Iris’s bird volume.
Roman picked it up, leafing through the old pages. He almost put it on the shelf with his other books, but he stopped himself at the last minute. This was such a tiny tome. Something he could easily carry with him. A tangible reminder of her.
He slipped it into his pocket.
He was opening his wardrobe door to find his jumpsuit when he felt the house shake. It was distinct enough to make him pause, a shudder crawling down his spine.
Roman walked from his room, listening to the sounds that echoed through the corridors. There were distant male voices, more shifting furniture, the sound of boots on hardwood floors.
He hurried down the hallway, stiff with trepidation.
His ankles popped as he descended the stairs, leaving the sleepy shadows of the upper story for the brightly lit ground floor, and he froze when he was five steps from the bottom, staring into the parlor.
The wardrobe door was wide open, chilling the air. But a fire was burning in the marble hearth. Officers and soldiers were milling about the chamber, moving the furniture so a table could be brought in. The war table, Roman recognized.
His hands curled into fists until he felt the bite of his nails, but the vision before him didn’t waver or break. It only came into sharper focus when he saw the servants carry in trays of coffee and scones, setting them down for the officers and soldiers to serve themselves. When he saw his father, standing off to the side with his mug of brandy-laced coffee, watching the activity with approval. When he saw Lieutenant Shane emerge from the under realm, carrying the typewriter.
Roman’s gaze fixed on that familiar black case, his distress surging on seeing the lieutenant handling it. He was devising a way to recover his typewriter when someone stepped into his view. Someone fair and tall with broad shoulders, flaxen hair, and eyes blue as the sky.
Dacre stood in the foyer, staring up at Roman on the stairs.
Their gazes met. Roman suddenly felt small and helpless. But his mind whirled, overcome with thoughts that only grew stronger the longer the silence stretched between them.
Has he come to wipe my memories again? Does he doubt me? Can he sense Iris’s presence on my skin?
“Hello Roman,” Dacre greeted him. “I see your father got my letter.”
{37}
Those Hidden Strings
Iris took the tram but decided to exit at the university stop. She walked along the street beneath a line of sycamore trees whose gnarled roots were pushing up through the cobblestones. The sun was still making its ascent, spangling the pavement as Iris brushed shoulders with students hurrying to class.
She turned a corner and approached Attie’s town house.
It was a three-story building, built of red brick, with navy shutters and an oakwood door embellished with carvings of the moon phases. Tendrils of ivy grew along its side, and flower boxes brightened the windows. Iris walked the stone path and up the porch stairs to ring the bell, noticing a few bicycles lying in the small grassy yard, as well as a kite with a knotted tail.
“I’ll get it!” someone cried from within, and Iris could hear the pattering of feet and the lock turning.
She smiled when she saw one of Attie’s younger sisters standing in the doorway. She wore a blue gingham dress and ribbons in her black hair.
“Hi,” the girl said. “You’re Thea’s friend, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Iris replied. “Is she home?”
“Thea! Thea! Your friend from the paper is here!”
There was the distant clink of dishes, a few more excited murmurs.
“Invite her in, Ainsley!” Attie hollered back.
Ainsley opened the door wider. “Come in.”
“Thank you.” Iris stepped over the threshold, but she waited until Ainsley had closed the door before she followed her down the hall.
Attie’s family was gathered at the table, finishing breakfast. The dining room was painted a dark blue, with constellations dabbed in silver, all the way to the ceiling. Maps and photographs were framed on the walls, as were a few colorful drawings. Books were piled at the back of a china cabinet, which held teacups as well as multiple pairs of binoculars.
It was a welcoming room, and Iris soaked in in. She realized a beat later that Attie’s five siblings and her parents were gazing up at her, expectant. Attie was the only one who continued eating, draining her tea and scraping the last of the butter off her plate with her toast.
“Would you like to join us, Iris?” Attie’s mother asked. She was already dressed for the day in a plaid dress, her curly black hair brushing the tops of her shoulders.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Iris said. “I was passing by the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by to see if Attie would like to walk to work together.”
One of Attie’s little brothers, who had an identical twin sitting beside him, laughed until Attie shot him a warning glance. It looked like he might have also been kicked beneath the table. Iris had no idea what that meant, and didn’t have time to dwell on it, because Attie’s father spoke.
“You’re not interrupting, Iris!” Mr. Attwood shifted the glasses on his nose. He had a rich, deep voice and a gentle smile. He reached for the teapot and said, “We have more than enough if you’re hungry.”
“Thank you, Mr. Attwood. But, truly, I’m fine.”
Attie stood from her chair with her empty plate in hand. “I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to show you something before work. Follow me.”
Iris waved to the family before following Attie into the kitchen.
Attie set down her dirty dishes. “Are you all right?” she whispered.
Iris blinked. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“You’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday.”
Iris opened her mouth, but before she could say a word, Ainsley came bursting into the kitchen carrying her own dishes. She took her time at the sink, casting a surreptitious glance their way, as if she wanted to hear everything they said. Iris was thankful for the interruption, although Attie only cocked her brow at her little sister.
“You wanted to show me something?” Iris reminded her.
“Hmm.” Attie led her down to the basement. It was cooler here, but just as cozy as the ground floor, with plush furniture, a purring cat—which Iris fondly recognized as Lilac, the feline Attie had saved from Avalon Bluff—on one of the cushions, and a host of paintings crowding the wall. A few paper stars hung from the ceiling, and Iris gazed up at them while Attie removed one of the hanging frames.
“Do you remember that story I told you, weeks ago on Marisol’s roof?” Attie said, carefully setting the oil painting of the ocean to the side.
Iris remembered every word. “Yes. You told me about your violin.”