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A review by loveclairee
Divine Rivals by Rebecca Ross
adventurous
challenging
dark
mysterious
tense
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
5.0
fave for 2023
▪ Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
▪ She would be mortified. He didn’t want to embarrass her, nor did he want to suffer a slow, painful death at her hands.
▪ but I think it’s better this way. That we keep our identities secret and just rest in the fact that some old magic is at play here, connecting our doorways.
But just in case you were wondering … I’ll gladly read whatever you write.
▪ “Autry pities me,” she echoed. “Why? Because I’m a low-class girl who’s out of her depth working for the press?”
“Winnow, I—”
“In your opinion, I should be washing dishes in a restaurant kitchen, shouldn’t I? Or I should be cleaning houses, on my hands and knees, polishing floors for people like you to walk over.”
▪ She took a step back. She didn’t want him to sense how badly his words wounded her. “I see. Well, it’s reassuring to know that if I get the position, it will only be due to pity. And if you get columnist, it will only be due to how much your rich father can bribe Autry to give it to you.”
▪ But just before he deigned to sip the wine, he met Elinor’s eyes. He saw a flicker of fear in her, and he realized she was just as trapped as he was.
▪ Not five minutes later, Roman walked into the office. He was dressed impeccably as usual, in a freshly starched shirt, leather braces on his shoulders, and black trousers without a speck of lint on their pressed front. His dark hair was slicked back, but his countenance was pale.
▪ “It feels like wearing shoes that are too small,” she whispered. “With every step, you notice it. It feels like blisters on your heels. It feels like a lump of ice in your chest that never melts, and you can only sleep a few hours at a time, because you’re always wondering where they are and those worries seep into your dreams. If they’re alive, or wounded, or sick. Some days you wish that you could take their place, no matter the cost. Just so you can have the peace of knowing their fate.”
▪ Do you ever feel as if you wear armor, day after day? That when people look at you, they see only the shine of steel that you’ve so carefully encased yourself in? They see what they want to see in you—the warped reflection of their own face, or a piece of the sky, or a shadow cast between buildings. They see all the times you’ve made mistakes, all the times you’ve failed, all the times you’ve hurt them or disappointed them. As if that is all you will ever be in their eyes.
How do you change something like that? How do you make your life your own and not feel guilt over it?
▪ I think we all wear armor. I think those who don’t are fools, risking the pain of being wounded by the sharp edges of the world, over and over again. But if I’ve learned anything from those fools, it’s that to be vulnerable is a strength most of us fear. It takes courage to let down your armor, to welcome people to see you as you are. Sometimes I feel the same as you: I can’t risk having people behold me as I truly am. But there’s also a small voice in the back of my mind, a voice that tells me, “You will miss so much by being so guarded.”
Perhaps it begins with one person. Someone you trust. You remove a piece of armor for them; you let the light stream in, even if it makes you wince. Perhaps that is how you learn to be soft yet strong, even in fear and uncertainty. One person, one piece of steel.
▪ And yet I keep moving forward. On some days, I’m afraid, but most days, I simply want to achieve those things I dream of.
▪ One person. One piece of armor. I’ll strive for this.
Thank you.
▪ Sometimes I’m afraid to love other people.
Everyone I care about eventually leaves me, whether it’s death or war or simply because they don’t want me. They go places I can’t find, places I can’t reach. And I’m not afraid to be alone, but I’m tired of being the one left behind. I’m tired of having to rearrange my life after the people within it depart, as if I’m a puzzle and I’m now missing pieces and I will never feel that pure sense of completion again.
▪ But time will slowly heal you, as it is doing for me. There are good days and there are difficult days. Your grief will never fully fade; it will always be with you—a shadow you carry in your soul—but it will become fainter as your life becomes brighter. You will learn to live outside of it again, as impossible as that may sound. Others who share your pain will also help you heal. Because you are not alone. Not in your fear or your grief or your hopes or your dreams.
You are not alone.
▪ “Don’t go, Iris,” he said.
▪ “Because I want to write about things that matter. I want my words to be like a line, cast out into the darkness.”
▪ Her heart quickened as she thought, It isn’t the wardrobes connecting us. It’s our typewriters.
