Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, Book 2)

They rolled into River Down on fumes.

It was late afternoon and scathingly sunny. Not a cloud was in the sky, and Iris shielded her eyes as Tobias shifted the roadster to a low, rumbling gear. The town was teeming with soldiers and lorries, making it difficult to navigate the winding roads. Enva’s brigade had arrived hours ago, it seemed, settling in wherever space could be found—street corners, backyards, the mossy riverbanks, the city square. The town’s citizens were a stark contrast as they carried out hot meals and coffee and washed laundry, hanging it to dry on clotheslines.

Iris watched it all with vague interest. Her mind felt kilometers away, as if she had left it behind in that wardrobe. In that strange, torch-lit room with Roman.

When Tobias at last parked in front of Lucy’s home, Iris snapped out of her daze. It had been a while since she had slept soundly or eaten a proper meal. None of them in the roadster had, letting their exhaustion and hunger grow long and sharp as fangs within them. There was no time to rest, hardly time to eat. Not with the hounds and an angry god behind them. Tobias had only stopped in Bitteryne to refill the petrol and to let Iris and Attie snag some sandwiches and a thermos of coffee from Lonnie Fielding before they were on the road again.

Attie opened the car’s back door. Iris followed her out, wincing when her feet touched the cobblestones. She hadn’t realized how sore and battered she was until she had stood and was moving again, forcing needlelike blood into her feet.

To Iris’s shock, Lucy was standing on the front porch like a statue, gazing at them. No, it was more like a scowl, and Iris braced herself as Marisol’s sister descended the steps and approached them. She was wearing a black blouse, dark brown trousers, and tightly laced boots that squeaked.

Iris waited, preparing herself for a scolding, but the lines in Lucy’s brows gentled.

“You three all right?” she asked gruffly.

“We’re alive,” Attie said.

Lucy was silent, but her blue eyes rushed over them, as if searching for wounds. Her gaze lingered a bit too long on Iris’s face, and Iris resisted the temptation to touch her tousled hair, her sunburned cheeks, her chapped lips. She knew she must look awful, and she was about to apologize for her appearance when Lucy spoke.

“Come inside,” she said in a softer tone. “I have a pot of tea and some biscuits waiting for you.”

Marisol and Keegan were truly what were waiting inside, sitting at the kitchen table. Their hands were laced together, their heads bent close to each other as they conversed.

Marisol must not have heard the roadster park on the curb like Lucy had, because she glanced up and gasped when she saw Tobias, Attie, and Iris step into the kitchen.

“Are you hurt?” she demanded, standing in a rush. “Keegan told me the three of you showed up in Hawk Shire, after you told me you wouldn’t pass Winthrop!” But there was hardly any bite in her words, only relief as she embraced the three of them at once, gathering them as a hen does its chicks, warm beneath her wings.

“We’re fine,” Iris said, inadvertently meeting Keegan’s sharp gaze over Marisol’s shoulder.

The brigadier rose from the table but remained silent.

Marisol swung back around, fire in her eyes. “You told me they were in the procession, Keegan. You told me they were safe.”

Lucy set the kettle on the stove, but her eyes darted back and forth, taking note of everything.

“We had an agreement,” Keegan said calmly. If Marisol was fire, she was water. “What happened?”

“A flat tire,” Tobias answered. “We were able to fix it in time but some of Dacre’s soldiers saw us retreat.” He glanced at Iris, as if uncertain what else to say.

Keegan noticed.

“Iris?” the brigadier said.

Iris cracked her knuckles. “Dacre set his hounds loose.”

The kitchen fell deathly quiet. Not even the birds sang their melodies from the backyard.

Marisol laid her hand over her throat, as if hiding the erratic beat of her pulse, and finally said, “The hounds? The hounds chased you?”

“Bexley outran them in his roadster,” Attie stated. Her shoulder was close to Tobias’s; there was only a fraction of space between their fingers, hanging at their sides. “We have all the dents and mud to prove it.”

“There shouldn’t be any dents or mud to prove it,” Marisol said, her cheeks flushing. “There shouldn’t be any hounds, or eithrals, or bombs. You should get to be children, young people, adults who can dream and love and live your lives without all of this … horrible mess.”

Once more, the kitchen fell silent. A breeze stirred the curtains from the open window, and it was a soft reminder of constancy. The sun would continue setting and rising, the moon would persist in waxing and waning, the seasons would bloom and molt, and the war would still rage until one god or both fell to their grave.

The tense lull finally broke when the kettle began to hiss. Lucy moved to tend to it.

“Mari,” Keegan whispered gently.

Marisol sighed, but despair passed over her expression, as if she had been struck by an arrow and didn’t know how to pull it free from her bones. Iris understood, because she felt it also—that heavy, terrible sorrow—but the words were thick, catching behind her teeth. She swallowed them back down and told herself she would type them all out later. When it was dark. When it was just her and the keys and a blank page, waiting for her to mark it with ink.

“Join us at the table,” Marisol said. “I know I cannot keep you safe or protect you from the worst of this war. But for now, let me feed you. I know you must be hungry.”

