The weather has been bad for days and I am about to succumb to ennui.

  The train sways and creaks, battered by freezing wind. The warmth of the air inside, combined with the passengers’ breath, fogs the windows, which is just as well. This part of the route is always a slog, even in good weather. If we could see the landscape we’d see only mud and weeds and the occasional jagged splinters of slowly disintegrating walls — all that remains of long abandoned houses.

  I barely notice the train’s agitation. After 20 years of working and eating and sleeping to the rhythm of its constant motion, it’s the feel of unmoving earth beneath my feet that always leaves me a little off balance.

  I’m in one of the dining cars, curled up in a booth and trying to read a novel but the words on the page glance off my brain like a smooth pebble skipping across a pond. Two booths over, Sakari and a few others are playing a lively card game. I want tea but the kitchen is dark and cold.

  Unable to shake my listlessness I wander through the cars until I reach the observatory and find it pleasantly empty, thanks to the weather. The wind is beginning to die down, but it’s too dark and raining too heavily for the view to be worth anything.

  The seats in the observatory are comfortable sofas, arranged to face the curved windows, their high backs forming the aisle that allows passenger traffic to move between the cars. I sink into one of these and lean back, closing my eyes and allowing the warm darkness and quiet patter of rain on the glass to lull me to sleep.

  When I wake, I’m not sure how much time has passed. The rain has stopped, its rhythmic noise replaced by the sound of hushed voices from the couch on the opposite side of the aisle to mine. I consider briefly whether to announce my presence. If some lover’s tryst is interrupting my nap, things could get uncomfortable for everyone (assuming it isn’t already too late). Although now that I’m paying attention, there is a sharp edge to the whispers that suggests an argument rather than anything amorous.

  “…did what I could.”

  I try for far too long to place the voice. I’m certain it’s someone I know. Lucas? Yep, Lucas. The doe-eyed boy who follows Nevalya around like he’s on an invisible leash.

  “…not the time to second guess.”

  Nevalya’s voice I recognize at once and all thoughts of announcing myself flee. Nevalya hissing secrets at someone in the dark just does not bode well for anyone. I strain to pick up more of the conversation but can still only catch a few words here and there over the ever-present clacking and creaking of the train.

  “…seems kind of fucked…” and “…I told you because…” and, “…so far up the Conductor’s ass…”

  That bitch is talking about me.

  I choose not to think too hard about what recognizing myself in that remark says about me.

  Why would they be talking about me?

  The train must pass into the leeward side of a mountain at this point because the noise of the wind and rain dies down suddenly and I hear Nevalya’s next words more clearly.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it weren’t important.”

  Well that sounds ominous.

  “It’s the only…”

  The train emerges from the protection of the mountain and the rain picks up its beat against the windows.

  “…about his magic.”

  The mention of magic triggers a small alarm in the back of my mind. It’s not unusual for passengers to speculate about Charlie’s magic; he’s the only mage on the train, which is of course why he is the Conductor, and no one has ever seen him actively perform it. Like everyone else in Salus, magic trickles down to us in the form of modules—little plastic packages produced by the Committee and containing concentrated spells or something that we then apply wherever magic is needed. We use mods for everything from body modifications to keeping coffee hot, when we can afford them.

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  It’s strictly against Committee protocols to work live magic in front of civilians, except on occasions of state when they want to put on a show. As a result, we are endlessly fascinated by the knowledge that it can be worked. But Nev whispering in a distinctly scheme-like tone about it is an entirely different story.

  I strain to pick up more of the conversation but the noise of the train muffles their voices too much to make anything else out. It’s enough though, to solidify that cold feeling I’ve been getting from Nevalya. I don’t know what she’s up to, but it’s certainly not nothing.

  I’m feeling more sane in the morning light as I duck into the dining car and take a deep breath. Something smells good in here. Like blueberries baked into something sweet. Blueberry scone days are few and far between, thanks to the scarcity of fresh fruit anywhere outside the Citadel.

  I approach the counter that forms a rectangle in the center of the car and grin at Carlisle, who moves around with practiced ease in the narrow gap between countertops.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  He grins back and shrugs. “Had to thaw the blueberries eventually, might as well do it today.”

  “You, sir, are a wonder.” I wrap my fingers around the warm coffee mug Carlisle slides across the counter without being asked.

  The pastry he plates and sets on the bar in front of me looks fresh from the oven. The blueberries are bursting through the sugary crust and my stomach makes a rude noise.

  “Better wrap me up another one for the Conductor.” It is not unheard of for Charlie to become so focused on his work that he goes days without leaving his cabin. I make sure to drop by with gifts of food and drink now and then to keep him from accidentally expiring. Nevalya’s unflattering assessment of my friendship with the conductor pops unbidden into my mind and I brush it away.

  Carlisle shakes his head. “No need, he’s got one already. You just missed him in fact.”

  “The Conductor emerged from his cave of his own accord? And we get blueberry scones? This is a day for miracles.”

  “I doubt it was entirely of his own accord. He stops in more often lately, usually in the company of a certain young lady.”

  There’s a touch of innuendo in his tone, hinting at a joke that I am apparently supposed to be in on. I try not to let my expression show annoyance, and apparently fail at the attempt.

  Carlisle seems to realize he has misjudged the moment. “Of course I’ve never had anyone turn down seconds,” he adds. “I’ll wrap one up in case you run into him later.”

  I curse my face for a traitor and push as much “Nah, who cares” as I can into my shrug. The last thing I want is to appear jealous of Charlie’s attention.

  “I’ll take seconds if you’re offering. The Conductor’s on his own.”

  Finding no empty tables in the dining car, I exit at the opposite end to the one I entered, only to find the lounge car beyond unusually busy as well. Apparently word of the blueberries preceded me, and a good many passengers have settled into armchairs with their coffees and pastry plates.

  Not for the first time, I feel a twinge of sympathy for passengers at the tail of the train who have only the questionable culinary skills of Andra, the backend chef, upon which to rely. I’ve made the occasional visit to the train’s farthest reaches in my capacity as a courier of goods and messages between passengers, and I try not to stay for dinner if I can avoid it.

  I weave through the chairs and tables peppering the lounge car, scanning for an empty seat. One near a back corner has just been vacated; I adjust course toward it but my progress is arrested by the chair’s previous occupant stepping in front of me on his way to the carriage door.

  “Sorry,” the man mumbles, and my annoyance increases when I find Lucas’s face on the offender’s body. He’s never done anything specific to deserve my dislike, but his boyish devotion to the beautiful and smug Nevalya pretty much does the trick.

  Sure enough, as the door between the cars slides open to admit him, I glimpse the woman herself in the car beyond. She is laughing, leaning in close to the ear of another passenger whose head is tilted conspiratorially toward her.

  No, not another passenger—it’s the Conductor into whose ear she is giggling so intimately. Charlie is leaning casually against the wall between cabin doors as Nevalya tilts toward him to tell her secret joke, one hand resting familiarly on his arm.

  They both look up at Lucas’s approach. Instead of creating distance between herself and Charlie upon being observed, Nevalya only moves closer, ostensibly to allow room for Lucas to pass.

  I move quickly toward the chair, hoping they won’t notice me or the expression on my stupid, treacherous face.

  Charlie has every right to flirt with whomever he pleases. It’s just that there is something intolerable about seeing him taken in by such clumsy and conspicuous designs. And after last night’s conversation in the observatory, those designs are beginning to take a particularly ominous shape in my mind.