Roman stood in the upstairs room of a farmhouse, gazing out the window as evening spilled across the sky like ink. This was their stop for the night, a stone-walled house with a thatched roof and crooked floors, with a barn and sheds scattered around the muddy yard. A halfway point to their next destination, and a place abandoned not so long ago by its tenants.
One of the platoons had found preserves and smoked meat in the cellar. The soldiers had filed through the kitchen, jubilant and hungry for pickled beets and onions and pork links, and now they were camped in the farmyard with makeshift tents and campfires. Even Roman had devoured the food dished onto his plate; it had been a while since he had fully calmed the gnawing ache in his stomach.
He turned away from the window, studying the room Dacre had given him for the night. It must have belonged to the farmer’s daughter. The walls were covered in floral wallpaper, and there was a vast collection of poetry books on the fireplace mantel. The wardrobe was brimming with pastel dresses and blouses, and Roman studied the garments, unable to describe the twinge of sadness he felt.
What had happened to these people? Where had they gone?
He thought about the letter, tucked away in his pocket like a secret.
Roman read the three odd questions again before he set the paper down on the bedroom desk. His typewriter was waiting on the wood, the keys glinting in the candlelight. When the first stars burned through dusk, he began to type.
It felt good to write to someone, even if they were nameless. And he wanted answers. It would be wiser if he gathered useful information for Dacre before sharing the mysterious letter with him, and Roman was glad he had trusted his intuition to wait earlier.
Finished, he pulled the paper free and felt a tingling shock down his arm. This felt like a memory. Something he had done, time and time again. It was comforting, and he let himself follow those old movements.
Before he could think better of it, Roman folded the paper and slipped his letter beneath the wardrobe door.
* * *
Dinner at Lucy’s was a singular affair. The kitchen tapers were lit, and golden light danced over the mismatched china and green glass stemware. Faint music flowed from a radio on the counter, the notes occasionally smudged by static. Marisol cut fresh roses from the garden, the first blooms of the season, and set them in old metal tins along the table spine. Bowls of food were passed around, and Iris filled her plate with fried fillet, green beans that had been canned the previous summer, pickled peaches and figs, roasted potatoes with generous heaps of butter, and sourdough bread.
Lucy, who Iris had come to learn was the direct opposite of Marisol, poured milk into everyone’s goblets before she settled at the head of the table. She was tall, fair-headed, with freckled skin and shrewd gray eyes. She seemed to wear a perpetual frown, but Marisol had warned Iris that her sister was reserved and wary to trust strangers. To earn a cup of tea from her was a sign that one had earned her friendship and respect.
“I love this song,” Attie said, tilting her head toward the radio.
It was a melancholy score, made even more so because parts of it were missing. Iris knew only because she had heard this song before. The strings were culled from it, all due to the recent ban in the city. The law had been the chancellor’s way of curbing Enva’s magical abilities with her harp, but Iris considered it a restriction built on fear. Fear of losing control and power. Fear of watching the truth about the war and what was to come spread across Oath.
“G.W. Winters,” Lucy said, snapping wrinkles from her napkin. “One of the greatest composers of our time.”
“You know of her?” Attie asked.
“I do. I attended a few of her concerts back in the day when I lived in Oath. Marisol accompanied me once.”
“That was a night to remember,” Marisol said. “Everything that could have gone wrong did.”
“Save for the music,” Lucy countered.
“We’re lucky to be alive.”
“A touch dramatic, wouldn’t you say, little sister?”
Marisol glared, but she couldn’t maintain the facade for long. Her lips betrayed her with a smile, and then she laughed.
“I think this is a story that should be shared,” Iris said, glancing between the sisters.
“Only if I can tell it.” Lucy held up her goblet of milk.
“Fine,” Marisol sighed, but she sounded amused. “I get two interjections, though.”
“Deal.”
Their banter was interrupted by a startling trio of beeps on the radio.
Iris turned to look at it, a chilled silence settling over the table.
“We interrupt tonight’s broadcast to share an important message from Chancellor Verlice,” a monotone voice said through the box. “All visitors to Oath must register their presence in the city, as well as that of their family members, with the Commonwealth Ministry. Please bring a form of identification as well as all pertaining relatives to be photographed for our records. Thank you for your attention and cooperation, and tonight’s broadcast will now continue.”
The music resumed—woodwinds and brass and percussion—but no one moved. Iris released a shaky exhale, her appetite gone. She glanced around the table, noticing the deep furrow in Lucy’s brow, the tense posture of Marisol’s shoulders. Attie looked troubled, and Tobias was scowling.
“By visitors they mean refugees,” Marisol said. “People fleeing to escape the war.”
“Have there been many refugees coming to River Down?” Iris asked.
“We’ve had a few families arrive over the past week,” Lucy replied. “But I imagine that number will only increase when Dacre begins to march. We’re prepared to help house and feed as many people as we can.”
“Last we heard, Dacre was sitting on Avalon Bluff,” Attie said. “Like a hen on a nest. Biding his time for reasons we can only dread.”
“Keegan wrote to me not long ago,” Marisol said. “She said Enva’s forces have retreated to Hawk Shire but she expects they’ll be marching farther east soon. Scouts have reported that Dacre has recovered enough soldiers now to make his next assault. She told me to prepare for things to turn quickly, even here, deep in the east. I don’t think you should mention this in your articles, Iris and Attie, and I don’t want to scare you, but Keegan said she doesn’t think her forces can hold Dacre off again if he makes a hard press for Oath. His army has grown considerably, and he’s been able to take these small towns of the boroughs with terrible ease.”
Iris was quiet as she met Attie’s gaze.
“How far does Helena have you three traveling?” Lucy asked.
When the girls hesitated, Tobias replied, “She asked me to drive them no further than Winthrop.”
“Winthrop!” Marisol cried. “That’s far too close to the front, especially if something happens overnight. Winthrop is just a stone’s throw from Hawk Shire.”