Emilia

Chapter 1

The child was awfully quiet.

In all the hours they’d been traveling, not a word. Not a sound. She kept glancing at the little girl, certain she would find the child asleep, but no. It was an eerie silence from a child so young. Then again, considering what had taken place. ...

She shuddered. She couldn’t bear to think of it.

Dusk came, then night fell, and still the train chugged on. The car was almost empty now. A man snored someplace in the back, and the two old women a few seats ahead finally stopped their litany of neighborly misdemeanors. A gangly teen in patched knees and outgrown tweed was draped fast asleep over a bench on the other side of the aisle. His long legs stuck into the passageway, and his hand polished a small circle on the floor as the train rocked.

The wooden bench became increasingly uncomfortable. It had to be so for the child as well, but still the small girl sat uncomplaining. She offered the girl a biscuit, and the child nibbled for a moment, then seemed to forget it was in her hand. The silence stretched. When it was fully dark outside, she suggested the child lie down. The girl complied and curled up on the bench with her head by the woman’s thigh, tucking a small hand under a pale cheek, biscuit still clutched in the other. The woman took the food and returned it to the satchel so it wouldn’t fall to the floor. She then spread her shawl over the child and tucked it in under the birdlike shoulder. There was little in the way of comfort on the unpadded bench, but at least the girl would be warm.

Hours passed.

The train rattled.

Her leg fell asleep, but getting up might wake the child whose eyes had finally closed. She stretched her toes inside her shoes instead and bit her lips through the pins and needles. She felt drunk with fatigue, and the train’s sway both jarred her teeth and sedated her. She could hear the wheels humming as they turned: A-way, a-way, a-way. ...

Would they make it? They had to. It was unthinkable that they might not. The day—the endless wretched day and what preceded—it unspooled behind her eyes, superimposing the events onto the smudged reflection of her face in the dark window. The blackness outside the train highlighted their isolation: two specks in a box on rails, moving steadily away from all they’d known and neither of them meant to be on it to begin with; certainly not this way.

♦

Emilia was supposed to be at boarding school. She should have left for it two days after KayAnne’s tutoring ended; a job KayAnne was devastated to have terminated.  

She had been so delighted when the one-line note on cream stationery had come to her residence not two months prior, requesting weekday lessons for a child recently arrived at Curling Road Place. Money was slow and KayAnne took whatever she could manage: companionship for older ladies, letter-writing for some whose eyesight had failed, and occasional tutoring. It was never quite enough. KayAnne’s landlady let her pay half the rent in house and garden work, and fed her even when she came up short, but generous as Mrs. Oberg was, KayAnne could not assume indefinite charity. A steady tutoring job could cover fees and maybe even allow some funds to be set aside.

She would’ve said yes to the offer on the spot, but she curbed her eagerness for propriety sake. When the messenger (the gardener, really, according to Mrs. Oberg) returned for the reply the following day, she handed him an envelope of references. Not all were as effusive as she would have liked, but she hoped they could suffice toward an interview. A second note arrived the very next morning: four lines in small and measured cursive. She was hired. She was to present herself at Curling Road Place the following morning at 9 a.m. She was to bring study materials suitable for a five-year-old girl. She was to compile a list of what required purchasing once she assessed her pupil’s level.

Mr. C expects promptness, the gardener stated. His hooded eyes peered at her from under bushy eyebrows. His hands were in his pockets, and he’d replaced his hat on his head; ready to leave. She couldn’t tell whether he was unhappy about being made daily courier or was generally laconic.

Mr. C ... she intoned, staring at the note. That, too, had only the initial for signature.

The man nodded but offered no more clarification. He touched his cap and left.

Why would anyone sign only their initial on such correspondence and give her the job without as much as an interview? KayAnne pushed the oddities away. Mr. C must have asked about her in town already. As for the initial ... maybe if she was a bit more gossipy and a lot less bookish she would know the full name of the estate owner.

