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.”