▪ I wonder if this is how it feels to be immortal. You’re moving, but not really. You’re existing, but time seems thin, flowing like a current through your fingers.
I try to close my eyes and rest, but I’m too tempted to watch the world pass by my window. A world that seems endless and sprawling. A world that makes me feel small and insignificant in the face of its wildness.
▪ And I shouldn’t hope. I shouldn’t try to send this. I don’t even know your name.
But I think there is a magical link between you and me. A bond that not even distance can break.
▪ “Iris,” he spoke into the lamplight. “Iris, write to me.”
▪ “You’re finally putting my typewriter to good use, then,” she said. “I take it you’re writing to Daisy Winnow’s granddaughter?”
▪ “You’re finally putting my typewriter to good use, then,” she said. “I take it you’re writing to Daisy Winnow’s granddaughter?”
Roman hesitated but conceded to nod. “How did you know?”
“A mere hunch,” she replied. “Considering that Daisy and I were both determined to keep our typewriters in the family rather than surrender them to that pitiful excuse of a museum.”
▪ “I’ve seen endless things throughout my life, and I can tell you right now that this world is about to change. The days to come will only grow darker. And when you find something good? You hold on to it. You don’t waste time worrying about things that won’t even matter in the end. Rather, you take a risk for that light. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
▪ iris: transitive verb: to make iridescent.
▪ Damn, he was proud of her.
▪ Damn, he was proud of her.
There was no possible way this paper was going into the rubbish bin. Roman carefully folded it, hiding it in his jacket. As he hurried back to the Gazette, he couldn’t think of anything else save for Iris and her words.
▪ Keep writing. You will find the words you need to share. They are already within you, even in the shadows, hiding like jewels.
▪ She would know that handsome face anywhere.
It was Roman Confounded Kitt.
▪ ant to hurry into town. You shouldn’t have risked yourself for me, running into the open like that.”
“They would have dropped a bomb on you, Kitt. It would have most likely leveled the town.”
▪ “Don’t you ever do that to me again, Iris Winnow!” she cried. “Or else I’ll kill you myself, do you hear me?”
▪ “I beg to disagree. You were like wildfire in the field yesterday afternoon.”
▪ Roman gently removed her helmet. He caressed her hair; it was matted and gross and she longed for a proper shower and yet his touch was comforting.
▪ “If you die in this trench,” Iris said, “then I die with you. Do you understand? If you choose to simply sit here, I’ll have no choice but to drag you until Dacre arrives. Now, come on.”
▪ “There you are!” Marisol cried, and Iris worried she was in trouble until she realized that that Marisol was crying. Tears shone on her cheeks. “My gods, I have been praying every day for you!”
▪ “When’s the last time you ate, Iris?” Marisol asked, tenderly wiping her tears away. “Come, I’m taking you home and feeding you. And then you can take a shower and rest.”
She reached for Attie’s hand, holding both girls close.
Marisol led them home.
▪ Roman Kitt was Carver.
▪ “The C is for Carver,” Roman said, leaning closer to her. “My name is Roman Carver Kitt.”
▪ He wove his fingers into her hair and brought his mouth down to hers. Iris felt the shock ripple through her the moment their lips met. His kiss was hungry, as if he had longed to taste her for some time, and at first she couldn’t breathe. But then the shock melted, and she felt a thrill warm her blood.
She opened her mouth against his, returning the kiss. She felt him shiver as her hands raced up his arms, clinging to him. When he shifted their bodies, Iris sensed they were falling and she was utterly helpless to it until she felt the wall at her back. Roman pressed against her, his lean body blazing as if he had caught fire. His heat seeped into her skin, settled into her bones, and she couldn’t stop the moan that escaped her.
Roman cradled her face in his hands. Yes, he had wanted her for a long time. She could feel it in the way he touched her, in the way his lips claimed hers. As if he had endlessly imagined this moment happening.
Iris hardly knew the hour or the day or where they stood. They were both caught in a storm of their own making and she didn’t know what would happen when it broke. She only knew that something ached within her chest. Something that Roman must need, because his mouth and his breath and his caresses were trying to draw it from her.
