“Why the vague answers, Bexley?” Attie nudged him in the shoulder. “Are you worried we’ll write an article about you and your magical roadster?”
“I worry about one thing only,” he answered.
Iris and Attie both waited, hanging upon the suspense. When the silence continued, filled only with the roar of the wind and the comforting purr of the engine, Attie leaned even closer to him.
“I imagine you worry about flat tires, or running out of petrol, or getting lost.”
“I worry about rain,” he said, but he finally turned his head, meeting Attie’s gaze for a split second. “Rain makes the roads muddy and treacherous.”
Iris looked up at the clouds. They were white and fluffy, but a few on the western horizon were building into tall thunderheads.
“You know what they say about springtime in Cambria,” Attie drawled, also taking note of the clouds.
“I know it better than most.” Tobias pushed the clutch and moved the gearstick. It was such a smooth transition Iris hardly felt the car shift. “Which means we only have a few hours to get to River Down before that storm breaks. Goggles will come in handy right about now. Secure anything you don’t want to fly away.” He removed his hat, tucking it safely in a glove compartment. “Also, there’s rope attached to the seat in front of you, in case you need to hold on to something.”
Iris and Attie dutifully donned their goggles. As the roadster drove even faster, all hopes of conversation died in the howling air and speed. But Iris could feel the thrill of it through the soles of her boots. She could feel it hum in her bones, and she reveled in watching the land blur as they raced westward.
* * *
The clouds hung low and dark by the time Tobias drove them into River Down.
It was a small, sleepy town, tucked away in the rolling hills of the countryside. A babbling, shallow river cut through its heart, and a stone bridge connected the two halves of town: the east side that was a patchwork of markets, a library, a communal garden, a school, a small church with stained glass windows; and the west side, which brimmed with thatched cottages laced together with winding, cobbled roads.
Iris removed her goggles, taking it in. A few people were walking the streets with baskets, and they watched with bright curiosity as Tobias drove carefully down one road, then another.
“Are we almost there?” Iris asked, breathless.
“Yes, that’s it up ahead on the left, with the yellow door,” Attie said.
Iris spotted it—a two-story cottage with a stone chimney and blue shutters, nearly devoured by ivy—and as Tobias shifted the roadster down to a crawl, she noticed someone was waiting for them in the front yard. Someone with long black hair and a smile that crinkled her eyes, her red dress striking against her light brown skin.
“Marisol!” Iris cried, standing up in the cab to wave.
Marisol waved back and threw open the yard gate, standing in the street with a grin. As soon as Tobias cut the engine, Iris launched herself from the car. She raced the short distance to Marisol’s welcoming embrace. It almost felt like everything—the sky, the ground, the daily routine—was about to crumble again, and Iris needed something steady to hold on to.
The last time I saw you, the world was burning, Iris thought, clenching her eyes shut as an unexpected wave of emotion struck her chest. She hadn’t cried much the past few weeks. Indeed, she thought she had recovered from most of the trauma she had experienced, letting it hollow her out. But perhaps it had only been buried. Perhaps she had shoved it down to dark forgotten places and it had grown roots while she had been sleeping.
It was alarming to Iris at first, to feel it blister again.
She began to pull away but Marisol only held her tighter. Attie joined them, and the three wrapped their arms around each other. Iris sniffed and lifted her head, trying to hide her emotion until she saw that Marisol also had tears shining in her eyes.
“My girls, it’s so good to see you both! And you know what this calls for? Hot cocoa and a biscuit.”
“I’ve only dreamt of such since arriving back in Oath,” Attie said. “No other café comes close to your hot cocoa, Marisol. Or your biscuits.”
“Is that so?” Marisol sounded shocked as she led the girls to the front yard. She paused two steps later to call out, “And it’s nice to see you again, Tobias! We would love for you to join us for a cup of cocoa.”
Tobias was busy unloading the trunk. But he glanced up and nodded, a corner of his mouth curling in a half smile. “I would be happy to, Mrs. Torres. As soon as I tend to the car. The storm is not far off.”
“Of course,” Marisol said. The air smelled like distant rain; the wind was beginning to whistle through the narrow streets. It lifted tendrils of sable hair from her brow. “The front door will be open, and we’ll have a seat ready at the table for you.”
“Oh!” Iris’s voice finally worked its way free. “My luggage.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Winnow,” said Tobias, his eyes focused on his task as he withdrew an oilcloth from the trunk. “I’ll bring it in for you. As well as for Miss Attwood.”
“Thank you,” Attie said. “But in case you didn’t notice … I go by Attie.”
Tobias latched the trunk door, but his eyes flickered upward. “Very well then, Attie.”
As he returned to his task of covering the cab with the oilcloth, Marisol guided Attie and Iris along a brick path.
“Come,” Marisol said, her gaze alight with excitement. “Come meet my sister, Lucy.”
{10}
Laundry for Old Souls
Iris stood in the laundry room of Lucy’s house, typewriter case in hand. It was a small chamber with one window, but it held a large wooden tub and a well spigot. Rope was strung from one wall to the other, with clothes hanging from it, and jars of wash granules sat on a shelf. But most of all, there was a wardrobe. Tall and made of oak, and quite unassuming.
It was the only wardrobe in the house, which meant this would be where Iris would work.
She sat on the herringbone brick floor and opened the case. Drawing on her old rituals, she set the typewriter before her knees and the wardrobe door, and she waited.
Once more, nothing happened.
No letter arrived. No letter was returned.
Maybe this was all for nothing. Maybe the magic between us has broken.
Iris shivered as she reached for paper, tucked away in the case. She fed the blank sheet to the typewriter, her fingers touching the keys.
Dear Kitt
She watched those familiar words strike across the page but then stopped herself. He won’t remember you. Forest’s words echoed through her. She wrote in defiance of them:
Are you safe? Are you well? I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop worrying about you.
Please write to me, whenever you can.
Iris stared at her words for a long moment before she tore them from the typewriter.
I can’t send this, she thought, biting her lip until the pain swelled. I can’t put him at risk.
She rubbed the ache in her chest before she crumpled the paper and tossed it into the dustbin.
* * *