“Get some sleep, brother,” she said. “We can talk more tomorrow.”
She rose and left Forest on the sofa. The very place he had once slept before the war, when he was a horologist’s apprentice with bright eyes and a quick laugh and bear hugs that always made Iris feel better after a hard day.
She took a candle and retreated to her bedroom, leaning against the door for a moment. She had to drop these fears about Roman, captured. Roman, dead. Roman, suffering. She had to have faith, and she needed to sleep. She needed her mind sharp and her body rested so she could forge a new plan to find her way to him.
She soaked in the forlorn truth that she was back where she started. She was “home,” and yet she felt like a stranger here. She felt like an entirely different person. Iris shut her eyes, listening to the rain tap on the window.
Slowly, she took in her old room.
The blankets on her bed were wrinkled. Books were strewn over her desk, which was draped with gossamer. Her wardrobe door was open, revealing a glimpse of the clothes she had left behind.
And there, on the floor, was a piece of paper.
Iris froze, staring at it.
She had left it there, untouched. She had chosen not to read it months ago, fearing Carver would alter the course she was determined to take.
She walked to the folded paper. She bent down and picked it up from the floor, carrying it to her bed. She set the candle aside, the light flickering around her.
Iris stared at the paper, nearly holding it over the flame to burn. She didn’t know if she was strong enough to open it. She worried it would break the last of her, to read his words now.
In the end, she couldn’t resist.
The paper unfolded like wings in her hands.
His words met her like a blade. She bowed over them.
Iris! Iris, it’s me, Kitt.
Epilogue
DACRE
Dacre waited for his eithrals to retreat for the second time before he began his approach to Avalon Bluff. His pets returned to their resting place underground, and he walked across the lush valley, full of hope.
The gas rose, limning the town in green. Green like the mountains, like the emeralds he wore on his fingers. Green like Enva’s eyes, which he still saw some nights when he slept below.
The mortals had done a fine task of creating this weapon for him. And he decided he wouldn’t burn this town, because he had other plans in mind.
With a graceful flick of his fingers, his motioned for his soldiers to rush ahead to scavenge. Sometimes they were good at picking the right ones. But other times, they chose poorly, and he was left with scraps of a being.
The secret was this: the will had to still be present in the spirit. It usually shined brightest right before death. Mortals ran either cold or hot, their souls like ice or fire. He had discovered long ago that ice served him best, but every now and then, fire would surprise him.
Dacre chose to take a long walk around the town. The wind was beginning to blow the gas to the wayside, and he followed its path to a golden field. He felt the staggering, gasping soul before he saw it. This one was made of ice—a cold, deep spirit like the northern sea.
It drew him closer. His feet made no sound, left no impression as they walked over the earth, seeking this dying mortal.
At last, Dacre found it.
A young man with raven dark hair was crawling through the grass. Dacre stood over him, measuring what remained. The mortal had a minute and thirteen seconds left before his lungs filled with blood and he expired. There were also wounds on his right leg.
Dacre was in a good mood that day. Or else he might have let the ice in this one melt away.
“My lord?”
Dacre turned to see Val, the strongest of his servants, standing in his shadow.
“My lord, we have almost secured the town. But a few of the lorries have escaped.”
The news should have angered Dacre, and Val was prepared for it, cringing when the god stared at him.
“So be it,” Dacre said, glancing back at the gasping mortal on the ground. Blood was dripping from his chin as he raised his head, eyes closed. He sensed Dacre’s presence. “This one.”
“Yes, what of this one, my lord?”
Dacre was quiet, watching the man crawl. What was he seeking? Why didn’t he just lie down and die? His soul was so anguished, nearly rent in half. It made Dacre wince.
But he could heal those wounds. He was a merciful god, after all. The god of healing. This mortal, once mended, would do very well in his army. Because Dacre suddenly realized with delight … this was no soldier, but a correspondent. And Dacre had never had one of those before.
“Take him below.”
Val bowed before he drew a ring in the ground, encircling the mortal. A quick way to open a portal, to pass below.
Satisfied, Dacre set his eyes eastward, on the path that would lead him to Enva.
Acknowledgments
“A girl who writes letters to her missing brother, and the boy who reads them.” I wrote that line down in my brainstorming journal on November 20, 2020, uncertain of where it would lead me. Of whether this enticing story morsel had enough magic to grow wings and become a novel. And yet here we are, Iris and Roman. I’ve always believed the right books find you at just the right moments, both as a reader and as an author, and I will never get over this wonder.
What a journey this novel has been, from its origins as a stray thought in my journal to a finished product that you’re now holding in your hands or listening to or reading on a screen. There are countless people who have invested their time, love, and expertise into this story and into me as an author, and I want to illuminate them here on these pages.
First, to Ben, my better half. You were with me every step of the way with this novel, and I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge here that you wrote soul-stirring love letters to me when we were dating. When I was in the mountains of Colorado and you were in the golden fields of Georgia. We didn’t have enchanted typewriters, but we had paper and pens and stamps, and it was all the magic I ever needed. And even now, years later, you continue to leave me notes here and there to find around the house. I love you.
To Sierra, for being the best watchdog and making sure I leave my desk to go for walks. Also, for cuddling next to me on the couch while I was revising this book.
To my Heavenly Father, who continues to take these small dreams of mine and multiplies them beyond anything I could ever imagine. Who loves me just as I am, and always has. You remain the strength and the portion of my heart.