▪ I am so afraid. And yet how I long to be vulnerable and brave when it comes to my own heart.
▪ “Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman echoed, and she shivered to hear her name in his mouth.
▪ “I don’t really care to write about the war,” he said. “Of course, I’ll do it because the Inkridden Tribune is paying me to, but I would much rather that your articles live on the front page. I would much rather read what you write. Even if they aren’t letters to me.” He paused, rolling his lips together as if he was uncertain. “That first day you were gone. My first day as columnist. It was horrible. I realized I was becoming someone I didn’t want to be, and it woke me up, to see your desk empty. My father has had my life planned for me, ever since I could remember. It was my ‘duty’ to follow his will, and I tried to adhere to it, even if it was killing me. Even if it meant I couldn’t buy your sandwich at lunch, which I still think about to this day and despise myself for.”
▪ “I don’t really care to write about the war,” he said. “Of course, I’ll do it because the Inkridden Tribune is paying me to, but I would much rather that your articles live on the front page. I would much rather read what you write. Even if they aren’t letters to me.” He paused, rolling his lips together as if he was uncertain. “That first day you were gone. My first day as columnist. It was horrible. I realized I was becoming someone I didn’t want to be, and it woke me up, to see your desk empty. My father has had my life planned for me, ever since I could remember. It was my ‘duty’ to follow his will, and I tried to adhere to it, even if it was killing me. Even if it meant I couldn’t buy your sandwich at lunch, which I still think about to this day and despise myself for.”
“Kitt,” Iris whispered. She tightened her hold on his hand.
“But the moment you walked away,” Roman rushed on, “I knew I felt something for you, which I had been denying for weeks. The moment you wrote me and said you were six hundred kilometers away from Oath … I thought my heart had stopped. To know that you would still want to write to me, but also that you were so far away. And as our letters progressed, I finally acknowledged that I was in love with you, and I wanted you to know who I was. That’s when I decided I would follow you. I didn’t want the life my father had planned for me—a life where I could never be with you.”
▪ “Marry me, Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman whispered, drawing back to look at her. “I want to spend all my days and all my nights with you. Marry me.”
▪ “Marry me, Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman whispered, drawing back to look at her. “I want to spend all my days and all my nights with you. Marry me.”
Iris, heart full of fire, framed his face with her hands. She had never been this close to someone, but she felt safe with Roman. And she had not felt such safety in a long time.
“Iris … Iris, say something,” he begged.
“Yes, I’ll marry you, Roman Carver Kitt.”
▪ “Marry me, Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman whispered, drawing back to look at her. “I want to spend all my days and all my nights with you. Marry me.”
Iris, heart full of fire, framed his face with her hands. She had never been this close to someone, but she felt safe with Roman. And she had not felt such safety in a long time.
“Iris … Iris, say something,” he begged.
“Yes, I’ll marry you, Roman Carver Kitt.”
Roman’s confidence returned, a flicker of a smile. She watched it in his eyes, like stars burning at eventide; she felt it in his body as the tension melted. He wove his fingers into her long, unruly hair and said, “I thought you’d never say yes, Winnow.”
▪ “But if that’s something you’re not ready for, then we can wait.”
▪ “But if that’s something you’re not ready for, then we can wait.”
She could hardly speak as she caressed his face. “I don’t want to wait. I want to experience this with you.”
She leaned down to kiss him again.
▪ She began to write, and the words felt slow and thick at first. But she fell into a rhythm with Roman, and soon her keys were rising and falling, the accompaniment to his, as if they were creating a metallic song together.
She caught him smiling a few times, as if he had been waiting to hear her words strike.
▪ “Iris,” said Roman, “you are worthy of love. You are worthy to feel joy right now, even in the darkness.
▪ “No,” Iris said, standing. Her gaze was on the garden, on the breeze that raked over it. “No, this is the evacuate siren.”
▪ “I came here for you, Iris,” Roman said. “If you stay behind, then so will I. I’m not leaving you.”
▪ Attie smiled, tugging on her hand. “I’m telling you that Roman Carver Kitt is in the garden, waiting to marry you.”