After Lucy’s perfectly brewed tea and a ham-and-mustard sandwich from Marisol, Iris retreated with her typewriter to the laundry room.

It felt odd to be here again, the sunset staining the windowpanes, the laundry hanging like ghosts. The wardrobe waiting for her to kneel before it.

Iris set down the typewriter case. She lowered herself to her knees, feeling the sting of her bruises and scabs. Slowly, she unlocked the First Alouette. The keys gleamed in response, as if beckoning her to write. And yet Iris realized she didn’t know where to begin. She was gripped by a sudden wave of grief and covered her face with her hands, tasting traces of dirt, metal, and rye on her palms.

Over the uneven rhythm of her breath, she heard a familiar sound.

Iris wiped her eyes and glanced up to see two different letters waiting for her at the wardrobe door. There was no way for her to know what she was about to read. Something wonderful or something that would shred her heart even further.

She steeled herself for anything, unfolding the closest page to read:

1. 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.)
2. Your middle name is Elizabeth, in honor of your nan. (Hi, E.)
3. 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.)

She paused in shock, staring at Roman’s typed words. It was the answers to the three questions she had sent days ago.

A pang scraped along her ribs. She was ravenous for more and swiped the next letter, unfolding it in her hands. She read:

It would be remiss of me not to return the same unto you, so let me ask my questions, as if I am sowing three wishes into a field of gold, or conjuring a spell that requires three answers from you in order for it to be whole:

1. How do I take my tea?
2. What is my middle name?
3. What is my favorite season?

P.S. Apologies for stealing two of your questions. Quite unoriginal, I know, but I don’t think you’ll mind.

Iris smiled. She typed her reply effortlessly, and sent:

Three questions, three answers. Here is the second half of the spell you ask for:

1. You prefer coffee, not tea. Although I saw you drink it enough times at the Gazette, and you only put in a spoonful of honey or sugar. No milk.
2. Carver. (Or should I affectionately say “C.”?)
3. Spring, because that is when baseball returns. (Confession: I know next to nothing about this sport. You will have to teach me.)

Iris hesitated. She wanted to say more but held back, still uncertain. How much did he remember? But she closed her eyes and imagined him sitting in that strange bedchamber far away, typing by firelight. Her wedding ring slipped onto his littlest finger, guiding him to regather all the moments Dacre wanted him to forget.

She sent her letter through the wardrobe and waited. Night had almost fallen and the house beyond the laundry room suddenly became alive with voices, footsteps, and the clink of dishes. The scent of mutton stew and rosemary bread wafted down the hallway, and Iris knew one of the platoons had arrived at Marisol and Lucy’s to be fed that evening.

Iris remained on the floor, fingers drumming across her knees.

At last, Roman replied.

Dear Iris,

Should I be surprised that I was falling in love with you a second time? Should I be surprised that your words found me here, even in the darkness? That I’ve been carrying your E. letters close to my heart like they are a shield to protect me?

I know we are no longer rivals, but if we are keeping tally like the old days, you have far outshined* me with your wit and your courage. Which reminds me of one simple thing: how I love to lose to you. How I love to read your words and hear the thoughts that sharpen your mind. And how I would love to be on my knees before you now, surrendering to you and you alone.

For the past few weeks, I thought you were nothing more than a dream. A vision that my scrambled mind created to process the trauma I couldn’t even remember. But the moment I touched you, I remembered everything. And now I see that all this time, every night when I dreamt, I was trying to bring all the pieces back together. I was trying to find my way back to you.

I don’t know where you are now. I don’t know how many kilometers have come between us again, and I don’t know what awaits us in the days ahead, but I will give you as much information as I can so long as you promise me that you will be very careful. I know this is a strange thing to say—we are a country at war, and nowhere is safe. All of us must risk and sacrifice something dear to us—and yet I could not bear it if corresponding with me brings the end for you or gives you a burden that is too heavy to bear.

If you agree to this, write me back. If you don’t agree, still write me back. I want to know your thoughts. I confess that I am hungry for your words.

Love,

Kitt

Dear Kitt,

Your words have moved me, deeply. I also hunger for them, for you, and feel as if I could devour tomes of your writing and never be satiated. These letters will hold me over until we meet again.

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.

And I do agree to what you ask, but only because you seem to have stolen the words from my mouth. You are in a precarious position—far more than me—and giving up Dacre’s movements and tactics is something I dread to ask you to do, even as it feels inevitable. It seems like this is the road we were destined to travel, you and I, given our typewriters and where we are. But I want, more than anything, to keep you safe. To protect you as best I can from afar.

Whatever information you come across that you want to provide, you can send it to me if you promise to be careful in return. That you will destroy all my letters as soon as you read them, so they cannot be traced to you. Perhaps you and I can help shorten this war, or at least dare to change the course of the tides. Or maybe that is too much to hope for. But I find that I am leaning more on the side of impossibility these days. I am leaning toward the edge of magic.

Love,

Iris

P.S. I noticed there was an asterisk by the word “outshine” in your previous letter. A typo?

My Dear Iris,

Agreed. Let us dare to change the tides. Write to me and fill my empty spaces.

Love,

Kitt

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.