She sat at her desk and prepared her typewriter, craving a distraction. Anything to keep her mind off of—
“You feeling better today, Winnow?” Sarah asked, stopping by on her way to Zeb’s office.
Iris nodded but kept her eyes on her paper. “Much. Thanks for asking, Prindle.”
She was relieved when Sarah moved on. Iris didn’t think she could with stand speaking about her mother just yet, so she set her focus like iron and worked. But she knew the moment Roman walked into the office. She knew it like a cord was bound between the two of them, even though she refused to look at him.
He must have sensed she was ignoring him. He eventually walked to her cubicle and leaned on the wood, watching her type.
“You look well today, Winnow.”
“Are you implying I looked ill before, Kitt?”
In the past, he would have returned her snark and left. But he continued to silently stand in her space, his eyes all but burning through her, and she knew he wanted her to look at him.
She cleared her throat, her attention riveted to her work. “You know, if you wanted to type up the classifieds so badly, you could just say so. You don’t have to hover over me.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, and she was surprised he sounded irritated, or angry, or perhaps a mix of both.
“What do you mean?”
“Why didn’t you tell someone you were feeling ill the other day? You just … left, and none of us knew where you went or what had happened.”
“It’s really none of your business, Kitt.”
“It is, because people here were worried about you, Winnow.”
“Yes, they’re quite worried about the classifieds not getting done on time.”
“Now that isn’t a fair statement, and you know it,” he said, his voice dropping low.
Iris shut her eyes. Her composure was about to crack, and it had taken all of her will to even get up and dress herself that morning, to brush her hair and force some lipstick on, all so that she gave the appearance that she was fine, that she was not coming apart at the seams. She didn’t want anyone to know what she was going through, because gods forbid they pity her—he pities you!—and she drew in a breath through her teeth.
“I don’t see why you care, Kitt!” she whispered sharply, opening her eyes to meet his steady gaze. “If I’m not here, you finally get what you want.”
He didn’t answer, but his gaze held hers, and she thought she saw something flicker through him, like a star falling from the cosmos, or a coin underwater, reflecting the sun. Something fierce and vulnerable and very unexpected.
As soon as it came, it was gone, and he scowled at her.
She must have imagined it.
For once, Zeb had good timing.
“Winnow? In my office. Now,” he called.
She stood from her desk and Roman had no choice but to ease away. She left him in the aisle, closing the door behind her as she stepped into Zeb’s office.
He was pouring himself a drink. It crackled over ice cubes as she sat in the chair across from him, his desk a chaotic sprawl of paper and books and folders. She waited for him to speak first.
“I take it you have your essay ready for me?” he asked after taking a sip.
Her essay. Her essay.
Iris had forgotten about it. She laced her fingers together, hands shaking. Her knuckles drained white.
“No, sir,” she said. “I’m sorry, but it’s not ready.”
Zeb only stared at her. “I’m disappointed in you, Winnow.”
She wanted to weep. She swallowed the tears until they flooded her chest. She should tell him why the essay was late. She should tell him she had lost her mother, and her world had upended, and the last thing she was thinking about was becoming a columnist.
“Sir, my—”
“If you’re going to lay out of work, you need to call it in, so your tasks for the day can be shifted to someone else,” he said curtly. “Now, don’t let it happen again.”
Iris rose and left. She went directly to her desk and sat, pressing her cold fingers to her flaming face. She felt like a doormat. She had just let him walk all over her, because she was too afraid of crying in front of him.
Who was she becoming?
“Here are the obituaries for tomorrow’s paper,” Sarah said, seeming to appear out of thin air. She dropped a stack of notes on Iris’s desk. “Are you all right, Winnow?”
“I’m fine,” Iris said with a strained smile and a sniff. “I’ll get these done.”
“I can give them to Kitt.”
“No. I have them. Thanks.”
After that, everyone left her alone. Even Roman didn’t glance her way again, and Iris was relieved.
She typed up the obituaries and then stared at her blank paper, wrestling with her feelings. She should type one for her mother. But it felt vastly different now. Being someone touched by the anguish of an obituary. Someone who felt the root of the words.
Iris began to write the first thing that came to mind, her fingers striking the keys with vehemence:
I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have nothing. I have
She stopped herself, jaw clenched, even as the wound in her ached. If Zeb caught her wasting paper and ink ribbons, he would fire her. And so she ripped the paper from her typewriter, crumpled it, tossed it in her dustbin, and tried again.
Aster Winifred Winnow, age forty-two, passed away on Alva’s Day, the fifth day of Norrow. She is survived by her son, Forest Winnow, and her daughter, Iris Winnow. She was born in Oath and loved the city best during autumn, when she felt as if magic could be tasted in the air. She attended school at Windy Grove, and later worked as a waitress at the Revel Diner. She was fond of poetry, classical music, and the color purple, although she would only ever call it “violet,” and she loved to dance.
The words were blurring. Iris stopped typing and set her mother’s obituary in the stack with all the others, to be delivered to Zeb’s desk for tomorrow’s paper.
* * *
She walked home after work. She removed her mother’s too-small boots and Forest’s trench coat and lay down in bed. She fell asleep to the rain.
* * *
She was an hour late to work.
She had overslept again, the grief pulling her into deep, dark slumber, and now she was full of frantic butterflies as she darted up the stairs to the fifth floor, drenched from the rain. Hopefully no one but Sarah would notice her walking in late. Sarah and Roman, most likely, since he obviously liked to keep tabs on her.
Iris stepped into the Oath Gazette only to discover Zeb was waiting beside her desk. His expression was stormy; she braced herself as she walked the aisle, her boots squishing.
He said nothing but inclined his head, turning to stride into his office.
Iris followed tentatively.