▪ “I pray that my days will be long at your side. Let me fill and satisfy every longing in your soul. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night. Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, until our bones return to dust. Even then, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”
▪ Dacre has been spotted. It’s time to retreat. It’s the beginning of the end.
▪ “Tomorrow,” Roman said, lacing his fingers with hers, “I want your hand to be in mine, no matter what comes. Just like this. We have to stay together, Iris.”
▪ She didn’t even remember ripping her fingers from Roman’s. Not until he knelt behind her on the kitchen floor and drew her into his arms, holding her back against his chest.
▪ She didn’t even remember ripping her fingers from Roman’s. Not until he knelt behind her on the kitchen floor and drew her into his arms, holding her back against his chest.
He was saying something to her. His voice was low but soothing in her ear. “We’ll get through this. Breathe, Iris. I’m here and we’ll get through this. Breathe.”
▪ She felt his hand tighten on hers, and she looked up to what remained.
The hill had been bombed.
▪ She held his steady gaze, waiting for the bomb to hit the ground between them.
▪ “Iris!” Roman shouted, tripping over the rubble to close the gap between them. “Iris, take my hand!”
▪ He took her hand. His grip was tight again, almost punishingly so, as his fingers wove with hers. I want your hand to be in mine, no matter what comes.
▪ “Stop fighting me!” he demanded. But he must have seen the fear that was shining within her, because his voice gentled. “Stop fighting me, Little Flower.”
▪ “Stop fighting me!” he demanded. But he must have seen the fear that was shining within her, because his voice gentled. “Stop fighting me, Little Flower.”
Her world cracked in two.
And yet … hadn’t she hoped for this?
She found his name, hidden deep in her heart. A name that burned her throat. “Forest?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it’s me. And I’m here to keep you safe. So stop fighting me and come on.” His hand found hers again, lacing their fingers. He tugged, expecting her to willingly follow him now.
▪ “I can’t leave him,” she panted. “He’s my husband! I can’t leave him. Forest, let me go. Let me go!”
▪ “Forest,” Iris whispered. “Why? Why Dacre?”
▪ Iris! Iris, it’s me, Kitt.
▪ Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
▪ She would be mortified. He didn’t want to embarrass her, nor did he want to suffer a slow, painful death at her hands.
▪ but I think it’s better this way. That we keep our identities secret and just rest in the fact that some old magic is at play here, connecting our doorways.
But just in case you were wondering … I’ll gladly read whatever you write.
▪ “Autry pities me,” she echoed. “Why? Because I’m a low-class girl who’s out of her depth working for the press?”
“Winnow, I—”
“In your opinion, I should be washing dishes in a restaurant kitchen, shouldn’t I? Or I should be cleaning houses, on my hands and knees, polishing floors for people like you to walk over.”
▪ She took a step back. She didn’t want him to sense how badly his words wounded her. “I see. Well, it’s reassuring to know that if I get the position, it will only be due to pity. And if you get columnist, it will only be due to how much your rich father can bribe Autry to give it to you.”
▪ But just before he deigned to sip the wine, he met Elinor’s eyes. He saw a flicker of fear in her, and he realized she was just as trapped as he was.
▪ Not five minutes later, Roman walked into the office. He was dressed impeccably as usual, in a freshly starched shirt, leather braces on his shoulders, and black trousers without a speck of lint on their pressed front. His dark hair was slicked back, but his countenance was pale.
▪ “It feels like wearing shoes that are too small,” she whispered. “With every step, you notice it. It feels like blisters on your heels. It feels like a lump of ice in your chest that never melts, and you can only sleep a few hours at a time, because you’re always wondering where they are and those worries seep into your dreams. If they’re alive, or wounded, or sick. Some days you wish that you could take their place, no matter the cost. Just so you can have the peace of knowing their fate.”
▪ Do you ever feel as if you wear armor, day after day? That when people look at you, they see only the shine of steel that you’ve so carefully encased yourself in? They see what they want to see in you—the warped reflection of their own face, or a piece of the sky, or a shadow cast between buildings. They see all the times you’ve made mistakes, all the times you’ve failed, all the times you’ve hurt them or disappointed them. As if that is all you will ever be in their eyes.
