Iris nodded, hefting the pack onto her shoulders. She crouched to pick up the letter that had fluttered to the floor, a letter Alouette Stone had written decades ago, gently setting it on the glass-strewn pedestal. But her eyes caught on a line of typed words.
The magic still gathers, and the past is gilded; I see the beauty in what has been but only because I have tasted both sorrow and joy in equal measures.
Iris turned away, heading to the stairs. But she blinked back tears and thought, As have I, Alouette.
* * *
A light rain was falling, and the night felt ancient by the time Iris reached her flat. She had parted ways with Sarah and Attie at the museum once the three of them had made it safely out the window and back onto solid ground. They had been breathless and giddy and a touch paranoid from the fact that they had just pulled off a successful heist.
They would revel in this secret later, at a nice restaurant. When the war was over. Iris would treat her friends to a fine dinner. And then she would return the First Alouette to the museum. Anonymously, of course.
Despite those promises and the aches in her hands, none of this felt real. Iris could have convinced herself she was dreaming until she was safe in her room and had shed the bag from her shoulders. Her mask and dark clothes, her gloves and her boots. She drew on a nightgown and pinned up her damp hair. Carefully, she retrieved the typewriter and sat on the floor in the very place where she had once typed letter after letter to her brother, then to Roman.
She set the First Alouette before her crossed knees, feeding a fresh page into the roller.
The minutes began to pass; the night crept to its coldest hour. The rain started falling in earnest beyond her window, and Iris stared at the blank page, wondering what she should say to Roman. She didn’t know where he was. She didn’t know if he was safe, if he was imprisoned. If he even had his typewriter with him.
There were too many unknowns and communicating with him could put him in danger.
The silence broke when paper began to whisper over the floor. Iris watched, astounded, as page after folded page appeared from the shadows of her wardrobe door. So many they were creating a pile. She lunged toward them, heart frantic, and quickly unfolded one.
Do you ever feel as if you wear armor, day after day? That when people look at you, they see only the shine of steel that you’ve so carefully encased yourself in?
Iris lowered the page, bewildered.
This was an old letter. One Roman had written to her when she had known him only as C.
She reached for another and was shocked to discover it was one of hers. Iris went through them all until she realized she was familiar with every single letter. She had either authored them or read them so many times the words had become imprinted on her mind.
Iris exhaled a shaky breath, sitting back down on the rug. She had thought her correspondence with Roman had been lost at Marisol’s. But the First Alouette hadn’t forgotten its magic, even when it had been confined in the museum. This typewriter had been holding the letters, waiting for the moment it could deliver them by a wardrobe door.
Iris reread her favorite ones until it felt like her chest had cracked. Roman’s words echoed in her bones, waking a fierce ache in her.
She set down the letters, resolved. She would be shrewd and careful, although a part of her believed her letters wouldn’t be able to find him.
He won’t remember you.
Forest’s words haunted her.
Iris felt bruised by the memory. She chewed on a hangnail, wondering if Forest had spoken truth or if he was only trying to wound her. To keep her home and safe. To keep her from reaching out into the darkness again.
Be mindful, she told herself, her fingertips finding their place on the keys. Make sure it’s him before you reveal yourself or say anything important.
Iris typed a brief message. Her hands trembled as she drew the paper from the roller and folded it. It felt like no time had passed as she slid the page beneath her wardrobe door. No time at all, and yet it also felt like seasons bloomed and molted in a single unsteady breath. How odd that magic could be two different things at once. Young and old. New and familiar. Worry and comfort.
She didn’t know what she was expecting, whether it was for the wardrobe to return her letter unopened or for Roman to write her back within seconds. To her shock, neither happened.
Iris paced, bleary-eyed and exhausted, realizing … nothing had happened.
Her letter was gone, magically delivered elsewhere, but Roman hadn’t replied.
Defeated, she sank onto the bed. She fell asleep to the rain, but her dreams were nothing more than a gray, empty expanse.
{8}
The Name of a Pet Snail
Roman woke to sunlight dancing across his face.
He didn’t know where he was for a moment. His breaths shuddered through him and his mind was foggy from a dream he couldn’t remember. But he began to piece together his surroundings.
He was looking at his typewriter. A nearby candlestick had burned down to a wax puddle on the wood. His cheek was pressed to the hard surface of his desk, and a loose sheet of paper stuck to his skin as he lifted his head.
I’m in the room they assigned me. I’m safe.
He must have fallen asleep at his desk last night, and he rubbed the crick in his neck before standing with a groan.
That was when he noticed it.
A piece of paper rested on the floor, just before the wardrobe.
Roman frowned. He had no memory of putting it there, and he approached the closet, sweeping the page up with his hands. Shocked, he read:
What was the name of my pet snail?
What is my middle name?
Which season is my favorite and why?
He stared at the words until the type seemed to bleed together.
“What is this?” he whispered, reaching for the wardrobe door. He opened it, prepared to find anything. To both his disappointment and relief, the closet was empty save for the trio of hanging coats and the folded quilt, musty on a shelf.
There was absolutely nothing magical about it.
Roman shut the door, reading the message again. He could feel a faint tug in his chest. One that made him wary as well as ravenous.
Should I know these answers? he thought, staring at the words.
How could he mourn something that he couldn’t remember? Roman wondered if there was a word to describe such a feeling, for the way it gathered on his shoulders like snow. Cold and soft and infinite, melting as soon as he touched it.
He was still grappling with his emotions and the three riddles when he heard a heavy tread beyond the walls. Someone was approaching his room. Roman shoved the paper in his pocket, the corner of it jabbing his palm just as the door blew open.
“Pack your things,” Lieutenant Shane said. “We’re finally leaving this shithole. You have five minutes to meet me downstairs.”
As abruptly as he had arrived, the lieutenant left, leaving the door cracked.