and one was the Second, which I assume is now lost.
As long as you have a wardrobe door nearby and the Third Alouette in your possession, your letters will be able to reach me, even over great distances. Although I imagine you are busy, swept away by war efforts, most likely. And who has time to write letters to a stranger these days?
P.S. I seem to recall that you have yet to answer my three questions!
Iris sent the letter. She impatiently waited, the minutes passing as the night unfurled. She could suddenly feel her exhaustion, and she heaved a sigh, preparing to work on her article. But then paper whispered over the floor.
Roman replied with:
I realize I’ve come across as rude. Forgive me. One can’t be too careful these days when it comes to knowing who to trust, and your letter this morning jarred me.
I unfortunately don’t have the answers to your three questions, so I must have failed a test in your mind. Or simply made you realize that you are not writing to the person you hoped you had been, because the Third Alouette just came into my possession, and I don’t know who took care of her before me. For that, I’m sorry, but I will guard her carefully now.
All of this to say, thank you for sharing your insight about the typewriters. You may not be a goddess, but nor am I a god. Despite our mundane lives, perhaps we make our own magic with words.
Also, I never said I didn’t want to read your letters, now, did I?
—R.
P.S. If you and I are to keep corresponding, perhaps you could tell me how I should address you?
Iris stood, giving herself a moment. She chewed on a hangnail, trying to sort through the tumble of emotions, words, thoughts. Eventually, she couldn’t wait a moment longer and settled back down on her cushion. A flash of lightning lit up the chamber; thunder rumbled, shaking the walls.
Would it be too much to give her name? Even though she longed to?
What if her letters were confiscated? Would she be putting herself at risk if she typed out Iris? It was only four letters, and yet they felt far too dangerous to surrender.
Be cautious. Go slowly.
Iris sent a reply before she could doubt herself.
Dear R.,
Rest assured, you didn’t fail a test. I’m also careful when it comes to trust. But I must remind myself that sometimes we write for ourselves and sometimes we write for others. And sometimes those lines blur when we least expect them to. Whenever such happened in my past … I remember that I have only been strengthened by it.
P.S. You can call me Elizabeth.
PART TWO
Drawn to the Flame
{12}
A Captive Nightingale