“Join us at the table,” Marisol said. “I know I cannot keep you safe or protect you from the worst of this war. But for now, let me feed you. I know you must be hungry.”
* * *
After Lucy’s perfectly brewed tea and a ham-and-mustard sandwich from Marisol, Iris retreated with her typewriter to the laundry room.
It felt odd to be here again, the sunset staining the windowpanes, the laundry hanging like ghosts. The wardrobe waiting for her to kneel before it.
Iris set down the typewriter case. She lowered herself to her knees, feeling the sting of her bruises and scabs. Slowly, she unlocked the First Alouette. The keys gleamed in response, as if beckoning her to write. And yet Iris realized she didn’t know where to begin. She was gripped by a sudden wave of grief and covered her face with her hands, tasting traces of dirt, metal, and rye on her palms.
Over the uneven rhythm of her breath, she heard a familiar sound.
Iris wiped her eyes and glanced up to see two different letters waiting for her at the wardrobe door. There was no way for her to know what she was about to read. Something wonderful or something that would shred her heart even further.
She steeled herself for anything, unfolding the closest page to read:
Morgie was the name of your pet snail. （I will never grow tired of hearing all your “sad snail stories,” in case you were wondering.）
Your middle name is Elizabeth, in honor of your nan. （Hi, E.）
Your favorite season is autumn, because that is when you believe magic can be tasted in the air. （You have almost made me a convert.）
She paused in shock, staring at Roman’s typed words. It was the answers to the three questions she had sent days ago.
A pang scraped along her ribs. She was ravenous for more and swiped the next letter, unfolding it in her hands. She read:
It would be remiss of me not to return the same unto you, so let me ask my questions, as if I am sowing three wishes into a field of gold, or conjuring a spell that requires three answers from you in order for it to be whole:
How do I take my tea?
What is my middle name?
What is my favorite season?
P.S. Apologies for stealing two of your questions. Quite unoriginal, I know, but I don’t think you’ll mind.
Iris smiled. She typed her reply effortlessly, and sent:
Three questions, three answers. Here is the second half of the spell you ask for:
You prefer coffee, not tea. Although I saw you drink it enough times at the Gazette, and you only put in a spoonful of honey or sugar. No milk.
Carver. （Or should I affectionately say “C.”？）
Spring, because that is when baseball returns. （Confession: I know next to nothing about this sport. You will have to teach me.）
Iris hesitated. She wanted to say more but held back, still uncertain. How much did he remember? But she closed her eyes and imagined him sitting in that strange bedchamber far away, typing by firelight. Her wedding ring slipped onto his littlest finger, guiding him to regather all the moments Dacre wanted him to forget.
She sent her letter through the wardrobe and waited. Night had almost fallen and the house beyond the laundry room suddenly became alive with voices, footsteps, and the clink of dishes. The scent of mutton stew and rosemary bread wafted down the hallway, and Iris knew one of the platoons had arrived at Marisol and Lucy’s to be fed that evening.
Iris remained on the floor, fingers drumming across her knees.
At last, Roman replied.
Dear Iris,
Should I be surprised that I was falling in love with you a second time? Should I be surprised that your words found me here, even in the darkness? That I’ve been carrying your E. letters close to my heart like they are a shield to protect me?
I know we are no longer rivals, but if we are keeping tally like the old days, you have far outshined* me with your wit and your courage. Which reminds me of one simple thing: how I love to lose to you. How I love to read your words and hear the thoughts that sharpen your mind. And how I would love to be on my knees before you now, surrendering to you and you alone.
For the past few weeks, I thought you were nothing more than a dream. A vision that my scrambled mind created to process the trauma I couldn’t even remember. But the moment I touched you, I remembered everything. And now I see that all this time, every night when I dreamt, I was trying to bring all the pieces back together. I was trying to find my way back to you.
I don’t know where you are now. I don’t know how many kilometers have come between us again, and I don’t know what awaits us in the days ahead, but I will give you as much information as I can so long as you promise me that you will be very careful. I know this is a strange thing to say—we are a country at war, and nowhere is safe. All of us must risk and sacrifice something dear to us—and yet I could not bear it if corresponding with me brings the end for you or gives you a burden that is too heavy to bear.