How do you change something like that? How do you make your life your own and not feel guilt over it?
▪ I think we all wear armor. I think those who don’t are fools, risking the pain of being wounded by the sharp edges of the world, over and over again. But if I’ve learned anything from those fools, it’s that to be vulnerable is a strength most of us fear. It takes courage to let down your armor, to welcome people to see you as you are. Sometimes I feel the same as you: I can’t risk having people behold me as I truly am. But there’s also a small voice in the back of my mind, a voice that tells me, “You will miss so much by being so guarded.”
Perhaps it begins with one person. Someone you trust. You remove a piece of armor for them; you let the light stream in, even if it makes you wince. Perhaps that is how you learn to be soft yet strong, even in fear and uncertainty. One person, one piece of steel.
▪ And yet I keep moving forward. On some days, I’m afraid, but most days, I simply want to achieve those things I dream of.
▪ One person. One piece of armor. I’ll strive for this.
Thank you.
▪ Sometimes I’m afraid to love other people.
Everyone I care about eventually leaves me, whether it’s death or war or simply because they don’t want me. They go places I can’t find, places I can’t reach. And I’m not afraid to be alone, but I’m tired of being the one left behind. I’m tired of having to rearrange my life after the people within it depart, as if I’m a puzzle and I’m now missing pieces and I will never feel that pure sense of completion again.
▪ But time will slowly heal you, as it is doing for me. There are good days and there are difficult days. Your grief will never fully fade; it will always be with you—a shadow you carry in your soul—but it will become fainter as your life becomes brighter. You will learn to live outside of it again, as impossible as that may sound. Others who share your pain will also help you heal. Because you are not alone. Not in your fear or your grief or your hopes or your dreams.
You are not alone.
▪ “Don’t go, Iris,” he said.
▪ “Because I want to write about things that matter. I want my words to be like a line, cast out into the darkness.”
▪ Her heart quickened as she thought, It isn’t the wardrobes connecting us. It’s our typewriters.
▪ I wonder if this is how it feels to be immortal. You’re moving, but not really. You’re existing, but time seems thin, flowing like a current through your fingers.
I try to close my eyes and rest, but I’m too tempted to watch the world pass by my window. A world that seems endless and sprawling. A world that makes me feel small and insignificant in the face of its wildness.
▪ And I shouldn’t hope. I shouldn’t try to send this. I don’t even know your name.
But I think there is a magical link between you and me. A bond that not even distance can break.
▪ “Iris,” he spoke into the lamplight. “Iris, write to me.”
▪ “You’re finally putting my typewriter to good use, then,” she said. “I take it you’re writing to Daisy Winnow’s granddaughter?”
▪ “You’re finally putting my typewriter to good use, then,” she said. “I take it you’re writing to Daisy Winnow’s granddaughter?”
Roman hesitated but conceded to nod. “How did you know?”
“A mere hunch,” she replied. “Considering that Daisy and I were both determined to keep our typewriters in the family rather than surrender them to that pitiful excuse of a museum.”
▪ “I’ve seen endless things throughout my life, and I can tell you right now that this world is about to change. The days to come will only grow darker. And when you find something good? You hold on to it. You don’t waste time worrying about things that won’t even matter in the end. Rather, you take a risk for that light. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
▪ iris: transitive verb: to make iridescent.
▪ Damn, he was proud of her.
▪ Damn, he was proud of her.
There was no possible way this paper was going into the rubbish bin. Roman carefully folded it, hiding it in his jacket. As he hurried back to the Gazette, he couldn’t think of anything else save for Iris and her words.
▪ Keep writing. You will find the words you need to share. They are already within you, even in the shadows, hiding like jewels.
▪ She would know that handsome face anywhere.
It was Roman Confounded Kitt.
▪ ant to hurry into town. You shouldn’t have risked yourself for me, running into the open like that.”
“They would have dropped a bomb on you, Kitt. It would have most likely leveled the town.”
▪ “Don’t you ever do that to me again, Iris Winnow!” she cried. “Or else I’ll kill you myself, do you hear me?”
