She groaned.
Focus, Iris.
Her leather bag was tucked away in the wardrobe, and she stepped on a stack of paper as she reached for the door handle. She paused, glancing down at the heap of typed letters. The letters she had transcribed for the soldiers.
Dread pierced Iris’s chest as she knelt and gathered the papers. Had a draft pushed them back into her room? She had sent them to Carver that morning, and she wondered if the magic between them had broken at last.
She opened the folded sheet that was on top of the pile, relieved to find it was a letter from him. She stood in a slant of afternoon sunshine, fingertips tracing her lips as she quickly read:
Dear Iris,
Your rival? Who is this bloke? If he’s competing with you, then he must be an utter fool. I have no doubt you will best him in every way.
Now for a confession: I’m not in Oath. Or else I would put these letters in the post this afternoon. I’m sorry to cause you any delay and inconvenience, but I’m sending them back to you, as I feel like it’s the best option. Again, I apologize I can’t be of more assistance to you, as I fervently wish to be.
As for your other inquiries, my nan is fine, albeit quite put out with me at the moment—I’ll tell you why when I finally see you. She sometimes asks if
“Winnow?” Roman called to her through the door, softly knocking. “Winnow, are you ready?”
She crumpled Carver’s half-read letter into her pocket. She didn’t have time to wonder at the oddness of his words—I’m not in Oath—as she took the soldiers’ letters and set them on the desk, tucking their edges under her typewriter.
It hit her like a brick to her stomach.
She was about to go to the front lines.
She was about to be gone for days, and she had no time to write Carver and explain to him the reason for her impending silence. What would he think of her suddenly going quiet?
“Winnow?” Roman spoke again, urgent. “The captain’s waiting.”
“I’m coming,” Iris said, her voice thin and strange, like ice crackling over warm water. She stole one last second of peace, touching the jar that held her mother’s ashes. It sat on her desk, next to the Alouette.
“I’ll return soon, Mum,” Iris whispered.
She turned and took inventory—blanket, notepad, three pens, a tin of beans, canteen, extra socks—and hastily packed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. When she opened the door, Roman was waiting for her in the dim hallway, his own leather bag hanging from his back.
He said nothing, but his eyes were bright, almost feverish, when he looked at her.
She wondered if he was afraid as he followed her down the stairs.
PART THREE
The
Words
In-Between
{29}
The Sycamore Platoon
She unfortunately had to sit on Roman Kitt’s lap, nearly all the way to the front lines.
The lorry was packed to the brim with food and medicine and other resources, leaving one seat available in the cab. Just as the captain had forewarned. One seat for Iris and Roman to fight over.
Iris hesitated, wondering how to handle this strange situation, but Roman seamlessly opened the passenger door for her, as if it were a vehicle in Oath and not a massive truck, rusted by war. She avoided eye contact as well as his offered hand and hauled herself up the metal side step into the dusty cab.
It reeked of sweat and petrol. The leather seat was beaten and worn beneath her. There looked to be an old streak of blood across it, and the dash was freckled with mud. Pray it doesn’t rain, Attie had said to her before kissing her cheeks in farewell, and Iris cleared her throat and slipped her bag onto the floorboard between her legs. It must be something about rain and the trenches, Iris surmised, although Attie still hadn’t spoken much of her experience on the front lines.
“All set?” Roman asked.
Iris decided it would be best to tackle this … unpleasantness head on. She turned to address him—you really don’t need to come, Kitt—but he had already shut the door, perching on the side step as he had promised to do.
Iris got a good eyeful of his chest, which was blocking her window. But she could see he was holding on to the rickety metal of the side mirror—which looked like it might come off any moment—as well as the door handle. A strong gust might blow him away, but she held her tongue as the captain turned the engine.
They rolled out of Avalon Bluff, heading along the western road. Iris had never ridden in a lorry; it was surprisingly bumpy and slow, and she watched as the captain shifted the gear stick. She could feel the purr of the engine through the soles of her feet, and she couldn’t help but keep an eye on Roman with every pothole they hit. And there were quite a few of them.
“These roads haven’t been cared for in a while,” the captain explained when Iris nearly bounced off her seat. “Not since the war broke out in this borough. I hope your friend there can hold tight. It’s only going to get worse.”
Iris winced, shielding her eyes from a sudden flood of sunlight. “How long will this ride be?”
“Three hours, if the weather permits.”
Half an hour later, they stopped at the neighboring town of Clover Hill so the captain could load one last round of resources in the back. Iris rolled down her window and prodded Roman in the chest.
“It won’t do us any good if you break your neck on the way to the front,” she said. “I don’t mind sharing the seat. That is, if you don’t mind me sitting on your—”
“I don’t mind,” he said.
He stepped down, his hair snarled from the wind.
Iris opened the door and stood, cramped in the cab, as Roman ascended, sliding into the seat. He wedged his bag next to hers and then reached for her hips, guiding her back to sit on his lap.
She was rigid as a board, settled on his thighs.
This was bad. This was very, very bad.
“Iris,” he whispered, and she stiffened. “You’ll go through the windshield if you don’t lean back.”
“I’m fine.”
He sighed, exasperated, as his hands fell away from her.
Her determination lasted all of ten minutes. The captain was right; the roads got bumpier, rutted from weeks of rain, and she had no choice but to relax, aligning her spine with Roman’s chest. His arm slid around her waist, and she rested in the warmth of his hand, knowing he was keeping her from bashing her head against the windshield.
At least he got mouthfuls of her hair in return, she thought. There was no doubt in her mind that he was as uncomfortable as she was. Especially when she heard him groan after a particularly deep set of ruts in the road, which seemed to knock their thoughts sideways.
“Am I hurting you?” Iris asked him.
“No.”
“Are you squinting, Kitt?” she teased.