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I don’t want answers from you right now. In fact, I want you to take the rest of the day off. I want you to truly think about this and what it means for you, and not just give me the answer you assume I want to hear. Do you understand?”
Days Roman had lived that had once seemed dull and insignificant—the same routine, over and over—but were now comforting, spellbinding to rediscover.
Dear E., The problem is … I want to hear from you at all hours. I want to read your words. I am greedy for them. I am hungry for them.
He saw Iris again at the Gazette. Their battleground. She was leaving. She was quitting, and Roman didn’t know what to do, what to say to convince her to stay or why this truly mattered to him. He only knew that he felt most alive when she was near, and he stood before the doors and watched her walk to him. He sought to read every line of her expression, every thought flickering through her mind, as if she were a story on a page. He was desperate to know what she was thinking, what he could say to convince her to stay. Stay, Iris. Stay here with me.
He did recognize her, although it seemed pieces were still missing. “I’ve dreamt of you,” he said. “I think you and I were friends before I left for the war cause.” “Friends?” “Or enemies.” “You and I were never enemies, Kitt. Not exactly.” “Then were we something more?” Iris was quiet. She could feel the ache in her throat, how it brimmed with words she yearned to say but should probably swallow. In the end, she spoke them—in a husky whisper that he leaned closer to hear. “Yes. I’m your wife.”
Morgie was the name of your pet snail. (I will never grow tired of hearing all your “sad snail stories,” in case you were wondering.) Your middle name is Elizabeth, in honor of your nan. (Hi, E.) Your favorite season is autumn, because that is when you believe magic can be tasted in the air. (You have almost made me a convert.)
Dear Iris, Should I be surprised that I was falling in love with you a second time?
P.S. A typo? No, Winnow. I simply forgot to add a footnote, which should have read as: *outshine: transitive verb a. to shine brighter than b. to excel in splendor or showiness You remember how you said that word to me in the infirmary, post-trenches? You believed I had come to the Bluff to outshine you. And I would speak this word back to you now, but only because I would love to see you burn with splendor. I would love to see your words catch fire with mine.
In all my years, I have discovered that the most precious of things are often taken for granted, and that we tend to let time wheel forward at such a pace that we cannot catch every detail that makes the whole. We miss a multitude of opportunities, and so we ask ourselves, decades later, what could have been.
“I betrayed you,” Roman began, “because I love her.”
“You betrayed me for a woman?” Dacre said. “You are the greatest fool in my forces, as well as my greatest shame.” The words rolled off Roman. He smiled, feeling like he had swallowed a flame. It was lighting up his marrow. Illuminating his veins. “Oh, I would betray you a hundredfold,” he said, his voice rising. “I would betray you a thousandfold for her.”
“I don’t think we know what we’re made of until the worst moment possible happens. Then we must decide who we truly are and what is most important to us. I think we’re often surprised by what we become.”
I hope you know how proud I am of you, and how I think you are brave, returning to the front. I want to tell everyone I pass on the street that you’re my sister. That Iris E. Winnow of the Inkridden Tribune is my sister. Come home soon, Little Flower. I can’t wait to see you again. Love, your brother, Forest