▪ “I beg to disagree. You were like wildfire in the field yesterday afternoon.”
▪ Roman gently removed her helmet. He caressed her hair; it was matted and gross and she longed for a proper shower and yet his touch was comforting.
▪ “If you die in this trench,” Iris said, “then I die with you. Do you understand? If you choose to simply sit here, I’ll have no choice but to drag you until Dacre arrives. Now, come on.”
▪ “There you are!” Marisol cried, and Iris worried she was in trouble until she realized that that Marisol was crying. Tears shone on her cheeks. “My gods, I have been praying every day for you!”
▪ “When’s the last time you ate, Iris?” Marisol asked, tenderly wiping her tears away. “Come, I’m taking you home and feeding you. And then you can take a shower and rest.”
She reached for Attie’s hand, holding both girls close.
Marisol led them home.
▪ Roman Kitt was Carver.
▪ “The C is for Carver,” Roman said, leaning closer to her. “My name is Roman Carver Kitt.”
▪ He wove his fingers into her hair and brought his mouth down to hers. Iris felt the shock ripple through her the moment their lips met. His kiss was hungry, as if he had longed to taste her for some time, and at first she couldn’t breathe. But then the shock melted, and she felt a thrill warm her blood.
She opened her mouth against his, returning the kiss. She felt him shiver as her hands raced up his arms, clinging to him. When he shifted their bodies, Iris sensed they were falling and she was utterly helpless to it until she felt the wall at her back. Roman pressed against her, his lean body blazing as if he had caught fire. His heat seeped into her skin, settled into her bones, and she couldn’t stop the moan that escaped her.
Roman cradled her face in his hands. Yes, he had wanted her for a long time. She could feel it in the way he touched her, in the way his lips claimed hers. As if he had endlessly imagined this moment happening.
Iris hardly knew the hour or the day or where they stood. They were both caught in a storm of their own making and she didn’t know what would happen when it broke. She only knew that something ached within her chest. Something that Roman must need, because his mouth and his breath and his caresses were trying to draw it from her.
▪ I am so afraid. And yet how I long to be vulnerable and brave when it comes to my own heart.
▪ “Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman echoed, and she shivered to hear her name in his mouth.
▪ “I don’t really care to write about the war,” he said. “Of course, I’ll do it because the Inkridden Tribune is paying me to, but I would much rather that your articles live on the front page. I would much rather read what you write. Even if they aren’t letters to me.” He paused, rolling his lips together as if he was uncertain. “That first day you were gone. My first day as columnist. It was horrible. I realized I was becoming someone I didn’t want to be, and it woke me up, to see your desk empty. My father has had my life planned for me, ever since I could remember. It was my ‘duty’ to follow his will, and I tried to adhere to it, even if it was killing me. Even if it meant I couldn’t buy your sandwich at lunch, which I still think about to this day and despise myself for.”
▪ “I don’t really care to write about the war,” he said. “Of course, I’ll do it because the Inkridden Tribune is paying me to, but I would much rather that your articles live on the front page. I would much rather read what you write. Even if they aren’t letters to me.” He paused, rolling his lips together as if he was uncertain. “That first day you were gone. My first day as columnist. It was horrible. I realized I was becoming someone I didn’t want to be, and it woke me up, to see your desk empty. My father has had my life planned for me, ever since I could remember. It was my ‘duty’ to follow his will, and I tried to adhere to it, even if it was killing me. Even if it meant I couldn’t buy your sandwich at lunch, which I still think about to this day and despise myself for.”
“Kitt,” Iris whispered. She tightened her hold on his hand.
“But the moment you walked away,” Roman rushed on, “I knew I felt something for you, which I had been denying for weeks. The moment you wrote me and said you were six hundred kilometers away from Oath … I thought my heart had stopped. To know that you would still want to write to me, but also that you were so far away. And as our letters progressed, I finally acknowledged that I was in love with you, and I wanted you to know who I was. That’s when I decided I would follow you. I didn’t want the life my father had planned for me—a life where I could never be with you.”
▪ “Marry me, Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman whispered, drawing back to look at her. “I want to spend all my days and all my nights with you. Marry me.”
