She wrapped her legs around his waist, her skirt pooling on the desk. Over the papers and the books, the typewriter glinting as the table shuddered beneath them.
“Write me a story, Kitt,” she whispered, kissing his brow, the hollow of his cheeks. His lips and his throat, until she felt like love was an axe that had cleaved her chest open. Her very heart beating in the air. “Write me a story where you keep me up late every night with your typing, and I hide messages in your pockets for you to find when you’re at work. Write me a story where we first met on a street corner, and I spilled coffee on your expensive trench coat, or when we crossed paths at our favorite bookshop, and I recommended poetry, and you recommended myths. Or that time when the deli got our sandwich orders wrong, or when we ended up sitting next to each other at the ball game, or I dared to take the train west just to see how far I could go, and you just so happened to be there too.”
She swallowed the ache in her throat, leaning back to meet his gaze. Gently, as if he were a dream, she touched his hair. She smoothed the dark tendrils from his brow.
“Write me a story where there is no ending, Kitt. Write to me and fill my empty spaces.”
Roman held her gaze, desperation gleaming in his eyes. An expression flickered over his face, one she had never seen before. It looked like both pleasure and pain, like he was drowning in her and her words. They were iron and salt, a blade and a remedy, and he was taking a final gasp of air.
Please, Iris prayed, drawing him closer. Don’t let this be the end.
But it made their joining all the sweeter, all the sharper, with skin glistening like dew, with breaths ebbing and flowing, their names turned into ragged whispers.
To write the story they both wanted that night.
To think it could be their last.
{45}
A Hundredfold, a Thousandfold
Roman knew he had stayed out too late. He tried not to dwell on the consequences as he walked Iris home, one hand woven with hers, the other holding her jacket-wrapped sword. The streets were emptier than he had anticipated—even the Graveyard kept to their dens that night, as if they sensed the end was near. A slight rumble in the ground coaxed people to draw the curtains, lock the door, and curl up close to the ones they loved.
Iris’s flat came into view just as it began to mist. The lights glimmered like fallen stars, and Roman stopped between streetlamps, in a velvet patch of shadow. But he could still see Iris, faintly. The way the mist gathered, iridescent in her hair. How her eyes shined, and her lips parted as she gazed up at him.
“Do you want to come inside?” she asked. “Forest is there. I’m sure he’d like to say hello.”
Roman shifted, uncomfortable. He had conflicted feelings about Forest, but he didn’t want Iris to know that. The main issue being how he had watched Forest drag her along unknowingly during the bluff attack. How Forest had intentionally run from Roman, separating him from Iris.
And yet after living among Dacre’s forces, disoriented and lonely, carrying wounds that still ached … Roman understood things better. He felt like he had only been looking at life through a periscope before. And now he saw how vast the horizon was. There was also the fact that Roman, in a strange way, felt like he knew Forest, from all of Iris’s letters in the beginning.
“I’m afraid I need to get back,” he said, which was the truth. “But I’d like to see Forest soon. Perhaps we can go to the Riverside Park together?”
The park, which might be demolished by tomorrow evening.
Iris nodded, but Roman could see her swallow. He couldn’t tell if there were tears in her eyes, but he could feel his own sting in warning.
He kissed her goodbye. And he wanted to be gentle, but it was a clash of their mouths, nips with their teeth and gasps that made a shiver trace his bones. He felt Iris cling to him, and he knew if he didn’t pull away from her that instant, he never would. He would follow her into her flat. He would peel away their damp clothes and lie beside her in bed. He would hold her to his heart and pray the morning never came.
“Goodnight, Winnow,” he whispered, setting the sword in her hands. He took a step back, surprised how the distance made it feel like a rib had cracked. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“All right,” Iris said.
Neither of them moved. They had forged a plan to meet up in the north side of town, Iris and Attie using Dacre’s invitation for safety as a cover. Roman would hopefully have the key the girls needed to hand off to them at half past eleven. If he failed to snag it, then they would fall back to the only option they had: Roman would sneak them into the mansion and clear the way to the parlor door.
“I’ll wait here,” Roman said. “Until you make it safely inside.”
Iris took a step away, still facing him.
He watched as the lamplight gilded her, then she turned and hurried up the stairs to the apartment. He watched, hands in his pockets, heart in his throat, until he made sure Iris had entered her flat and closed the door behind her.
Only then did he surrender to the shadowed streets, heading north of the river.
To the place that he called home but felt like the furthest thing from it.
* * *
All right.
That empty phrase had been the last words she said to him.
Iris felt numb as she stepped inside the flat, locking the door behind her.
All right, as if they were meeting up for tea tomorrow. As if the world wasn’t about to collapse and burn.
“Iris? Is that you?”
She snapped out of her daze when she heard Forest’s voice drifting from the kitchen.
“Yes.” She set the sword on the sideboard and hurried to meet him in the center of the room, letting him sweep her up off her feet in a bear hug. The air was squeezed out of her; Iris almost laughed. It reminded her of the embraces he used to give her in the old days, when their mother was still with them. Before things had fallen apart.
“Gods, Iris.” Forest set her back down, cradling her face in his calloused hands. “I was worried about you.”
“I know, but I’m fine.” She smiled to reassure him. “Just a few scratches on my knees.”
She had called the mechanic shop that morning from the Tribune telephone, knowing news of the Green Quarter bombing was going to spread. She had never heard Forest’s voice shake like it had on the line, and she felt guilty that she was getting home so late.
“Is Prindle here?” she asked.
“No, she’s with her family tonight. And you should have been home hours ago.”
“I had something urgent to deliver to the printer. It took longer than I expected.” She walked to her room, thoughts tangling together. “And there’s something I need to tell you, but let me change my clothes first.”
“Funny you say that,” Forest said. “Because I have news for you as well.”
Why did Iris’s heart twist? Why did she assume it was something bad?