Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)

by Rebecca Ross

“If my words have bewitched your son, then know that his possess the same magic for me,” she said, reflexively touching her wedding band again.

The tension clinging to Iris’s shoulders eased; she let the music trickle through her, and she didn’t realize how parched she was for the notes, how daily life had become a drought without the sound of strings to refresh the hours.

“I’m sorry.” Roman was uncertain how else to reply. “Is that what this war is about? A broken vow between you and her?” “It is about far more than that, but I don’t expect you to understand, given that you are mortal and unmarried. You’ve never uttered a vow, or felt it settle in your bones like magic. You’ve never sworn yourself to another.”

But it was a much different story when it came to mortal kind. You bleed and break. You crave sleep, even as it makes you vulnerable. You dream to make sense of the world you are in.”

“I will tell you what Alva told me long ago. For she has walked many mortal dreams. Sometimes your kind dreams of things you wish had happened. The images are wrapped up in your present emotions, or the troubles you are currently facing. Your envisioning of a little sister is a simple expression of how much you long for family, to be known. But that’s all it is: just a dream.”

The magic still gathers, and the past is gilded; I see the beauty in what has been but only because I have tasted both sorrow and joy in equal measures.

Dinner at Lucy’s was a singular affair. The kitchen tapers were lit, and golden light danced over the mismatched china and green glass stemware. Faint music flowed from a radio on the counter, the notes occasionally smudged by static. Marisol cut fresh roses from the garden, the first blooms of the season, and set them in old metal tins along the table spine. Bowls of food were passed around, and Iris filled her plate with fried fillet, green beans that had been canned the previous summer, pickled peaches and figs, roasted potatoes with generous heaps of butter, and sourdough bread.

To earn a cup of tea from her was a sign that one had earned her friendship and respect.

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.

Your favorite season is autumn, because that is when you believe magic can be tasted in the air.

We aren’t keeping tally, but your courage and your wit have kept you alive in a place where hearts have faltered and beat their last. You are the bravest person I know, Kitt.

*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.

“Have you read the page on the albatross?” “A few lines,” Iris replied. “I remember that they can sleep while flying.” “As well as fly into the strong wind of a storm, rather than having to avoid it and head to the shore like other birds would do,” Marisol said, snapping wrinkles from a blanket she found in the crate. “It’s safer for them to fly toward the storm than away from it, as counterintuitive as that may seem to us. But they can soar for thousands of kilometers without ever touching land, and they know their strengths. They lean into them in times of trouble.”

Their souls weren’t mirrors but complements, constellations that burned side by side.

There is no magic above or below that will ever steal this from me again.

You will regret breaking my bones. You will regret ever taking Iris from my mind. You will release something from my marrow that you will wish you had never touched.

“Write me a story where there is no ending, Kitt. Write to me and fill my empty spaces.”