Page 35 of Iron Roses

“What is this?” she asks me gently, stepping closer, her hands ghosting toward mine like she isn’t sure whether to touch me.

“I don’t…” I shake my head, heart thumping. “I don’t remember.”

Lorenzo lets out a short, humorless laugh, but it’s bitter, not amused. “Convenient.”

“It’s the truth.” I hear myself say it, but even to me it sounds thin. I press my fingers to my temple again, trying to force the memory forward, but all I get is static.

Allegra looks over her shoulder at Lorenzo.

“She won’t wander again,” she promises.

Lorenzo stares between us, jaw flexing. For a second, I think he might keep going—push harder, accuse me of lying. But then he nods once and turns on his heel.

The door closes behind him harder than necessary.

I sag. Allegra’s hand touches my elbow.

I don’t realize how tightly I’ve been holding myself until I start to unravel under her touch.

Without a word, she reaches into her coat. Something worn and leather-bound emerges, edges scuffed, the spine slightly cracked. The journal.

My father’s.

She holds it out to me.

“I told you I’d find it,” she says quietly.

I take it with both hands, cradling it like something fragile. Like it might shatter if I breathe wrong. “Thank you.” My voice is threadbare.

Allegra’s expression hardens, though not unkindly. “Don’t thank me. Just don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

I glance up, uncertain.

“I’m working to get you out of Australia,” she continues, her tone low but firm. “I’ve got my eyes on Italy. Maybe Russia. I’ve got friends who owe me favors. People who can keep you invisible.”

A pause. Her fingers twitch at her sides.

“But you need to keep your head down until then. No wandering.”

I nod. She studies my face a moment longer before finally turning toward the hallway.

She walks me to my room in silence.

As we reach my door, Allegra hesitates. Her hand grazes the frame, and for the first time, her voice softens—not with caution, but something close to compassion.

“I know this must be hard. Confusing. But in a few days, this will all be a dream.”

I clutch the journal to my chest. My mouth opens before I can stop it.

“What about my father?” The words slip out, cracked and small. “His body, I—”

It fractures something in me to say it. The image of his blood seeping into carpet flickers in my mind, followed by the awful silence after. Allegra doesn’t answer at first.

“They took his body,” she says finally. “I have no idea what they’ll do. I’m sorry.”

A sharp breath escapes me. I nod, barely, because if I say anything more, I’ll break.

She turns and walks away.

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