I’m not D.E.W., nor am I a goddess who possesses the enchantment of sending letters to someone who doesn’t want to read them. I must give credit to the wardrobe doors for that. But I know the history you touch, and the Third Alouette was crafted with magic, connected to two other typewriters. One was the First, which is now mine, and one was the Second, which I assume is now lost.
As long as you have a wardrobe door nearby and the Third Alouette in your possession, your letters will be able to reach me, even over great distances. Although I imagine you are busy, swept away by war efforts, most likely. And who has time to write letters to a stranger these days?
P.S. I seem to recall that you have yet to answer my three questions!
Iris sent the letter. She impatiently waited, the minutes passing as the night unfurled. She could suddenly feel her exhaustion, and she heaved a sigh, preparing to work on her article. But then paper whispered over the floor.
Roman replied with:
I realize I’ve come across as rude. Forgive me. One can’t be too careful these days when it comes to knowing who to trust, and your letter this morning jarred me.
I unfortunately don’t have the answers to your three questions, so I must have failed a test in your mind. Or simply made you realize that you are not writing to the person you hoped you had been, because the Third Alouette just came into my possession, and I don’t know who took care of her before me. For that, I’m sorry, but I will guard her carefully now.
All of this to say, thank you for sharing your insight about the typewriters. You may not be a goddess, but nor am I a god. Despite our mundane lives, perhaps we make our own magic with words.
Also, I never said I didn’t want to read your letters, now, did I?
—R.
P.S. If you and I are to keep corresponding, perhaps you could tell me how I should address you?
Iris stood, giving herself a moment. She chewed on a hangnail, trying to sort through the tumble of emotions, words, thoughts. Eventually, she couldn’t wait a moment longer and settled back down on her cushion. A flash of lightning lit up the chamber; thunder rumbled, shaking the walls.
Would it be too much to give her name? Even though she longed to?
What if her letters were confiscated? Would she be putting herself at risk if she typed out Iris? It was only four letters, and yet they felt far too dangerous to surrender.
Be cautious. Go slowly.
Iris sent a reply before she could doubt herself.
Dear R.,
Rest assured, you didn’t fail a test. I’m also careful when it comes to trust. But I must remind myself that sometimes we write for ourselves and sometimes we write for others. And sometimes those lines blur when we least expect them to. Whenever such happened in my past … I remember that I have only been strengthened by it.
P.S. You can call me Elizabeth.
PART TWO
Drawn to the Flame
{12}
A Captive Nightingale
The sun was shining and last night’s rain glimmered in shallow puddles when Tobias drove away from River Down. He carried Iris’s and Attie’s articles for Helena, as well as post from the town to be delivered in Oath.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he had said at the yard gate, his roadster shined and ready for the haul. “We’ll leave for Bitteryne first thing tomorrow.”
Iris nodded.
Attie only said, “The muddy roads won’t slow you down? It poured yesterday, in case you forgot.”
“I don’t forget anything,” he replied, opening the driver’s door. “And no, the roads won’t slow me down.”
The girls watched him depart, the familiar sound of the motor fading in the morning haze.
Iris glanced sidelong at Attie. “You’re worried he’ll get stranded?”
“No. I’m worried we’ll be stranded if he doesn’t make it back.” But Attie continued to stare down the street, her fingers gripping the iron scrollwork of the gate. “I’m going for a walk.”
Iris stood in the yard, until Attie was out of sight. Only then did she turn to the house, seeking Marisol. She found her in the backyard, kneeling in the garden with a pocket-sized book open on her lap.
“This is a lovely garden,” Iris said.
Marisol glanced up with a smile. But her eyes were bloodshot, as if she hadn’t slept the night before. Her dark hair was caught in a braided crown, and she was wearing a pair of work coveralls, stained with dirt.
“Yes, Lucy is an avid gardener. She inherited our aunt’s green thumb.” Marisol returned her attention to the book, her fingertips tracing the illustration of a bird on the page. “But I’m trying to identify this singer in the bushes. Do you hear him?”
Iris lowered herself down to her knees, listening. Over the clatter of a wagon on the neighboring street, and children calling to one another, she could hear a bird’s song. It was rich and melodic, full of trills and gurgles.
“He’s just there, in the thicket,” said Marisol.
Iris found him a moment later. A small bird with soft brown feathers was perched in the shrubbery at the back of the garden.
“I’ve never heard a bird sing like that.” Iris was spellbound, watching him warble again. “What is he?”
“A nightingale,” Marisol replied. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen or heard one, but when I was younger, I remember they would appear every spring in Avalon Bluff. I would often sleep with the windows open at night so I could hear their songs. I fell asleep to their tunes, dreamt of them sometimes.” She gently closed the book, as if lost in memory. But then she added, “Years ago, a study was done on nightingales, and quite a number were caught and put into captivity.”
“Why?” Iris asked.
“They wanted to trade the birds, as well as study their songs. Most of the nightingales died, but the ones who lived until autumn … they eventually killed themselves trying to escape, bashing their wings and their bodies against the cages that held them. They felt the need to migrate, and they couldn’t.”
Iris studied the nightingale in the bush. The bird had fallen silent, cocking his head to the side, as if he were also listening to Marisol’s doomed story. But then he gathered his wings and flew away; the garden felt quiet and wistful without his song.
“I’m sorry,” Marisol said, to Iris’s surprise. “About how I acted last night. We only have such a brief amount of time together and I feel like I ruined it.”
“Marisol,” Iris whispered, her throat narrow. She reached out to gently touch her arm.
“But then I woke up this morning and heard that nightingale sing in the garden, and it reminded me of my aunt’s story of the captive birds,” Marisol continued. “It reminded me that I cannot hold those I love in a cage, even if it feels like protecting them.”
She exhaled, as if a weight had fallen from her shoulders. And then she extended the book to Iris. It was small, the pages tinged caramel with age. A bird was embossed on the green cover.
“I’d like to give this to you, Iris.”
“I can’t take this,” Iris began to protest, but Marisol set it firmly in her hands.