Iris blinked back tears. It was only a book, but it felt far more than leather and paper and ink. It felt like something to tether her in the coming days, something to protect her as well as encourage her to keep going, and she traced the bird on the cover before glancing up to meet Marisol’s gaze.
“I will. Thank you.”
Marisol smiled again. “Good. Now, why don’t you come help me pack a few welcome baskets for our new guests in River Down. I’d like for you to meet them.”
Iris nodded and rose, brushing the damp soil from her knees. But she felt a shadow flicker over her, and she paused, watching as two vultures settled on the rooftop next door. They spread their wings, dark feathers gleaming in the sun.
With a shiver, she held the book close to her heart and followed Marisol inside.
Dear Elizabeth,
Tonight, I can’t sleep, and so I find myself writing to you again. You can’t see me, but I’m sitting at a desk before a window, gazing into the darkness, and I’m trying to envision you.
I have no idea what you look like, or where you reside, or what your voice sounds like. I don’t know your age, or your history. I don’t know the events you have lived through, moments that have shaped you into who you are now. I don’t know which side of the war you fall beneath.
I don’t have to know these things, I realize. Perhaps you shouldn’t tell me. But I think I would like to know something about you that no one else does.
—R.
Dear R.,
I fear I’m not much to see at the moment, but to give you a glimpse: I’m sitting on the floor of a laundry room as I type, with hanging shirts and dresses for company. My hair is long and braided and quite messy, and there is a book about Cambria’s many birds beside me.
Today I learned that vultures mate for life. Did you know that? I honestly haven’t paid much attention to birds in the past, but maybe that’s because I grew up on the brick and pavement of a city. I also learned that a nightingale can sing over a thousand different songs, and an albatross can sleep while flying, and male sparrows are responsible for building the nest.
Here is something no one else knows about me, because it just happened today:
I would like to one day be adept enough to simply hear a song and know which bird it belongs to.
I’ve cracked the window tonight, hoping I might hear something familiar, or even unexpected. A song that will remind me that even when I feel lost, the birds still sing, the moon still waxes and wanes, and the seasons still cycle.
—Elizabeth
P.S. A fact most people know: I’m eighteen, but I’ve always had an old soul.
P.P.S. Tell me a fact about you. It could be something everyone knows or something no one knows.
Roman didn’t write Elizabeth back.
What could he tell her? That he couldn’t remember his past?
Irritated, he shoved his bedroom window open. They were still camped at the abandoned farmhouse, which made him feel uneasy. But the moment he breathed in the cool night air, damp from spring rain, the tension in his body eased.
With a sigh, he unlaced his boots and lay down on his bed. He blew out the candle and as the night embraced him, he listened.
Beyond the open window, he could hear crickets chirping and leaves rustling in the wind. There were the distant voices of soldiers drifting from their tents. But beneath all those sounds was the haunting song of an owl.
Roman drifted off to sleep.
His dreams were stark, vivid.
He sat at a desk with a typewriter. Dictionaries and thesauruses were aligned before him. A tin of pencils, a notepad, and a stack of obituaries rested at his elbow. The vast room smelled like cigarette smoke and strong black tea, and the air was metallic with the sound of keys and strike bars and ringing typewriters as new paragraphs were born.
He was at the Oath Gazette. And it nearly felt like home to him, more than the mansion on the hill he still dreamt of.
“Kitt? In my office, now,” Zeb Autry said as he walked past Roman’s desk.
Roman gathered his notepad and followed his boss. He shut the door behind him and anxiously sat across from Zeb.
“Sir?”
“I wanted to give you a heads-up,” Zeb said, reaching for the decanter of whiskey on his desk. It sparkled in the slant of morning sunshine. “I have a new hire coming in. She’ll split the obituaries, classifieds, and advertisements with you.”
“She?” Roman echoed.
“Don’t sound so surprised. I read an essay of hers and couldn’t let her slip by me. I’d like to see what she could do here.”
“Does this mean I’m no longer getting the columnist position you offered me, sir?”