She had never been to Curling Road Place. She didn’t even know the house was there. The estate stood at the end of a winding road on the far outskirts of the village, veritably hidden by an old growth copse. According to Mrs. Oberg, it had been closed for years until bought—apparently by Mr. C—some two years prior. The owner, who Mrs. Oberg didn’t know the full name of either, kept to himself. He employed a housekeeper, a Mrs. Stroud, and a gardener, Mr. Donald of the few words. Both were from the village and neither lived on the estate. Maybe no need, and just him in the house, Mrs. Oberg told KayAnne. Should be different now with a child and whoever came with her.

It was Mrs. Stroud who let KayAnne in at Curling Road Place that first day. The housekeeper seemed as dour as the gardener had been, and silently led KayAnne through the hall to the study. KayAnne’s shoes tapped small echoes to Mrs. Stroud’s resolute steps. She shuddered. It could have been the coolness of the foyer, but she inexplicably found herself thinking of ghosts, even though she didn’t truly believe in their existence.

Mr. C had been sitting in a deep leather chair and rose when she entered. He was a tall man, narrow in hips and shoulders, with long fingers, a square nose and a weak chin. He was carefully dressed and appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties; she could never tell men’s ages all that well. His parted brown hair was receding, his dark eyes small and penetrating. KayAnne felt uneasy under his gaze and ascribed it to first-day jitters and the awkwardness she often felt around new people, let alone those who were her superiors.

Mr. C, he declared, and she couldn’t help but wonder about the use of an initial even in their formal introduction. Did he not have a full name?

KayAnne Brisbane, she responded, honored to meet you, Sir.

His hand, when he offered it, felt cold and slightly limp, and he held her hand briefly, perfunctorily.

Before anything more was said, the housekeeper returned with a little girl. KayAnne didn’t know what to make of the child when she first saw her: wide eyes in a heart-shaped face, slim and poised and utterly too collected for a girl so young.

This is Emilia, Mr. C stated.

The girl curtsied, one hand gently spreading the edge of her cornflower calico dress.

Emilia has come under my guardianship and requires tutoring and, I suppose, some womanly companionship. As you already know, she is five years old. I am told she can do some reading and basic arithmetic.

KayAnne noted that he did not introduce her to the girl. Odd, but maybe he told the girl about her already. That or he was unaccustomed to child-care matters. Was this was the first time he was required to attend to one?

An awkward moment passed.

Hi, Emilia, I am KayAnne, she offered when Mr. C still did not introduce her. To most former students she had been Miss. Brisbane or Miss. KayAnne. However, this little girl was introduced by first name only, and KayAnne felt a need to put the child at ease. She smiled at Emilia’s small intake of breath. It is rather an unusual name, I know, but I’m all used to it by now.

The child curtsied again and lowered her gaze. Was the child unnerved or shy? Should she have used a more formal salutation? KayAnne wanted to reassure Emilia it was all right.

As for specifics, Mr. C cut in, you will school Emilia on weekday mornings and leave some independent work to be completed after her afternoon rest.

KayAnne nodded.

I will expect a brief report from you each Friday, Mr. C continued, flicking a look at the child, about the week’s progress, and details of any misbehavior or ill manners.

The child’s eyes flew up, apprehensive, and a flare of temper rose in KayAnne. I’m sure we will do fine, she retorted, perhaps more coolly than she ought to have.

His eyes rested on her and loosed some unnamed worry in her. Then his face relaxed and he smiled. I am glad to hear it, he allowed. Emilia, you will do your best, I am sure.

I will, Sir, the child replied; her young voice was soft. Thank you for my teacher.

♦

The train whistled and KayAnne startled. She absentmindedly arranged the shawl over the child and moved an errant ringlet from the little girl’s eyes. She had seen Emilia almost daily for seven weeks yet hardly knew her still. How could it be possible for her to know so little? What happened that she did not inquire more, that she accepted it as reasonable to not ask?

♦

Mr. C never said what the child was to him, did not tell KayAnne where Emilia had come from or what her life before Curling Road Place was like, not even what her last name was; just that he was her guardian. KayAnne would’ve asked Emilia but worried this might open wounds of recent loss. She knew it was for her to press Mr. C for more details, but she found herself avoiding him and sensed that asking about things he didn’t share would elicit his displeasure. She wanted the job too much to risk losing it. She needed the money, and she liked the oddly distant little girl. Not all her former students had been so likable.

