Chapter 26
The next morning, it’s as if nothing happened between the Nomad and me—as if no notes were exchanged by candlelight after midnight, as if he hadn’t admitted to me that his mother killed him.
However that works. Legend has it that the Nomad is not originally from this world, so that could have something to do with it. Or, he could simply enjoy the false rumors about himself and be eager to further them.
This morning he’s back to his usual self, sitting across from me at a table in the breakfast cabin. Steaming cheese grits and eggs fill our plates, but when my stomach growls, it’s not from hunger, but the anxiety that borders on nausea every time I look at him.
“Am I looking especially handsome this morning?” he says with a wink.
I roll my eyes and scan the cabin instead of looking at my food, trying to focus on the mission rather than wondering if the man across from me is a ghost. But no; I felt his flesh. I felt him bleed against my fingertips. He’s as alive as I am.
“Wanderer,” the Nomad murmurs, leaning forward, “something bothering you? Because I find it best not to do these sorts of things on an empty stomach.” I snap my gaze back at him, a warning look.
He grins. “All right, all right,” he says, taking a sip from his goblet.
“Don’t take my advice. It’s not as if I’ve run hundreds”—a server comes to the table, refilling our drinks, and the Nomad effortlessly pivots mid-sentence—“of these business dealings before. Really, you’re always thinking I’m going to squander your parents’ inheritance. ”
The server sets the water down and scurries away before she has to witness what I imagine is not her first couple’s argument of the morning.
I let my gaze wander out the window and watch the lush countryside unfold before us. There was a time in my childhood when I dreamed about being on a train such as this one. It seemed so romantic, watching the world rush by.
Now all I can think about is the speed at which we’re flying and how I don’t particularly enjoy the sensation of crushed bones.
“You’ll make the jump,” the Nomad says, reading my mind.
Of course I’ll make the jump.
He sighs heavily, then in a tone a researcher might use if dictating a note for an assistant to transcribe, says, “Compliments and words of encouragement prove ineffective with the subject.”
I roll my eyes at him and scan the cabin once more, tired of watching trees blur together and imagining my probable death today.
Phoenix and Venus are also in the breakfast car, to the right and down a few tables.
They’re sitting across from each other, whispering something I can’t hear above the chatter.
Two tables down from them are Lars and Acel.
They’re supposed to be acting like business partners.
Instead, they just look like two disgruntled men forced to sit together due to lack of seating.
I relate more to Lars and Acel this morning than I do the muses.
“Now, Wanderer,” says the Nomad. “Don’t tell me this doesn’t give you at least a hint of a thrill. A smidge?”
I don’t look at him. But I’d be lying to myself if I said my heart was only racing because of the tea I’ve been sipping.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Five till seven.
The Nomad has the plan down to the second, equipping each of us with either a wristwatch or a pocket watch he calibrated this morning.
Venus had argued with the plan, thinking it unwise to leave so little room for error, but the Nomad had simply smiled and replied that he works best under pressure, and he finds the same to be the case for those who work for him.
Let’s just hope he’s right. Right now, with the way Venus is fidgeting, twirling the strand of hair that frames her face, I’m not so sure.
“She survived years as a slave to a very wicked man,” says the Nomad. “This is nothing to her.”
I’m not so sure about that. But I don’t feel like talking to him. Not after last night. So I stare at the wristwatch the Nomad gifted me this morning, counting down the ticks until the plan pounces into motion.
“How many people who aren’t up to no good stare at their watch like that? Do try to be a tad more subtle,” the Nomad whispers.
I could be waiting for someone to join us, I write, and then something occurs to me. Where’s your pocket watch?
“Right here,” he says, pulling a golden timepiece from the lining of his coat.
Not that one, I write. I don’t dare write the rest, don’t dare put to paper what happened in the courtyard of Lady Whittaker’s when Peter’s shadow magic was trapped inside an adamant pocket watch that the Nomad had had fashioned specifically for that purpose.
The Nomad looks as if he’s about to respond, but then the yelling starts, and I glance down at my watch. Seven on the dot.
“Four months!” he shouts at Acel. “Four months you put off this meeting with me! Four months I’ve been working on a project you promised to fund upfront.
