Quickly, he changed course, getting in line to purchase whatever paper it was that had stirred up a frenzy in the people. Of course, it wasn’t the Gazette. It was the Inkridden Tribune, and Roman paid for a copy.
He walked a few paces away, told himself to quickly glance over the front page and then toss it in the nearest rubbish bin. Zeb Autry would fire him on the spot if he knew his newly appointed columnist was entertaining the competition. Roman could skim and walk, and he snapped the creases from the paper as he read the headline.
He came to an abrupt halt.
His heart was suddenly thrumming, pounding in his ears.
In bold type, the headline raced across the page:
THE UNEXPECTED FACE OF WAR by INKRIDDEN IRIS
Roman stood in the sunshine and read every word of her article. He forgot where he was, where he was standing. Where he was going. Where he had just come from. He forgot everything when he read her words, and a smile crept over his face when he reached the end.
Damn, he was proud of her.
There was no possible way this paper was going into the rubbish bin. Roman carefully folded it, hiding it in his jacket. As he hurried back to the Gazette, he couldn’t think of anything else save for Iris and her words.
He thought of her as he waited for the lift. It was broken. So he took to the stairs, and his heart continued to race long after he had returned to his desk, and he didn’t know why.
It was that ache again. The one that tasted like salt and smoke. A longing he feared would only grow stronger with each passing year. A regret in the making.
He shifted, listening to the paper crinkle in his jacket. A paper inked with her words.
She was writing brave, bold things.
And it had taken him a while, but he was ready now.
He was ready to write his own story.
* * *
Iris remained with Marisol at the infirmary that night. After all the mattresses had been laid down, the two of them had helped in the kitchen, preparing soup and bread. Then they had washed plates and linens and scrubbed blood off the floors and prepared bodies for burial.
The soldier Iris had helped off the lorry was one of them.
It was almost midnight now, and Iris and Marisol were sitting on a stack of empty crates in a corner, shredding bedsheets into bandages. Attie had been gone for hours, and Iris couldn’t help but wonder where she was, if she had reached the war front yet. How much danger she would be in.
“She’ll be safe,” Marisol said gently, as if she had read Iris’s mind. “I know it feels futile to say this, but try not to worry.”
Iris nodded, but her thoughts ran in a tight circle. She kept seeing the moment the lorry doors were opened, revealing the wounded soldiers.
“Marisol?”
“Hmm?”
Iris was quiet, watching her shred the sheets with precision.
“Is Keegan fighting in the war?”
Marisol froze. But she met Iris’s gaze, and there was a hint of fear within her. “Why do you think that, Iris?”
“My brother is fighting for Enva, and I recognize the same gleam in you that dwells in me. The worry and the hope and the dread.”
Marisol sighed, her hands dropping to her lap. “I was going to tell you and Attie eventually. I was just waiting.”
“What were you waiting for?” Iris asked.
“I didn’t want it to interfere with your work,” she replied. “Helena has no idea my wife is fighting. I don’t know if she would even send correspon dents to my door if she knew. You are, after all, supposed to be writing from a neutral perspective.”
“She knows my brother is fighting, and she still hired me,” Iris said. “I don’t think you should have to hide the fact that your wife is brave and selfless.”
Marisol was silent, her long fingers tracing the bandages on her lap. “She’s been gone seven months now. The day word broke out that Dacre had taken the town of Sparrow, she enlisted. In the beginning, I asked her—I begged her—not to go. But then I realized I couldn’t hold her in a cage. And if she felt so passionately about fighting Dacre, then I needed to support her. I told myself I would do whatever it took at home to help, whether that was making food for the infirmary or agreeing to house war correspondents, or even giving up my groceries to send to the soldiers on the front.”
“Does she ever write to you?” Iris whispered.
“Yes, whenever she can, which isn’t often. They were on the move for a while, and now the army must prioritize transporting only the most essential of things, and letters often get overlooked.” Marisol paused before asking, “Have you heard from your brother, Iris?”
“No.”
“I’m sure you will soon.”
“I hope so,” Iris said, although her heart was heavy. She hadn’t received a reply from the E Brigade’s C.O. yet, and she worried she never would.
An hour later, Marisol told her to rest. Iris lay on the infirmary floor and closed her eyes, exhausted to the bone.
She dreamt of Forest.
Dear Carver,
I’m sorry I haven’t written to you in a while. The days have been long and hard here. And they’ve made me realize that I don’t think I’m brave enough or strong enough for this. I don’t think my words will ever be able to describe how I feel right now. I don’t think my words will ever be able to describe the things I’ve seen. The people I’ve met. The way the war creeps like a shadow.
How am I supposed to write articles about this when my words and my experience are so terribly inadequate? When I myself feel so terribly inadequate?
Love,
Iris
Dear Iris,
I don’t think you realize how strong you are, because sometimes strength isn’t swords and steel and fire, as we are so often made to believe. Sometimes it’s found in quiet, gentle places. The way you hold someone’s hand as they grieve. The way you listen to others. The way you show up, day after day, even when you are weary or afraid or simply uncertain.
That is strength, and I see it in you.
As for your bravery … I can honestly tell you I don’t know anyone of your mettle. Who else packs up everything and leaves the comfort of their home to become a war correspondent? Not many. I admire you, in more ways than one.
Keep writing. You will find the words you need to share. They are already within you, even in the shadows, hiding like jewels.
Yours,
—C.
{24}
Dangerous Instruments
“She’s back,” Marisol said.
Iris paused on the threshold of the B and B, eyes wide with surprise. She had just walked home from the infirmary in the dark, breaking curfew, and had expected Marisol to greet her with a reprimand.
“Attie?” Iris breathed.
Marisol nodded, shutting the door behind her. “She’s in her room.”
Iris bounded up the stairs and knocked on Attie’s door. When there was no answer, her heart skipped in dread, and she cracked the door open.
“Attie?”
The room was empty, but the window was open. A night breeze played with the curtains as Iris stepped deeper into the room, leaning out the window to catch a glimpse of her friend sitting on the roof, binoculars raised to her face as she gazed up at the stars.
“Come join me, Iris,” Attie said.
“You don’t think Marisol will kill us for sitting on the roof?”