Chapter 2
Toward evening, the last village gave way to endless waves of green hills stretching all the way to the mountains in the north. Towers of clouds replaced skyscrapers, and birds darted through the wind.
The growling of Will’s stomach pulled him away from his designs, which had grown increasingly detailed.
His next step would be to mark his plans with corresponding numbers.
Two of his suitcases were filled with sample books, fabric portfolios, and material swatches—a treasure from which he would never part.
The dining car was coupled just ahead of First Class, almost at the end of the train, and framed by broad, stained-glass windows. At once, the already dim train darkened further, bathed in a play of red, purple, and orange.
Will secretly hoped to encounter the mysterious passenger, though he expected to be alone apart from the ghostly train crew. Yet he was startled to find an unfamiliar figure seated at one of the tables.
It was not the man who had boarded in the Capitol, but an older woman with a stern expression, a small mouth, and a broad, upturned nose. She was likely in her late seventies; her dark skin lay in deep folds, but her pale eyes fixed sharply upon him the moment he slid open the door.
Swaying with the train, he stopped and glanced between her and the rows of empty tables with their heavy, upholstered chairs. How rude would it be to sit alone at an unoccupied table? The train rattled through a curve, and the woman’s red wine sloshed dangerously in its glass.
“Mr. Frank, do sit with me,” she said, smiling thinly.
Will raised an eyebrow, but it was difficult to refuse a stranger who knew his name. Good manners compelled him to accept with a grateful nod.
“Thank you, Mrs.…?” He forced the smile all the way into his eyes.
The chair was heavy and scraped across the carpet. When he sat, the springs in the seat sank deeply beneath him, making him appear small behind the table despite his height.
“Lady Wilkinson.”
A widow, Will gathered from her clothing. Her bony frame was draped in black fabric, constricted by a corset trimmed with lace that climbed across her décolletage and up to her collar. Leather gloves began where her sleeves ended.
Like the train’s interior, she was dressed in an outdated fashion.
Neither men nor women in the Capitol wore lace anymore; their silhouettes were clean and structured.
Will had a taste for the dramatic and enjoyed playing with the contrast of his fair hair and pale skin.
As was often the case, today he wore a loose white shirt beneath a pale-blue jacket with long tails.
Mother-of-pearl buttons and a light, silken cravat completed the ensemble, modeled after the work of the leading fashion houses.
“I didn’t see you board,” Will said as a pale waiter brought him a glass of wine.
Perhaps this was a good opportunity to learn more about Bloodgrove.
“I boarded at the station before the last.”
As she spoke, Will studied the peculiar mixture of ordinary elderly lady and something harder to name, something threatening. Her eyes did not gleam with friendliness, but watched him like a predator.
“I thought the only stops were the Capitol and Bloodgrove.”
“He made an exception for me.” She smiled, but it did nothing to soften her face. “Our King is exceedingly well disposed toward my family.”
The sun sank lower, and its long rays struck one side of the car, soaking in the shades of red from the stained glass and flooding the dining room with shimmering light.
Will did not question her further. He knew the subtle game by which she attempted to impress him with the importance of her family.
“How did you hear of me? Are you familiar with my work?” he asked instead, slipping seamlessly back into the role of salesman for his own trade.
“Forgive an old lady’s curiosity. I learned your name from the conductor, but we are all wondering what brings you to Bloodgrove.” Lady Wilkinson leaned forward in her chair.
Before he could answer, the door to First Class slid open, and a tall man entered.
Will recognized him immediately, even without the broad coat and hat.
His walking stick struck the floor with every step until, in one fluid motion, he lifted it and caught it at the center.
Only now did Will see the silver handle—a wolf’s head with its jaws stretched wide.
Slowly, his gaze traveled along the gentleman's arm, clad in a perfectly tailored, if unfashionable, suit, and upward to the sharp features of a man around Will’s own age.
His face was as angular and precise as his clothing: high cheekbones, hollow cheeks, a nose straight as a knife, and dark brows shadowing pale eyes. Now, in the light of the setting sun, they appeared almost red.
“Do not let Duchess Wilkinson interrogate you. She is an incurable gossip,” the stranger said in a velvety voice, tapping the wolf’s head against their table as he passed.
He did not pause, but continued to the farthest and final seat, where he sat down.
