Iris grimaced. She wasn’t sure how much she wanted to reveal about her tragic past yet, so she settled for a simple “There’s nothing for me in Oath. I needed a change. You?”
“Well, someone I once respected told me that I didn’t have it in me to become published. My writing ‘lacked originality and conviction,’ he said.” Attie snorted, as if those words still stung. “So I thought, what better way to prove myself? What could be a better teacher than having the constant threat of death, dismemberment, and whatever else Inkridden Tribune said in that waiver of theirs to sharpen your words? Regardless, I don’t like attempting things that I think I’ll fail at, so I have no choice but to write superb pieces and live to see them published, to my old professor’s chagrin. In fact, I paid for him have a subscription, so the Inkridden Tribune will start showing up on his doorstep, and he’ll see my name in print and eat his words.”
“A fitting penance,” Iris said, amused. “But I hope you realize that you didn’t have to sign up to write about war to prove yourself to anyone, Attie.”
“I do, but where’s the sense of adventure in that? Living the same careful and monotonous routine, day in and day out?” Attie smiled, dimples flirting in her cheeks. The next words she said Iris felt in her chest, resounding like a second heartbeat. Words that were destined to bind them together as friends. “I don’t want to wake up when I’m seventy-four only to realize I haven’t lived.”
{17}
Three Sirens
By the time the train chugged into the small station of Avalon Bluff, Iris and Attie were the only two passengers remaining, and it was half past ten o’clock at night. The moon hung like a fingernail, and the stars burned brighter than Iris had ever seen, as if they had fallen closer to earth. She gathered her things and followed Attie onto the platform, her legs sore from sitting most of the day, and drew a deep breath.
Avalon Bluff tasted like hay and meadow grass and chimney smoke and mud.
The girls walked through the abandoned station, which soon spilled them onto a dirt road. Helena had given them instructions on how to locate their lodgings: Marisol’s B and B was on High Street, just through the station, third house on the left, with a green door that looked like it once belonged in a castle. Attie and Iris would need to go directly there while being wary of their surroundings, prepared to take shelter at any moment.
“I take it this is High Street?” Attie asked.
It was dark, but Iris squinted, studying the town that lay before them. The houses were old, two-storied and built from stone. A few even had thatched roofs and mullioned windows, as if they were constructed centu ries ago. Fences were made of stacked rocks covered in moss, and it looked like there were a few gardens, but it was hard to discern things by the light of the moon.
There were no streetlamps to guide them along. Most houses were gloomy and cloaked in shadows, as if they were fueled by candlelight rather than electricity.
It was also very quiet and very empty.
Somewhere in the distance, a cow mooed, but there were no other sounds of life. No laughter, no voices, no music, no banging pots in a kitchen. No crickets or night birds. Even the wind was tamed.
“Why does this place feel dead?” Attie whispered.
The temperature had dropped, and a fog was settling. Iris stifled a shudder. “I think I see Marisol’s,” she said, eager to be off the haunted street.
Helena had been right; the B and B had an unmistakable door, arched as if the house had been built around it, with an iron knocker fashioned as a roaring lion’s head. The building was quaint, with shutters that looked to be black in the starlight. Rosebushes crowded the front yard with scraggly limbs, still bare from winter, and ivy grew up the walls, reaching for the thatched roof.
But it was dark within, as if the old house was sleeping or under a spell. A sense of uneasiness washed through Iris as she knocked. The lion’s head clanged far too loud, given how mum the town was.
“It doesn’t look like she’s home,” said Attie before swearing under her breath. “Are the lower windows boarded up, or am I imagining it?”
Iris stared harder at the windows. Yes, they looked to be boarded up, but from the inside.
“What are we going to do if she doesn’t answer?” Attie turned to survey the remainder of the town, which didn’t look promising.
“Wait,” Iris said. “I think I hear her.”
The girls held their breath, and sure enough, there was the inner pattering of feet, and then a dulcet voice, drawn with an accent, spoke through the front door: “What do you want?”
Attie arched her brow, exchanging a dubious glance with Iris.
“Helena said she wasn’t expecting us,” Iris reminded her in a whisper, before replying, “We’ve been sent by Helena Hammond, of the Inkridden Tribune.”
There was a beat of silence, and then the sound of a lock turning. The green door creaked open a sliver, revealing a woman holding a candle. She had light brown skin and her black hair was bound in a thick braid, spilling over her shoulder. Her bold eyebrows slanted with a frown until she saw the girls, and her face softened instantly.
“Blessed Enva, there’s two of you? And you look so young!” she said, full lips parted in shock. “Please, please come inside. I’m sorry, but you took me by surprise a moment ago. These days, you don’t know who comes knocking at night.”
“Yes, we noticed it’s rather quiet here,” Attie said, a bit dryly.
“It is, and there’s a reason for it, which I’ll explain in a moment,” Marisol said, opening the door further in welcome.
Iris stepped inside. The foyer was spacious, with a cold floor of flagstones covered with vibrant rugs. The walls gleamed in the shadows, and Iris realized there was an array of gilded mirrors of all shapes and sizes hanging upon them, even all the way up the stairwell. She caught her dim reflection and felt as if she had stepped back in time.
“Have you two eaten?” Marisol asked, locking the door behind them.
“Train biscuits” was all Attie had to say.
“Then follow me into the kitchen.” Marisol led them down a corridor and into the firelight.
The kitchen was large, rustic, and warm. The windows were covered with boards, though, as well as the double doors. As if Marisol needed to keep someone or something out.
Herbs and copper pots hung from the rafters above, and there was a table that could seat ten people. This was where both Attie and Iris collapsed, as if they hadn’t just been sitting for nine hours.
Marisol was busy opening cupboards and a small fridge, which let Iris know there was electricity in the house, she was just simply opting not to use it to light the room.
“What can I fix you to drink? My specialty is hot cocoa, but I also have some milk and tea,” Marisol said as she set an onion and a red pepper on the counter.