Emilia was a quick learner. She was obedient, patient and hard-working—a model student if there was one. She lacked exuberance but was uncomplaining and never whined. KayAnne assumed the child’s limited joyfulness was related to the circumstances that had brought her into Mr. C’s guardianship and that Emilia was still adjusting. Mr. C was hardly the warmest person to be under the guardianship of, but he provided generously enough—the nursery was plain but well appointed—and the room was comfortable. KayAnne repeatedly reassured herself Emilia was not morose, simply reserved.

If only she hadn’t persuaded herself to believe what she wanted to believe! How dearly did her fantasy cost the child?

A week or so into her tutoring, KayAnne did try to learn more from Mrs. Stroud. She found the housekeeper tending to the wash in the small stone room off the kitchen, pushing linen through the wringer. The stout woman knew little other than that the child was some relative of Mr. C’s, and she presumed he took over caring for her because there was no closer family available.

I’ve much too much to do without becoming investigative, Mrs. Stroud huffed at KayAnne, now with work added and me with just one pair of arms.

She became a bit more gossipy when KayAnne offered to help her with the linens and the two of them walked out to stretch sheets on the line in the pale sun. They say—Mr. Donald the gardener does, that is—she lived with an aunt of hers till now, upcountry someplace, a good day’s trip or more from here, the housekeeper confided. Seems the aunt became infirm or feeble and could no longer care for the child.

KayAnne just nodded. Sometimes people shared more if she kept quiet.

Never would’ve taken Mr. C for a parental figure, Mrs. Stroud added, her strong arms snapping the wet sheets into orderly submission. He doesn’t seem to care much for the girl, if you ask me. No warmth in him toward her. ... She paused and her tone flattened as if to balance her criticism. Though he did take her in, he did. And he’s providing for her and doing the right and proper thing.

Mrs. Stroud bent to gather the empty laundry basket from the ground. At least the girl seems well brought up. Not much a bother, this one is. Independent, too, young though she is. Ready and dressed in the morning when I get here. Eats what I put before her. Picks up after herself, cleans her plate. A tad too serious, if you ask me, but I gather it is better than a spoiled and pouty troublemaker. The housekeeper glanced at KayAnne sideways, letting her know some dishing was required of her to even out the gossip.

Yes, Emilia is very well mannered, KayAnne offered. Mrs. Stroud nodded in appreciation of her observation being honored. She’s a sweet child. I do wish she had an age-companion and more company. It must be lonesome living for a child, especially on weekends with just Mr. C around.

For a moment the housekeeper seemed about to add something. Then her face closed up and she bustled back into the house, muttering something about chores not liable to get themselves done if she idle-chattered. Whether there was nothing more to say or no more she was willing to, KayAnne found Mrs. Stroud close-mouthed about Emilia after that. The housekeeper was laconic, gruff, and not outwardly affectionate. However, she did have the child keep her company in the kitchen during afternoons; something KayAnne found reassuring.

There had been no indication from Mr. C that the position was anything but ongoing. So it surprised KayAnne when at the end of her sixth week of employ, he dryly informed her Emilia would be leaving for boarding school within a week and therefore her work would be terminated. Beyond bewilderment and irritation, KayAnne felt dismay for Emilia: The child was too young for boarding and had just barely settled in at Curling Road Place.

That is, if she had settled in at all.

Emilia didn’t complain and attended to her schoolwork without fail, but KayAnne could see the child was less inclined to play and had become increasingly taciturn. She startled easily, and rarely skipped or climbed or ran. Even her walking seemed too measured for a child of five. Mrs. Stroud must have noted a change as well by complaining to KayAnne about Emilia’s lack of enthusiasm for her cooking.

It ain’t right for a child to be so apathetic about good feeding, Mrs. Stroud grumbled, let alone about her pudding or a nice slice of pie or cake. She pushed a bowl of—excellent—custard on KayAnne, perhaps to be reassured it indeed was not her cooking, but KayAnne was certain the housekeeper was truly concerned about the girl.

