She walked to the window, where darkness seeped through the curtains. Parting the drapes a sliver, Iris gazed out at the rain-smeared dusk. Not half a minute later, the front door blew open. It was Forest, drenched and panting, but his face was turned to the light. To the table, where Sarah stood.
“You’re here,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I heard a gunshot. I was worried…”
Iris stood frozen by the window. Relief softened her breath, to see that her brother was safely home. But it was eclipsed by the cold revelation that she was on the outside. A moon that had spun loose from its orbit.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” Sarah said, hands pressed to her chest. “And so is your sister.”
Forest paused. But he must have sensed Iris’s gaze, or maybe he heard her wavering breaths. He spun and saw her, still positioned by the window.
“Hi,” Iris whispered.
Forest gaped at her, his shock tangible as the rain. But then he crossed the distance and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off the ground.
Iris couldn’t understand why she wanted to weep until she felt the joy radiating from her brother, warm as a furnace on the coldest night. It almost felt like the old days, long before the war. He had those he loved dearest safe and close. And what Iris would give to feel the same.
* * *
They ate dinner together at the table, and Iris noticed how Forest looked at Sarah.
It was soft and frequent and very attentive.
It reminded Iris of how Roman had once looked at her, and she felt both happy and sad. A strange, bittersweet medley that brought tears to her eyes.
She blinked them away, but her thoughts then quickly gathered to the war again, and the distance that now stretched between her and Roman. The danger he was in.
When Forest carried the dishes to the sink, Iris held Sarah back, speaking to her in a low tone.
“Do you remember what you told me about the person who delivers Roman’s articles to the Gazette?”
Sarah’s eyes widened. She glanced at Forest, whose back was turned to them as he scrubbed the dishes.
“Yes. But why do you ask?”
Iris leaned closer. “When does he come next to the office? And what time?”
“He’ll be arriving at nine sharp tomorrow morning,” Sarah replied. “You’re not thinking to confront him, are you? Please don’t! There’s something about him that feels very sinister.”
Iris shook her head. “No, he won’t see me. But do you think you could give me a signal?”
“A signal?”
“Yes.” Iris noticed the blue handkerchief knotted at Sarah’s neck. “Could you hold your handkerchief to the window as soon as he leaves the office tomorrow morning? So I can see it from the street below and know when he’s about to exit the building.”
“Yes, I can do that,” said Sarah. She pulled a loose thread from her cardigan. “But what do you intend to do?”
Iris chewed on her lip. Forest must have sensed their conspiratorial whispering, and he glanced over his shoulder, granting them an arched-brow look.
Iris only smiled at her brother until he returned his focus on the dishes. But she whispered to Sarah, “I need to find a magical door.”
* * *
At ten till nine the following morning, Iris found herself waiting in the shadow of the building she had once worked in, cutting her journalistic teeth on obituaries, classifieds, and advertisements. The place she had first met Roman. The Oath Gazette was on the fifth floor, and she knew the exact line of windows to watch.
She kept her attention on the shine of the glass now, waiting for Sarah’s signal. The street before her was busy, cars and wagons and pedestrians flowing from one place to the next.
It was a place where one could strangely feel both lonely and satisfied, surrounded by people who might acknowledge you or might not. By people who didn’t know your name or where you had come from but all the same shared the same air—the same moment in time—with you.
The clock struck nine.
Two minutes ticked by, two minutes that felt like years. But then Iris saw it. Sarah pressed her handkerchief to the windows.
Dacre’s man had just left the Gazette.
Iris shifted her gaze to the glass doors of the building, which were tall and trimmed in brass, a constant glimmer as people entered and exited. It would have been easy to miss someone slipping out amongst the activity, but Iris knew how slow the lift in that building was, and she intuitively knew when he should be departing.
She spotted him, a lithe figure in a cloak, the hood drawn up.