▪ “Marry me, Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman whispered, drawing back to look at her. “I want to spend all my days and all my nights with you. Marry me.”
Iris, heart full of fire, framed his face with her hands. She had never been this close to someone, but she felt safe with Roman. And she had not felt such safety in a long time.
“Iris … Iris, say something,” he begged.
“Yes, I’ll marry you, Roman Carver Kitt.”
▪ “Marry me, Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman whispered, drawing back to look at her. “I want to spend all my days and all my nights with you. Marry me.”
Iris, heart full of fire, framed his face with her hands. She had never been this close to someone, but she felt safe with Roman. And she had not felt such safety in a long time.
“Iris … Iris, say something,” he begged.
“Yes, I’ll marry you, Roman Carver Kitt.”
Roman’s confidence returned, a flicker of a smile. She watched it in his eyes, like stars burning at eventide; she felt it in his body as the tension melted. He wove his fingers into her long, unruly hair and said, “I thought you’d never say yes, Winnow.”
▪ “But if that’s something you’re not ready for, then we can wait.”
▪ “But if that’s something you’re not ready for, then we can wait.”
She could hardly speak as she caressed his face. “I don’t want to wait. I want to experience this with you.”
She leaned down to kiss him again.
▪ She began to write, and the words felt slow and thick at first. But she fell into a rhythm with Roman, and soon her keys were rising and falling, the accompaniment to his, as if they were creating a metallic song together.
She caught him smiling a few times, as if he had been waiting to hear her words strike.
▪ “Iris,” said Roman, “you are worthy of love. You are worthy to feel joy right now, even in the darkness.
▪ “No,” Iris said, standing. Her gaze was on the garden, on the breeze that raked over it. “No, this is the evacuate siren.”
▪ “I came here for you, Iris,” Roman said. “If you stay behind, then so will I. I’m not leaving you.”
▪ Attie smiled, tugging on her hand. “I’m telling you that Roman Carver Kitt is in the garden, waiting to marry you.”
▪ “I pray that my days will be long at your side. Let me fill and satisfy every longing in your soul. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night. Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, until our bones return to dust. Even then, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”
▪ Dacre has been spotted. It’s time to retreat. It’s the beginning of the end.
▪ “Tomorrow,” Roman said, lacing his fingers with hers, “I want your hand to be in mine, no matter what comes. Just like this. We have to stay together, Iris.”
▪ She didn’t even remember ripping her fingers from Roman’s. Not until he knelt behind her on the kitchen floor and drew her into his arms, holding her back against his chest.
▪ She didn’t even remember ripping her fingers from Roman’s. Not until he knelt behind her on the kitchen floor and drew her into his arms, holding her back against his chest.
He was saying something to her. His voice was low but soothing in her ear. “We’ll get through this. Breathe, Iris. I’m here and we’ll get through this. Breathe.”
▪ She felt his hand tighten on hers, and she looked up to what remained.
The hill had been bombed.
▪ She held his steady gaze, waiting for the bomb to hit the ground between them.
▪ “Iris!” Roman shouted, tripping over the rubble to close the gap between them. “Iris, take my hand!”
▪ He took her hand. His grip was tight again, almost punishingly so, as his fingers wove with hers. I want your hand to be in mine, no matter what comes.
▪ “Stop fighting me!” he demanded. But he must have seen the fear that was shining within her, because his voice gentled. “Stop fighting me, Little Flower.”
▪ “Stop fighting me!” he demanded. But he must have seen the fear that was shining within her, because his voice gentled. “Stop fighting me, Little Flower.”
Her world cracked in two.
And yet … hadn’t she hoped for this?
She found his name, hidden deep in her heart. A name that burned her throat. “Forest?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it’s me. And I’m here to keep you safe. So stop fighting me and come on.” His hand found hers again, lacing their fingers. He tugged, expecting her to willingly follow him now.
▪ “I can’t leave him,” she panted. “He’s my husband! I can’t leave him. Forest, let me go. Let me go!”
▪ “Forest,” Iris whispered. “Why? Why Dacre?”
▪ Iris! Iris, it’s me, Kitt.