It had to be the loneliness. Emilia needed a live-in companion, not just a tutor for three hours on weekdays and a housekeeper who kept an eye on her in the afternoons. There were nights and weekends which had to be interminable for the little girl with no one but Mr. C around, and him not seeming the least interested in her company.

No companion. No peers. Of course the girl is wilting, KayAnne muttered the evening following Mr. C’s announcement of Emilia’s upcoming move to boarding school. She needs a governess, not to be sent away!

Mrs. Oberg agreed. You know this has been a thorn in my side through this whole arrangement. The landlady was kneading bread-dough on the kitchen table and KayAnne stared at the rhythmic movement, mesmerized and sullen. Suddenly Mrs. Oberg slapped her hand down on the dough, startling KayAnne.

You ought to let him know, the landlady announced. First thing on Monday, tell him you are willing to move in as governess. She waved away KayAnne’s consternation with a floured palm. Maybe school was the best he could come up with. I adore your company, but it would matter more for the child to have a live-in. Seeing she’s not much beyond a baby, I cannot imagine he would have much cause to disagree a governess is a better solution than being packed away.

♦

A loud yawn shook KayAnne out of her reveries. The young man lurched past her, searching for the necessary, long limbs dangling and big feet bumping into wooden seats.

She sighed. Her head felt full and clogged. It didn’t seem possible for the conversation with Mrs. Oberg to have taken place just a week or so ago. They had both been so naïve. A shiver ran down the young woman’s spine.

♦

She did share Mrs. Oberg’s suggestion with Mr. C that Monday, and his reaction left her sorry for doing so. He managed to be both dismissive and shaming, as if she was a desperate opportunist for the higher pay of a live-in governess.

She could have saved her breath. His mind was made up, all was arranged. KayAnne was to say her goodbyes on Wednesday, and Emilia was scheduled to leave for school that Friday.

Your service to the child is appreciated, Mr. C concluded. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, leaning slightly forward as if to breach the space between them. His cold eyes knotted something into sourness inside KayAnne. But I will not be second-guessed about the care of my charge. It felt like a warning.

Later that day KayAnne helped Mrs. Stroud with the linen, and the housekeeper—maybe less glacial knowing KayAnne was about to lose her income to the household changes—invited her to have some tea and crumpets in the kitchen. She told KayAnne how Mr. C was planning to escort the child to school and would take his time before returning: he gave both housekeeper and gardener two weeks’ leave. And paid leave it would be for us, too, Mrs. Stroud stated before pausing to rearrange her face to better sympathy. I gather it is harder for you ... even if we all will miss having Emilia here.

KayAnne nodded. She didn’t mind Mrs. Stroud enjoying a paid leave. She was still thinking of Mr. C.

I expect you to part with her cordially the day after tomorrow, he had said. I do not expect you to have cause to see her after that.

Why would he think she would part with the child in any way but cordially? Also, with Emilia leaving two days after KayAnne’s last day, it wasn’t likely they’d see each other after Wednesday. Why such phrasing?

Yet ... Wednesday came and went, and there they were, on a train to who knows what will be. She and the girl she was not supposed to have any cause to see.

Chapter 2

Ma’am ...

KayAnne startled.

A hollowed face floated in soupy black, hovering above her shoulder—an eerie reflection in the window. KayAnne turned her head to see the conductor standing by her seat. She must have dozed off after all or got lost inside her mind.

Sorry to have startled you, Ma’am. It is about two in the morning, and we will be arriving at your destination in five minutes’ time, he said. Lawrence is the next stop.

Thank you, she replied automatically, still reorienting.

Will you require assistance to the platform? he asked, pointing gently with his chin toward the sleeping child. He was neat as a pin and so gaunt that the cabin light pooling on his face made his cheeks seem cadaverous. His visage would have been disturbing had it not been for the alert sparkle in his kind, blue-gray eyes.

Oh, no, thank you. I will manage, she stammered. She had only the one satchel. No other luggage. Less help may make her less memorable.

Very well, Ma’am. He bowed slightly and his lips curled in a smile that transformed his face. You might want to wake that sleepy-headed one, then, or you will need more than two arms to carry her and your luggage to the platform. ...

