Wordlessly, she followed the private into town, gazing up at the buildings of Hawk Shire. One in the center of town caught her eye. It was very tall and wide—four stories high with several sets of chimneys—and built from red brick and shining glass windows. A factory, Iris realized, with modest houses strung around it like dew on a cobweb.
The private led her through a wide city market, and Iris stopped abruptly. Over the cobblestones, cots and makeshifts beds were set up in rows, wounded soldiers lying on tattered blankets. The soldiers far outnumbered the doctors and nurses, who seemed to be in constant motion, moving from cot to cot, carrying bedpans, bloodied bandages, and cups of water. Not even the gray-tinged sunshine could hide the exhaustion and concern etched onto their faces.
The staggering number of wounded stole Iris’s breath; it made her think of Forest. Of Roman. She forced herself to continue following the private into the factory, although her thoughts bent to one horrible question: how would Enva’s forces evacuate all the wounded before Dacre arrived?
The private led her up flights of metal stairs to the uppermost level, passing a few long-faced soldiers along the way. Again, Iris was surprised by how quiet it was, as if no one had the heart to speak. As if they were simply holding their breath and waiting for Dacre to come and crush them, one last time.
“In here,” the private said, opening a squeaky door. “The brigadier will meet with you soon.”
Iris stepped into the room, jolted by his words. “The brigadier? I asked to speak with Captain Keegan Torres.”
The private only sighed and shook his head. He closed the door, leaving her alone in the chamber, which Iris turned to take in. It was a long and narrow room, with a threadbare rug along the hardwood floor, a stained walnut desk covered in papers and wax-dribbled candelabras, and one wall full of windows. It was to these windows that Iris was drawn, realizing the glass afforded her a bird’s-eye view of Hawk Shire, as well as the deep blue horizon of the west.
She watched as the fog continued to recoil. She could see the market square once more, her heart aching as she studied the rows of wounded soldiers. A doctor strode from one building to another, blood on her clothes. Nurses carried a stretcher, the body draped in a white sheet.
Iris’s eyes eventually settled on a pair of vultures, perched on a nearby roof.
She stared at the birds as they sunned their wings, wondering if they had followed her from River Down. With an anxious twitch of her hands, Iris reached into her pocket and retrieved Marisol’s book. She sifted through the worn pages, admiring the intricate illustrations, until she came to the page devoted to nightingales. There her eyes remained, reading through the fine-print description:
A small and secretive bird that is rather plain to behold, the Nightingale is difficult to spot. They keep to thick cover, and while their feathers might be unexciting, they have a repertoire of more than two hundred different phrases that they can sing.
The door creaked open.
Iris closed the book, her mouth suddenly dry. All the words seemed to scatter from her thoughts as she turned away from the windows, preparing to ask for Keegan again. But Iris stopped short, her breath catching.
It was Keegan. Marisol’s wife stood tall and proud in her green uniform, three golden stars pinned over her breast. Her blond hair was slicked back and her jaw was set, as if she too had come to this meeting with preconceptions. Her dark eyes were keen but red-rimmed, as if she hadn’t slept a full night in weeks, and her expression was inscrutable. Her mouth was set in a line that looked chiseled from stone.
“Cap—Brigadier Torres,” Iris said. “I know you probably don’t remember me, but I’m—”
“Iris Winnow,” Keegan said, shutting the door behind her. “Of course I remember you. Didn’t I oversee your vows in the garden? My wife is very fond of you and Attie, as well as your Kitt. But what in all the gods’ names are you doing here?”
Iris drew a deep breath. “I have a message I think you should see.”
“A message?”
“Yes. I…” How much to say? Iris reached into her pocket again, withdrawing Roman’s letter. “Please read this.”
She gave the letter to Keegan, watching as the brigadier read Roman’s words. Keegan’s expression didn’t change; indeed, Iris was beginning to believe that the brigadier might doubt it all, and Iris didn’t know what she would do if that happened. But then Keegan exhaled sharply and met Iris’s gaze. Her eyes glittered as if she had just been shaken from a dream.