“Marisol, please,” Marisol said with a smile, charmed. “You must be another war correspondent?”
“Indeed. Helena Hammond just sent me,” Roman replied, lacing his fingers behind his back. “I was supposed to arrive on tomorrow’s train, but it broke down a few kilometers away, and so I walked. I apologize that my arrival has been unexpected.”
“Don’t apologize,” Marisol said with a wave of her hand. “Helena never gives me notice. The train broke down, you said?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then I’m glad you were able to reach us safely.”
Iris’s eyes slid to Roman. He was already looking at her, and in that shared moment, they were both remembering the sway of a golden field and their mingled breaths and the shadow of wings that had rippled over them.
“Do you two know each other?” Marisol asked, her voice suddenly smug.
“No,” Iris said quickly, in the same instant that Roman replied, “Yes.”
An awkward pause. And then Marisol said, “Which one is it, then?”
“Yes, actually,” Iris amended, flustered. “We’re acquaintances.”
Roman cleared his throat. “Winnow and I worked together at the Oath Gazette. She was my greatest competition, if I must confess.”
“But we really didn’t know each other all that well,” Iris rambled on, as if that mattered. And why was Marisol pressing her lips together, as if she were concealing a smile?
“Well, that is lovely,” Marisol remarked. “We’re happy to have you join us, Roman. I’m afraid I gave the infirmary all of the B and B mattresses, so you’ll be sleeping on the floor, like the rest of us. But you’ll have your own private room, and if you’ll follow me up the stairs, I can show it to you.”
“That would be wonderful,” Roman said, gathering his bags. “Thank you, Marisol.”
“Of course,” she said, turning. “Come this way, please.”
He made to pass by Iris, and she realized she was still holding the newspaper with her headline.
“Here,” she whispered. “Thank you for showing me.”
He glanced down at the paper, at her white-knuckled hand that was holding it, before his gaze shifted to hers.
“Keep it, Iris.”
She watched him disappear down the hall. But her thoughts were tangled.
Why is he here?
She feared that she knew the answer.
Roman was the sort of person who thrived in competition. And he had come to Avalon Bluff to outshine her, once again.
* * *
That night, Iris lay on her pallet in a tangle of blankets. She stared up at the ceiling and watched the shadows dance to candlelight. It had been a long, strange day. Her grief sat like a rock in her chest.
It was at moments like these, when she was too exhausted to sleep, that Iris inevitably thought of her mother. Sometimes all she could see was Aster’s body beneath the coroner’s sheet. Sometimes Iris would weep into the darkness, desperate for swift, dreamless sleep so she wouldn’t have to remember the last time she saw her mother.
A cold, pale, broken body.
Iris resisted the urge to glance at her desk, where the jar of ashes sat beside her typewriter. A jar of ashes, waiting to be spread somewhere.
Are you proud of me, Mum? Do you see me in this place? Can you guide me to Forest?
Iris wiped the tears from her eyes, sniffing. She reached for her mother’s locket, an anchor about her neck. The gold was smooth and cool.
She soaked in old memories—the good ones—until she realized she could hear through the thin walls as Roman clacked on his typewriter. She could hear his occasional sigh and the chair creak beneath him when he moved.
Of course, he would be in the room next to hers.
She closed her eyes.
She thought of Carver, but she fell asleep to the metallic song of Roman Kitt’s typing.
{27}
Seven Minutes Late
He was late for breakfast.
Iris drank her amusement along with her tea as Marisol huffed, watching the porridge grow cold on the table.
“I told him eight sharp, didn’t I?” she said.
“You did,” Attie confirmed, forgoing manners to reach for a scone. “Perhaps he overslept?”
“Perhaps.” Marisol’s gaze flickered across the table. “Iris? Will you go knock on Roman’s door and see if he’s awake?”
Iris nodded, setting her teacup down. She hurried up the shadowed stairs, her reflection spilling across mirror after mirror. She approached Roman’s bedroom door and knocked loudly, pressing her nose to the wood.
“Get up, lazybones. We’re waiting to eat breakfast because of you.”
Her words fell on silence. She frowned, knocking again.
“Kitt? Are you awake?”
Again, there was no answer. She couldn’t describe why her chest constricted or why her stomach suddenly dropped.
“Answer me, Kitt.” Iris reached for the door, only to find it was locked. Her fears rose, until she told herself she was being ridiculous and to shake them off.
She returned to the heat of the kitchen, both Marisol and Attie glancing at her with expectation.
“He didn’t answer,” Iris said, sliding into her chair. “And his door was locked.”
Marisol paled. “Do you think I need to climb the roof and look through his window, to ensure he’s all right?”
“You will leave all roof climbing to me,” Attie stated, pouring herself a third cup of tea. “But don’t you have a skeleton key, Marisol?”
That was when the back doors swung open and Roman burst into the kitchen, bright-eyed and windblown. Marisol screeched, Attie spilled tea all over her plate, and Iris jumped so hard she banged her knee against the table leg.
“Forgive me,” Roman panted. “I lost track of the hour. I hope the three of you weren’t waiting on me.”
Iris glowered. “Yes, of course we were, Kitt.”
“My apologies,” he said, closing the twin doors behind him. “I’ll see that it doesn’t happen again.”
Marisol’s hand was clamped over her mouth, but it gradually lowered to her neck as she said, “Please, have a seat, Roman.”
He took the chair across from Iris’s. She couldn’t help but study him beneath her lashes. His face was flushed as if the wind had kissed him, his eyes gleamed like dew, and his hair was tangled as if fingers had been raked through it. He looked half wild and smelled like morning air and mist and sweat, and Iris couldn’t keep her mouth shut a moment longer.
“Where were you, Kitt?”
He glanced up at her. “I was on a run.”
“A run?”
“Yes. I like to run several kilometers every morning.” He shoveled a spoonful of sugar into his tea. “Why? Is that acceptable to you, Winnow?”
“It is, so long as we don’t expire from hunger waiting for you every sunrise,” Iris quipped, and she thought she saw a smile tease his lips, but perhaps she imagined it.
“Again, I’m sorry,” he said, glancing at Marisol.
“There’s no need to apologize.” Marisol handed him the pitcher of cream. “But all I ask is you refrain from running when it’s dark, due to the first siren I told you about.”
He paused. “The hounds, yes. I waited until first light before I left this morning. I’ll see to it that I’m back on time tomorrow.” And he winked at Iris.
She was so flustered by it she spilled her tea.