She nodded.

The station house will be open, Ma’am, he added, in case you wish to wait there for your ride. He bowed slightly and moved on down the aisle to the next car.

She bent toward the little girl to wake her, only to find the child’s eyes open. Emilia, my dear, we’re getting off in just a minute.

The child blinked in semi-recognition.

We’re still on the train, Emilia, but getting off soon. How about I help you to sit up?

The little girl pushed herself up and her face clouded in something like pain. Was it stiffness from the train or worse? KayAnne dared not ask. She could do nothing about it. Not now.

She helped Emilia sip some water and wiped the child’s face with a dampened corner of her shawl. Emilia’s body swayed with the train. Her eyes seemed to take up her whole face.

They were by the vestibule by the time the train stopped. KayAnne held the bag in one hand and the little girl’s hand in the other. The conductor was there, too. He smiled at Emilia, swung the door open for them and folded down the steps to the platform before leaving to assist passengers on other cars.

KayAnne was glad he assumed this station was home and that a ride would come to meet them. In reality there would be no one waiting, no home. Only another train and two long hours till it came ... two hours in which to keep from being seen so no one would remember.

KayAnne and Emilia stepped onto the platform. Passengers detrained from other cars. A few rushed through the chill night air into the well-lit station, others hurried off the platform to greet their waiting parties. The conductor leaned out of an open door to check for passengers. KayAnne nodded at him and began walking toward the station house as he touched his cap, folded the steps, and pulled the door closed. The train started to move and KayAnne continued walking slowly in the direction of the lit building, Emilia’s hand in hers. Half-way there she stopped as if to retie shoelaces, biding time.

The platform emptied. People whose rides were waiting were already departing. Others entered the station to wait for theirs. A moment more and the train got swallowed by the night, everyone gone. KayAnne immediately changed pace and direction, and led Emilia to the far edge of the platform and off into full shadow.

The child looked around. There was no one there, just utter blackness. Still, Emilia kept quiet.

KayAnne sat the little girl on a weathered mounting block and leaned toward her. She needed the child to understand. I know it is dark, Emilia, KayAnne whispered, but I need you to sit here a moment. I must go get some things for us. It is very important. I’ll only be a moment.

Emilia’s hand tightened in KayAnne’s and her breathing fluttered.

I’ll come back, I promise, KayAnne urged, already regretting the idea to leave the child. She had hoped to keep Emilia out of involvement in any law-breaking but didn’t fully appreciate the terror of being left alone in the pitch black.

I’m sorry, Emilia, it was a bad idea, she backtracked, brushing her free hand gently over the child’s cheek. She could feel the girl trembling. I won’t leave you here. I promise. You can come with me, but we’ll have to be very quiet and very quick about it, understand?

Emilia gave barely a nod, her hand still tightly holding to KayAnne’s; afraid.

They walked briskly across the dark carriageway, toward the houses in front of the train station, and then deeper into town and its even darker streets. KayAnne kept to the blackest spots and prayed no dogs were keeping guard. She passed several rows of homes before beginning to inspect backyards for what she needed: it was important they be far enough from the station so no one would make the connection. She crouched by several fences before finally stopping near the yard of a large, darkened house.

Emilia, I am going to get something from the clothesline, she whispered. Can you keep watch over my bag? You’ll be able to see me from here and I’ll be back before you count to ten.

Avoiding the girl’s face, she quickly pulled her hand out of Emilia’s grasp and placed the bag strap in it. This time she was grateful for Emilia’s silence. Any noise could give them away. KayAnne crept around the fence into the yard, plucked a few items and hurried to where she had left Emilia, bundling the lumps of fabric as she went. She half-expected a dismayed scream, a bark; some indication of her burglary being discovered.

Nothing stirred.

Back outside the fence, she stuffed the booty in the bag, grabbed Emilia’s cold hand, and quickly retraced her steps to the far edge of the station’s platform where it was darkest. Only then did she dare breathe again. She hugged Emilia to her and felt the little girl stiffen. The child was panting.