Four months all I’ve heard are these excuses for delays in payment.
But you’re not the only one with bills to pay.
Not the only one with debtors breathing down your neck.
Pay it or find someone else to fund this project.
Oh wait, you can’t, because no one else in the world is intelligent enough to figure it out! ”
“Gentlemen,” says a server, “this conduct is not approved of on this train. You must keep your conversation to an appropriate level for the other guests—”
“An appropriate level for the other guests?” Lars shouts, shooting up from the table.
The Nomad glances at me, and I can’t help sharing a thought with him. For someone who claims to dislike people, Lars seems to enjoy performing for them.
“Do you even know how much a ticket on this train costs?” Lars goes on.
“Everyone on this train except me is here for the luxury. Probably born into their wealth, like this swindler here”—he points to Acel—“Everyone else can bear a little conflict. Might be good for them, considering they probably haven’t had any in their lives! ”
“Sit. Down,” Acel says through his teeth.
“Sit down? All right.” Lars flops into his seat just before taking his cup and tossing its contents in Acel’s face.
A flash later, Acel is over the table, dishes shattering as they hit the floor. The server screams and so do half the other breakfast-car attendees, all staring at the outbreak.
Except for Phoenix, who is staring at the empty spot where Venus just disappeared.
The Nomad’s face brightens. He reaches into his coat pockets, then rolls up his sleeves and walks up to the shocked server.
He places a calming hand on her shoulder and says something that would be indistinguishable over the commotion if I didn’t have the plan memorized.
“I believe now would be the time to go get the head of security.”
The server snaps back to her senses, nods, and scurries off, heading to the front door of the breakfast car and unlocking it with shaking hands. She must be in shock not to notice that the door, rather than shutting behind her, remains ajar about a foot’s width.
Well, I suppose we know where Venus is. And that she made it to her post.
I slide from my seat and follow the Nomad, who is slinking toward the door.
As we walk, I keep note of the other passengers, but Acel has just pulled a painting off the wall and is beating Lars over the head with it.
At least, that’s what I gather from the frantic middle-aged woman narrating the entire scene to her husband, who seems just as capable of seeing as she is.
With a flick, the Nomad nudges the door and slips through it. I follow him, and the door closes behind us. I can’t see Venus, but I feel her presence behind me, her cautious breathing.
“We did it,” she whispers.
“Don’t let your guard down yet,” the Nomad says.
And I’m inclined to agree, especially knowing the server is on her way to find the head of security, who will have to come back through this way to address the brawl in the breakfast car.
Next to me, the Nomad pries open a crate and beckons me and Venus inside. Though I can’t see Venus, I feel her go stiff next to me, and I recognize the feeling instantaneously in myself. We both spent time in our respective cages and familiarity doesn’t make climbing back into one any easier.
I reach into the air until I find her trembling hand. I give it a squeeze before heading into the crate first. It’s not long before the crate feels especially cramped as she climbs in.
Then the Nomad looks down into the crate, flashing us a grin. “See you on the other side.”
The lid shuts. There’s a shuffle as he gets into position. The noise from his movement goes still just as the door flings open.
“A brawl before breakfast?” says what can only be the head of security, sounding agitated. “There should be a rule about these things. I haven’t even had my tea yet.”
The server’s voice picks up, muttering apologies as if she’s the one who started the brawl. Then the door closes and the car goes quiet again.
Minutes later, the door bangs open.
Lars roars louder even than the squeal of the train and the train horn. He’s ranting something about injustice and social classes.
The head of security barks for Lars to shut up. But then there are two thuds—that would be Acel and the Nomad hitting the head of security and the server over the head—then two more thuds—presumably their bodies hitting the floor.
“Well, that was thrilling,” Lars says moments later as our crate creaks open.
Venus lets out a shudder and climbs out faster than I can register what’s happening.
The Nomad stares into the crate and offers me a hand, which I take before I have time to think about it.
When I do, I notice raised areas of skin on his hand—four of them, to be exact, red and in the exact spacing of my fingers.
That’s not all I notice. Burn marks have appeared on two of the fingertips on his left hand.
When he follows my gaze, he just gives me a wink and pulls me out of the crate.