“There you are, sweetheart. I was getting worried. You’re home an hour late!”
Iris merely gaped for a moment, her eyes flickering from her mother to the dinner set on the kitchen table. “Are we expecting company?”
“No. It’s just you and me tonight,” Aster said, stepping forward to help Iris from her coat. “I thought we could have a special dinner. Like we used to, in the past.”
When Forest was still with them.
Iris nodded, her stomach rumbling when she realized her mother had bought dinner from her favorite restaurant. A roast with vegetables sat on a platter, accompanied by rolls that gleamed with butter. Her mouth watered as she took her seat, Aster fixing her plate.
It had been a long time since her mother had cooked or bought dinner. And while Iris wanted to be cautious, she was so hungry. For warm, nourishing food. For sober conversations with her mother. For the days of the past, before Forest had left and Aster had turned to the bottle.
“Tell me about work, sweetheart,” her mother said, settling across the table from her.
Iris took a bite. How had her mother paid for such a feast? And then it hit her; the money from Nan’s radio must have bought this meal—and alcohol, most likely—and the food suddenly tasted like ash.
“I’ve been working on obituaries lately,” she confessed.
“That’s lovely, darling.”
Lovely was not how Iris would describe her obituary work, and she paused, studying Aster.
Her mother had always been beautiful in Iris’s mind, with her heart-shaped face, russet-colored hair, and wide, charming smile. But there was a glaze in her eyes that night, as if she could look at things but not truly see them. Iris winced when she realized Aster wasn’t sober.
“Tell me more about the Tribune,” Aster said.
“It’s actually the Gazette, Mum.”
“Ah, that’s right. The Gazette.”
Iris proceeded to tell her bits and pieces, leaving Roman out of it. As if he didn’t exist, but his words continued to haunt her. You’re sloppy.
“Mum?” Iris began, hesitating when Aster glanced up at her. “Do you think you could help me curl my hair tonight?”
“I’d love to,” her mother said, rising from the table. “In fact, I bought a new shampoo for my hair. We’ll wash yours and set it with my rollers. Here, come into the lavatory.”
Iris picked up one of the candles and followed her. It took a little bit of effort, but Aster was able to wash her hair over the side of the tub with the bucket of rainwater they had. And then it was back to her mother’s bedroom, where Iris sat before the mirror.
She closed her eyes as Aster combed the tangles from her hair. For a moment, there were no blisters on her heels or heavy sorrows in her heart. Forest would be home soon from the horology shop, and her mother would turn on the radio and they would listen to late-night talk shows and music.
“Is there someone you’re interested in at work?” Aster asked, beginning to section Iris’s long hair.
Iris’s eyes flew open. “No. Why would you ask, Mum?”
Aster shrugged. “Just wondering why you want me to curl your hair.”
“It’s for me,” Iris replied. “I’m sick of looking like a slob.”
“I’ve never thought of you as a slob, Iris. Not once.” She began to clip the first roller into place. “Did a boy say that to you?”
Iris sighed, watching Aster’s reflection in the speckled mirror.
“Perhaps,” she finally confessed. “He’s my competition. We both want the same position.”
“Let me guess. He’s young, handsome, suave, and knows you write better than him, so he’s doing all he can to distract and worry you.”
Iris nearly laughed. “How do you know that, Mum?”
“Mothers know everything, sweetheart,” Aster said with a wink. “And I’m casting my bet on you.”
Iris smiled, surprised by how much her mother’s reassurance bolstered her.
“Now then. If your brother knew a boy said such a thing to you…” Aster clucked her tongue. “There would be no hope for him. Forest was always so protective over you.”
Iris blinked back a surge of tears. Perhaps it was because this was the first true conversation she had had with her mother in a long time. Perhaps it was because Aster’s fingers were gentle, coaxing memories to the surface. Perhaps it was because Iris finally had a full belly and clean hair. But she could almost see her brother again, as if the mirror had caught a flash of him.
Sometimes she relived the moment that had changed everything. The moment when Enva had stopped him on his walk home. A goddess in disguise. He had chosen to listen to her music, and that music welled in his heart, propelling him to enlist that night.
It had all happened so quickly. Iris had scarcely had the chance to catch her breath as Forest explained his rash decision. He had been packing, bright-eyed and feverish. She had never seen him so excited.
I have to go, Little Flower, he had said, touching her hair. I need to answer the calling.
And she had wanted to ask him, What about me? What about Mum? How can you love this goddess more than us? But she hadn’t. She had been too scared to raise those questions to him.
“Mum?” Iris asked, tremulous. “Mum, do you think Forest is—”
“He’s alive, sweetheart,” Aster said, fixing the last roller. “I’m his mother. And I would know if he had left this realm.”
Iris released a shaky breath. She met her mother’s gaze in the mirror.
“It’s going to be all right, Iris,” Aster said, hands on her shoulders. “I’m going to be better too, from now on. I promise. And I’m sure Forest will return in the next month or so. Things will get better soon.”
Iris nodded. Even though her mother’s eyes were hazy from the alcohol that distorted her reality, she believed her.
* * *
Roman stormed home. He was so preoccupied with thinking about how horribly awry his conversation with Iris had gone that he didn’t realize there was company in the drawing room. At least, not until he had slammed the front door and was striding through the foyer to the grand stairwell, and his mother’s delicate voice called out to him.
“Roman? Roman, dear, please come say hello to our guests.”
His foot froze on the step as he stifled a groan. Hopefully he could say hello to whoever it was and then retreat to his room and revise his essay on missing soldiers. An assignment that should have gone to Iris, he thought as he walked into the gilded drawing room.
His gaze went to his father first, as if all the gravity in the room was centered on him. Mr. Ronald Kitt had been handsome in his day, but years of grief, stress, cigars, and brandy had left their mark. He was tall but stooped, ruddy-faced with hard eyes that gleamed like blue gemstones. His raven hair was now streaked with thick lines of silver. His mouth was always pursed, as if nothing could ever please him or draw a smile.