As soon as her own breathing was a little calmer, KayAnne shook out what she had just stolen. I need you to change into these, she whispered. Their eyes had grown accustomed to the dark enough for the items to be recognizable: a shirt, a pair of pants, knee socks, a cap, and a sweater; boys’ clothing.

Emilia stared.

They’ll be looking for a woman with a little girl, KayAnne explained, coaxing. Not with a little boy. A woman and a little girl got off the train here, but there would be no little girl getting on a train later on.

Emilia continued staring. She seemed dazed and uncomprehending. Her breathing was still clipped. She swayed.

KayAnne wanted to shake her. She took a deep breath instead—of course Emilia was confused, and her own impatience wasn’t helping. We’re going to play dress-up, she said slowly. I need you to put these things on and pretend to be a little boy. I’ll be wearing this bonnet to cover my hair, and this apron over my dress, so I’ll look a little different, too. As she spoke, KayAnne tucked her hair under the stiff bonnet and tied the wide homespun apron over her dress. It didn’t quite alter her attire, but hopefully changed her overall appearance enough to make do.

The child still didn’t move to dress herself, but she did not object when KayAnne pulled the knee socks and pants over her small legs, retied the thankfully plain brown shoes, tugged the dress off Emilia and helped the little girl into the shirt and sweater. She secured Emilia’s curls under the cap the best she could and stuffed the dress into the bag.

There, she leaned back onto her heels, inspecting her handiwork in the dim moonlight. Emilia looked like a little boy: a frightened, tired, wide-eyed little boy, but a boy nonetheless. Now they wait.

♦

The middle-aged stationmaster glanced up when the solemn-looking woman with the sleepy little boy approached the booth for tickets. The station was empty and the stone floor echoed slightly under the woman’s steps.

It had been six months since he was assigned to Lawrence station, and a good promotion it was from the place he had worked in before. He made his way up slowly for twenty years, from polishing shoes to helping with the coal and then with people’s luggage to filling in at ticket booths and finally to his own nightly shift in this small but important train-crossing town. He enjoyed the quiet of working nights. His short marriage left him with no taste for constant companionship, and anonymity suited him. Too much socializing and too many people mingling at once always made him irritable, and his former wife never did forgive his lack of social affinity.

He knew most people frowned on solitude, but he cherished the luxury of no longer needing to pretend to enjoy what he did not. He met some townspeople at the store when he stocked up, downed a few beers in the pub with several on occasion, knew the names of fewer. They refrained from prying into his life, and he respected theirs and didn’t pry either. It suited him right nicely that nighttime or predawn travelers weren’t particularly prone to be talkative.

The transients, of course, were a whole different matter. They did not suit him quite that much, and he had to throw a few of those out of the station periodically. Many more of them loitered during the daytime hours, panhandlers and pickpockets and so on, but rarely at night. No one to rob, he surmised, aided by police raids which made it crystal clear to transients they were not welcome to use the station as overnight lounge.

His eyes returned to the two approaching figures. No transients there. A farmer’s wife and her young son, he concluded, taking in the woman’s posture and the child’s good shoes. Sensible people, most those folks were. The woman seemed quite wakeful. No surprise, when farmers’ wives spent many nights with calving heifers or nursing sick children. As for the boy ... she must have scraped him off his bed just moments sooner. The youngling looked dazed with sleep.

She wanted tickets to Graywave. Now, that was intriguing. He couldn’t remember more than a handful of people going all the way from Lawrence to the small fishing village far up-shore and almost at the end of the line. Fifteen hours or so on the train, it was. More, if the tracks were slowed by weather.

Well, she is one of a handful, then, he chided himself for curiosity. The stationmaster who had trained him told him many a time that keeping a professional face is what makes a true stationmaster. He could still hear him say it: No matter who asks to go where, it is their business, and ours is only the ticket-selling, not the judging. He won’t judge, but can’t help his mind from wondering, though, can he? Maybe someone ailed or passed away. The dark dress she had underneath that apron could well be meant for grieving. Her somber face most certainly did match.

He kept his face neutral as he watched the woman count her coinage carefully, mouthing the addition as she moved each coin into one of her palms. The little boy stood by her patiently, likely used to being quiet when money was concerned, so as to not confuse the count. He had seen this deliberateness from many in this farming community. Those were not poor people exactly, but most not rich with money. They saved extra coinage bit by bit and he got more fares in piles of small change than in paper money.

