He had instantly known the letters were from Iris. She had given herself away not in name but in other ways. Her employment at the Oath Gazette was the primary one, and then her exquisite, visceral writing style was the other. At first Roman thought the letters were a prank. She had found a clever way to charm the house and get in his head, to unsettle him.
Which meant he would ignore them both. Iris and her letters. He had tossed that first letter of hers in his dustbin. It had sat there for a few hours while he typed at his desk, but by midnight, when he was exhausted and bleary-eyed and certainly not thinking straight, he retrieved the letter and stuck it in an old shoebox.
Forest must be her lover, off at war.
But then Roman soon realized, no. Forest was her older brother, and it tore something up in him to read how angry and sad and worried she was. How much she missed him. By the vulnerability in her letters, Roman knew Iris had no inkling her words had found their way into her rival’s hands.
He had spent a full week pondering over this dilemma. He should let her know. Perhaps in person, one day at the office? But Roman lost the nerve every time he imagined it. So perhaps it was best by letter? He could write something along the lines of: Hello, thank you for writing, but I believe you should be aware that your letters have somehow found their way to me. And this is Roman C. Kitt, by the way. Yes, the Roman C. Kitt at work. Your competitor.
She would be mortified. He didn’t want to embarrass her, nor did he want to suffer a slow, painful death at her hands.
He had decided he would say nothing, and simply pick up her letters when they arrived and put them in the shoebox. Eventually she would cease writing or Roman would at last move out of this room, and it would no longer be a problem.
Until the letter had arrived last night.
It wasn’t addressed to Forest, which instantly hooked Roman’s interest.
He had read it, like he had read all the others. Sometimes he read them multiple times. At first it was a “tactic,” because she was his competition and he wanted to know as much about her as possible. But then he realized he was reading them because he was deeply moved by her writing and the memories she shared. Sometimes he studied the way she spun words and language, and it made him both envious and awed. She knew how to stir up feelings in a reader, which Roman found quite dangerous.
If he wasn’t careful, she would beat him and win columnist.
It was time he wrote her back. It was time he got into her head for a change.
This isn’t Forest was all he had typed last night, and a weight had slipped off his chest with the acknowledgment.
He had defied the logical side of his brain and slipped the words through his wardrobe door. This is ridiculous. Why am I doing this? he had thought, but when he checked his closet, the paper had vanished.
He was shocked but imagined Iris would be more so. To finally have someone write her back after three months. Someone who wasn’t Forest.
Roman now bent to gather her letter. He read and felt the insult within it, particularly the Do you make it a habit to read other people’s post? Scowling, he walked to his desk and fed a page into his typewriter. He wrote:
I’ve made a habit of picking up the stray pieces of paper that somehow appear in my room at random intervals. Would you prefer I leave them on the floor?
And then sent it back through the wardrobe.
He paced, impatient as he waited for her to reply. I should tell her now, he thought, dragging his hand through his hair. I should tell her it’s me. This is the point of no return. If I don’t tell her now, I will never be able to.
But the more he thought of it, it more he realized he didn’t want to. If he told her, she would stop writing. He would lose his tactical advantage.
Her reply came at last. Roman was strangely relieved as he read:
You could always be a lamb and return my previous letters. I wouldn’t want your floor to suffer. Or your dustbin.
It was like she knew he had tossed the first one in the trash. His face reddened as he sat at his desk. He pulled open one of the drawers, where the shoebox hid. Roman lifted its lid to stare at the host of letters within. Page after page. Words all written to Forest. Words he had read multiple times.
Roman should send them back to her.
And yet …
I’m afraid I’m unable to return them.
He sent the terse message. He paced again as he waited, and when Iris remained silent, Roman grimaced. This was it. She was done.
Until another page whispered over his floor.
You’re welcome for the good laugh, then. I’m sure my letters were highly diverting while they lasted, but I won’t bother you or distress your floor again.
Cheers!
Roman read it, three times. Here was his way out. No more annoying papers littering his floors. No more opportunities for Iris’s writing to haunt him. This was good. This was brilliant. He had put a stop to it without having to embarrass her or reveal himself. He should be pleased.
Instead, he sat at his desk. He typed, allowing the words to spill out of him like a candlelit confession. And he sent his letter to her before he could think better of it.
By all means, don’t stop on account of me or my floor. I claimed who I wasn’t, and you then—quite naturally—asked who I am, but I think it’s better this way. That we keep our identities secret and just rest in the fact that some old magic is at play here, connecting our doorways.
But just in case you were wondering … I’ll gladly read whatever you write.
{5}
Pity
“If any of you receive an offer like this, I want to know about it immediately,” Zeb said the following morning, waving a piece of paper around the office. “It’s sleazy, and I won’t see any of you lost to some dangerous, feckless endeavor.”
“What endeavor, sir?” Roman asked.
“Read it yourself and then pass it around,” Zeb said, handing the sheet to him.
It took a minute for whatever it was to reach Iris at her desk. The paper was crinkled by then, and she felt Zeb hovering as she read:
WANTED IMMEDIATELY: War Correspondents
The Inkridden Tribune is looking to hire journalists who are willing to travel into the war zone to draft articles about the current state of the gods’ war. The articles will be published in the Inkridden Tribune. Note that this is a neutral position, and as such will grant protection from both sides of the conflict, although there is still a measure of danger involved. If interested, please see Ms. Helena Hammond. The Inkridden Tribune will pay fifty bills per month for the position.
Fifty bills? That was twice the amount she made in a month here at the Gazette.
Iris must have taken too long to read it, because Zeb cleared his throat. She passed the paper to the desk behind her.
“Inkridden Tribune wants to sell more papers than us by scaring our readers,” Zeb said. “This war is a problem for Western Borough and their chancellor to settle. They buried Dacre; let them deal with him and his anger accordingly, rather than drain us of our soldiers and resources.”