The shiver still lingered in Will when he turned back to his companion. He was irritated with himself for having overlooked the signet ring on the duchess’s hand.
He had no idea how many nobles Bloodgrove possessed, but establishing first contact within their circles would certainly prove useful. After all, these were the people who had money to spend on interior designers, and he could not afford to return empty-handed.
And there was probably some truth to her claim that her family was close to the king.
“Who is that?” he asked in a low voice, although he suspected the mysterious man could hear every word in the silence of the dining car.
The train had become unnervingly quiet as it glided through the countryside, the pounding of the locomotive reduced to a distant vibration.
“That is Mr. Eric Arcos, the Red Ambassador,” Duchess Wilkinson murmured.
She let the words hang in the air as though Will ought to know what they meant. After taking a sip of red wine that stained her lips, she read the blankness in his expression and sighed.
“The royal ambassador to the Capitol.”
Will’s eyebrows rose slowly, and he dared another glance over his shoulder.
What little he had managed to uncover about the secluded city-state was that it, too, was a monarchy, ruled by a king no one had seen in decades. But secrecy came easily when most residents of the Capitol believed Bloodgrove itself was nothing more than a legend.
“You have beautiful hair, Mr. Frank,” Duchess Wilkinson said as the waiter began serving their meals.
At the beginning of the journey, Will had been invited to choose from a menu, and he was not certain what he had expected when he stared down at his plate.
A bird lay before him with its wings spread wide, their pitch-black feathers hanging over the rim of the plate and revealing a plucked, roasted body. The beets inside its head shimmered purple in the light of the table lamp and the last echo of sunset.
The raven stared at him with its beak open and its eyes clouded as Will hesitantly reached for his silverware.
“You aren’t eating?” he asked, but the lady shook her head.
“I will eat once I am home.”
“She did not wish to pay the price a full ticket demands,” Eric Arcos answered from across the car.
A plate covered by a silver cloche was served to him.
“I would be happy to share mine with you,” Will offered, but the duchess lifted her chin.
“It is not a matter of money, young man.”
Will’s curiosity had nevertheless been stirred. With the hairs prickling along the back of his neck, he turned once more toward the ambassador.
“Would you care to join us, Mr. Arcos?”
“Yes, do come!” Duchess Wilkinson appeared equally hungry for the man’s company.
Mr. Arcos raised his cool gaze toward them. “Thank you. No.” Then he returned to cutting the dark meat on his plate.
Will swallowed his disappointment. His wish had been selfish.
He wanted another glimpse of that handsome face, wanted to study the contrasts between the pale skin, light eyes, and dark hair.
Mr. Arcos carried himself with such absolute confidence, whether crossing the dining car or striding the short distance along the platform, as though he were conscious at every moment that an entire train had been waiting only for him. That every lady knew his name.
Meeting someone of so much self-assurance ought to have been repellent.
“Please, tell me about Bloodgrove,” Will said, taking the initiative before the duchess could resume her questions.
“People like you, Mr. Frank, with hair such as yours, are held in very high regard,” she replied.
Under her appraising gaze, Will ran a hand over his braid and tossed it back across his shoulder. Silver hair spilled down his back. Today, while he worked on his designs, he had tied it with a simple ribbon.
“It was not always so…”
“I know. So much talent at such a young age,” the duchess said with a smile. “That is why you were summoned to Bloodgrove, is it not?”
He frowned. “Not as far as I know.”
Will had barely noticed the faint scrape of silverware behind him until it stopped. Mr. Arcos and Duchess Wilkinson were both waiting for him to continue.
“Who paid for your ticket?” Duchess Wilkinson asked.
Will bought himself time by splitting open the breast of his bird and removing the blood orange with which it had been stuffed. Macabre as the sight might be, the dish tasted extraordinary.
As he chewed—or rather, allowed the tender meat to dissolve upon his tongue—his gaze flicked toward the waiter, who now stood in the doorway with conspicuous inconspicuousness.
“Is it cold in Bloodgrove this early in autumn?” Will asked, gesturing vaguely with his knife toward Duchess Wilkinson’s leather gloves.
He had noticed the same kind on Mr. Arcos.
“Winter comes early here in the north.”
To his surprise, she did not appear offended by his failure to answer. Instead, she leaned back with satisfaction. Apparently, he had confirmed her assumption that he was someone special.