How old the boy? he asked. This one looked young enough to ride fare-free, but he was meant to ask about each passenger regardless.

Four, she answered. The little one flicked an eye at her and she flushed, adding, Well, soon five.

The stationmaster chuckled. Blushing suited her, he thought, prettied up this pale, drawn face, too serious on such a young woman. He found himself considering how fetching she might look in brighter colors and a more playful air.

He stroked his beard. Ah, and I would bet it has become ‘soon five’ from one day past the little man’s fourth birthday. ... He smiled at the boy, got none back. A serious chap, this one, takes after his mother ....

No charge for him, then, Ma’am, he added. We only charge ’em from age six, and seeing that he is just soon-to-five. ... He grinned and handed her the tickets, then looked up at the station’s clock and checked the schedule, all rote-like. He knew the schedule front and back and sideways—but it always reassured passengers to see him check it as if just for them.

The train will be here within fifteen minutes, Ma’am. It is a long ride up to Graywave, and there are some facilities on the train, if you need ’em. He was about to mention the powder room on the side of the station building, then thought the better of it. People coming from their home do not visit a public necessary so soon after, and he had seen some take offense with such mentioning, as if it meant they didn’t know to plan their business on their own.

Thank you, she nodded. She had a melodious voice; poised but unhappy. A death in the family, he decided, watching as the little boy followed his mother obediently toward the darkened platform.

He gazed after them a moment. It was odd how little he knew—how little anyone truly did—about the lives of others. Here they go, this tight-faced pair, traveling up-shore for some cause while others travel down-shore for another, their reasons a mystery to one another.

He snickered at his philosophical streak and poured himself some sweet tea from the flask. The up-shore train was almost due, followed by the down-shore train an hour later. Not long after that there would be dawn and end of shift, when his warm bed would be waiting.

♦

It was chilly on the platform, and KayAnne was glad that she had grabbed a sweater from the line for Emilia. The child did not have a cardigan with her when they left, and there had been no time to get one. KayAnne tried to not think about that, or of the people she had stolen the clothing from. She deliberately chose a house that looked to have some means and where more than one set of clothing was hanging. Still, it did not make it right. There didn’t seem to be another way, and yet she felt ashamed. Angry, too, for being put in this position ... Angry at herself as well for the part of this that was her responsibility to fix, for what she should have attended to long before it ever got to this. How did she possibly not see?

She took a deep breath. She couldn’t think of this now. She looked down at Emilia, who seemed fit to fall over with exhaustion. We’ll be on the train soon, KayAnne said, and then you can rest some more, okay?

Emilia hung big eyes on her and said nothing, not even in a nod.

She knew the child could use some reassurance. She should tell Emilia where they were going, or at least tell her that all would be well ... but she didn’t know if it will all be well, and felt unable to promise what might unravel. She could only put one foot in front of the other and hope beyond reason even as she dragged this poor child all this distance. What if what Emilia needed—what they both were desperate for—wasn’t there? Bereft of reassuring things to say, KayAnne just squeezed Emilia’s hand and prayed her own fear didn’t get communicated anyway.

Finally, the train arrived. A group of grumpy-sounding farmhands embarked further down the platform and KayAnne saw no one get off as she walked to the nearest door. The conductor, a dark-haired man with shirt buttons straining in midriff, bent forward to help KayAnne lift the child onto the train, but Emilia clung so desperately to her hand that KayAnne smiled her apologies and hoisted the child up the stairs herself.

An independent little chap, I see, the man smiled at them in the vestibule, exposing a wide gap between front teeth. He patted the top of Emilia’s cap. Needs no help from me, he does. I bet before too long he would be tall enough to lift me up onto train cars. ... Me and my beer belly. Find a seat, Ma’am, plenty at this point. We should get busy farther into daytime, but for now you have almost the pick of the car. I will come shortly for the ticket.

KayAnne walked down the aisle and sought a seat that didn’t have an opposite-facing bench on either side of the passageway: