“Have you seen the conductor?” he asked.

She nodded toward the front of the train. Taking this for an answer, Svenson continued forward, but when he reached the head of the car the conductor was not there. Svenson slid open the door and stood in the cold, rushing air. Before him lay a narrow railed platform, the greasy coupling, beyond it the blank wall of the coal wagon, and beyond that the engine. The plume from the smokestack blew over him, suffusing the air with an acrid, moist, and smoky odor. Could the conductor have been behind him, in the second car? He made his way to the rear door and wrenched it open. Barring a leap from the railed platform to the ladder on the freight car, there was no exit here.

If the train had stopped… the conductor might have walked back to the caboose, or forward to the engine. But why, especially when new passengers had been taken on? Svenson re-entered their compartment and set the pistol (had he been waving it at the old woman?) onto a seat cushion. Where was the man?

ELÖISE ABRUPTLY gasped, as if waking from an especially fearful dream, her eyes snapping open.

“Francis?”

The name was a spike of ice in Svenson's heart.

“No, my dear,” he said. “It is Doctor Svenson.”

She did not hear him, her eyes still wide. She attempted to sit up and cried out. Svenson darted across to her, sank to his knees and eased one hand behind her head, and with the other caught the hand that sought to explore her bandages.

“You must not move,” he whispered to her. “Elöise—”

“Francis—”

“You have been stabbed. You very nearly died.”

He eased her back until her head lay fully on the seat once more, and squeezed her hand.

“You were very brave, and very fortunate the blade of glass penetrated only as far as it did. The blow was meant to kill.”

For the first time her eyes found his with recognition—his face, his hands, their physical proximity. Svenson stepped away at once. He waited for her to speak.

“We are on a train?”

“We are, from Karthe to the city.”

“You were in Karthe?”

“I was—quite luckily. My own story is too long to tell, and yet…” He took a breath. “Elöise, I must apologize. The peremptory—indeed, even cowardly—manner—”

“Where is Celeste?” asked Elöise, interrupting him.

“I have been waiting for you to tell me.”

“But she will be killed!”

“How? By whom?”

In answer, Elöise only groaned, for she had tried again to rise. Svenson caught her with both hands and eased her down.

“You have been stabbed. I have done what I can and the wound has closed, but it will tear if you—”

“She was in town—with them.” Elöise stifled a bitter cry. “It was my own fault—again—I went to a house… he was killed—”

“I know, my dear,” whispered Svenson, going so far as to brush the sweat-curled hair from her brow. “The poor boy had not even ten years—”

“No, no.” She shook her head. “Franck was dead. But we smelled him—and I thought I could lead him away from Celeste, that he might follow… I went to the train, to find help. But he did not follow. I was alone. I knew I should go back, to help her, to face him—”

Svenson nodded, finally catching up to her pronouns. “Francis Xonck.”

“But instead… instead… I hid under the train. I was afraid. And then I saw her, running past, and then men were shouting, and I stepped out—right into him. He chased me—” The words choked in her throat.

“There is no shame. Francis Xonck has this last day killed far too many to add you to that number—he near as did for me as well.”

“But…but—”

“You have survived. The wound is minor, but the properties of the glass are especially disagreeable to you. The men on the train thought you were dead.” On a sudden whim he opened his palm. “They gave me this.”

Elöise was silent. Doctor Svenson pressed the purple stone back into her hand, and once more stepped away.

“But Celeste had recovered?” he asked. “She came with you to the town, but then you separated?”

Elöise nodded. Despite his own guilt, Svenson could scarcely credit the decision to leave someone so recently ill alone. Yet he also knew Miss Temple enough to wonder if it had not been entirely Elöise's doing.

“She is… at times… willful.”

“She is a girl. It was entirely my fault. I was upset, about everything. You speak of cowardice—I could no more say the truth to Celeste than you could say it to me. And now—”

“If Miss Temple is left behind in Karthe, the best we can do for her is find our enemies. Both the Contessa and Francis Xonck were at the train. In his attack he may have mistaken you for her.”

Svenson paused and met her eyes, discomfort hardening his voice. “Did he speak to you?”

“No—it was too sudden—he caught me from behind—”

“But did he see you? What I mean—of course he saw you—but did he know you?”

“Why does that matter?”

“You are acquainted with the man—from before all of this, in the Trapping household.” The name stuck in Svenson's mouth like a too-large bite of unboned fish. “I promise you I do not care—it is no matter of feeling. The matter is Miss Temple's life… and ours.”

“I do not remember,” whispered Elöise.

“You do. You remember enough.”

“I cannot—”

“No, Elöise. You must.” His tone had grown sharp. “You took a lover—very well, we are adults, it is the world. But that man was Arthur Trapping. Or—yes, I am not a fool—that man was Francis Xonck. It is all done. What matters is your loyalty now, what we know now!”

“Loyalty? But—but they have tried to kill me—”

Svenson waved his hand angrily. “Who have they not tried to kill? How many of their own have they not sacrificed pell-mell, as if they were laying tricks at whist!”

“Abelard—”

Doctor Svenson stood. “You must hear me. I do not care for your past, save how it can help us now. As for the hole in your mind—to my mind it gives you a choice. If you were with them before—”

“I—I was not—I cannot have been—”

He overrode her words. “You have the opportunity for a clean slate. I will do all I can to help and protect you. If you will excuse me, I must locate our conductor.”

HE WHEELED from the compartment, blindly snatching up the pistol, his own idiotic words echoing in his head. He had only exposed himself as a jealous, bitter fool—and how many hours would they be on this godforsaken train together? Nor, with her injury, was there any credible way for him to once more, like a coward, leave her behind. He stepped into the next car, acutely aware of the eyes of each passenger—all seemed to have woken—sliding suspiciously over him as he passed. Still no sign of the conductor. Svenson stepped through the far door onto the platform.

The wind was freezing, and as he stood with his hands on the rail Svenson felt every bit as helpless as he was certain he appeared. He stared down at the black ties, flashing past so fast, and exhaled deeply, doing his level best to empty his heart along with his lungs. He breathed in the unmistakable odor of indigo clay.

He yanked the pistol from his belt, but all he could see was the night sky and the coal wagon. He crouched below the rail, sniffing again—faint, but any whiff of indigo clay was enough to prickle a man's throat… yet where was the source? He lifted his boots—something spilled onto the platform? No… it was from below. There were cross-braces under each car, and indigent fellows bold—or desperate— enough to travel that way… but how could he be smelling something under his own car with this wind, which ought to whisk any smell immediately behind them? Svenson screwed in his monocle, peering ahead, beneath the coal wagon. He could not see a damned thing.