The Last Train from Faerie | Olivia Atwater #2
“No, no,” the voice spoke hastily. “That will not be necessary.” Suddenly, Emma became aware that the pocket watch had disappeared from its outstretched hand. “Please do enjoy your journey, madam.”
Emma’s limbs flooded with abject relief. Somehow, she kept herself from swaying on her feet. She glanced behind her at the cloaked figures in the passenger car, searching through them – but of course, Simon was nowhere among them.
“You said there will be supper in the parlour car?” she asked. “Where might I find it?”
This time, there was no response at all. But as Emma turned back, she saw that the wax figure had disap peared entirely, and the door beyond it had opened with invitation.
Emma, having no desire to linger, hurried through the door before someone else could think to stop her.
A sickly green haze swam up before her as she exited the car.
Emma found herself standing outside on the gangway between cars – for some definition of the word ‘outside’, in any case.
The trees that whipped past here seemed to have been carved from sharp obsidian; farther in the distance, she became aware of several impossibly tall black spires, piercing up through acid green clouds.
There was an uncomfortable stench on the air that she couldn’t begin to identify. In fact, as the skin of her face began to burn, Emma decided that holding her breath was the best course of action.
She dragged her hood down over her face – and dared to step across the gap between cars. She pried blindly at the door to the next car while coughing into her sleeve, hoping that no one had decided to lock it.
It took three very determined tugs – but finally, the door slid open, and Emma shoved her way into the next car.
The parlour car was brighter than the passenger car had been; each of the small side tables had been laid with a flickering blue lantern that set the interior swimming with a strange aurora of light.
The effect was terribly disorienting – for a moment, in fact, Emma wondered whether she had stumbled into an underwater compartment.
But while her steps felt dizzy and uncertain, the air was once again perfectly breathable.
The passengers here were more lively than those she’d passed before, all arranged in cushioned chairs around their tables.
A woman with violet skin and robin’s-egg eyes had already downed several drinks of unknown origin, if the empty glasses next to her were any indication; her harsh voice slurred as she muttered to two living shadows in the seats across from her.
Meanwhile, several women in Eastern dress with blue, frostbitten skin tittered with an elf who wore a yellow rose about his throat, in the style of a cravat.
All of the faeries present, however, had devoted at least half of their attention to a visibly flustered figure standing at the back of the parlour car.
Simon Everly was not a terribly striking figure, especially when compared to the otherworldly audience before him.
His dark hair was mussed to distraction, and his face had the sort of sharp angles which inspired accusations that he had surely buried himself in his books and forgotten to eat again.
If he had been wearing any sort of travelling clothes, they were currently missing; for the moment, he was dressed down to a stiff-collared cotton shirt and woollen trousers.
His awkward, earnest smile stopped Emma in her tracks. An aching fondness stole her voice and weighed down her limbs as she stared at him, utterly thunderstruck.
After five years of desperate searching… here he was, standing before her. Everything from his tie pin to his rolled-up shirtsleeves to his warm, friendly voice was exactly as she remembered it. Exactly that, she realised: for Simon Everly had not aged a single day since last she’d seen him.
“—which is to say,” Simon told the crowd of faeries, “that your ideas of morality, while perfectly sensible in their own context, do not precisely match up to those of the English—”
“Oh, goodness,” said the elf with the rose cravat, “won’t you please address us as students, Professor Everly? We had hoped for an authentic English lecture! You must pretend that we are a class like any other.”
Simon blinked with owlish alarm. “Well, I… yes, of course. If that is your wish—”
“It is,” the elf replied eagerly. “Most assuredly. Treat us as the most boring English students you have ever had!”
Simon opened his mouth to reply – but as he did, the violet-skinned woman threw both of her arms up into the air, waving them about with drunken frustration. Simon shot her a worried expression. “Er… are you quite all right?” he asked her.
“I have a question,” the woman informed him firmly.
One of the shadows sitting across from her shivered oddly. Belatedly, Emma realised that it must be laughing.
“You… oh!” Simon offered her an encouraging smile. “You need only raise one hand, if you have a question,” he informed her gently.
The faerie woman scowled at him. “Perhaps I have two questions,” she challenged him.
“Certainly, that would make sense,” Simon agreed, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, please do ask your questions. I will do my best to answer them.”
The faerie woman frowned for a long while, scrutinising him closely. Eventually, the elf with the rose cravat gestured at her impatiently. “You meant to ask something,” he reminded her.
The faerie woman narrowed her eyes. “Yes,” she said finally. “I wanted to know… what if I have three questions? Do I raise my foot, as well?”
“We are supposed to be a normal English class, Miss Catastrophe,” the elf said, sighing heavily. “Professor Everly teaches about faeries, and so your questions should be about us.”
“I never agreed to such a game!” the faerie woman shot back. “I shall ask any questions I please!”
Simon lifted a tentative hand, as though preparing to regain control of his unruly class – but Emma interjected quickly, before he could make the attempt.
“Professor Everly might be from England,” she said loudly, “but he currently teaches at the College of Wales. As such, you really ought to be Welsh students!”
“Welsh?” the elf repeated worriedly. “But I haven’t spoken any Welsh in three hundred years! All of my vocabulary would be out of date!”
“Oh, would you come off it!” Miss Catastrophe slurred back. “This is a terrible idea. The snow women don’t know any Welsh at all – they won’t be able to participate!”
Simon blinked again several times, obviously overwhelmed by the fresh argument that had started up among the faeries. Emma, meanwhile, took swift advantage of the chaos in order to grab his arm, dragging him firmly through the door to the next train car.
“I was rather in the midst of a lecture,” Simon protested faintly. “I was specifically invited for the purpose—”
He cut himself off with a sudden hacking cough, as they found themselves outside in that ugly green haze. Emma lifted his arm to cover his nose and mouth. She pointed emphatically across the gap, at the next train car.
Simon tried to turn back – but she held on to him stubbornly, pointing once again. Finally, he seemed to decide that following instructions was more likely to get them both out of the elements. He hopped the small gap, scrabbling awkwardly for purchase on the other side.
Emma followed after him, quickly lunging for the door to the next car.
The train car they soon entered was swathed in an impenetrable white fog. Compared to the light green haze outside, it was cool and soothing against Emma’s abraded skin. She closed the door behind them, leaning heavily against it.
“I am… well aware of why it is you are here,” Emma rasped at Simon.
“Though admittedly, it took me far too long to piece the situation together. Professor Carew was almost no help whatsoever; he couldn’t even recall which part of Faerie you’d gone off to visit.
I had to deduce it from your notes.” She drew in a deep breath, allowing the cool fog to soothe her lungs before she managed to speak again.
“And your handwriting, Simon. It’s simply illegible.
You should know, going forward, that your life might have hinged upon how badly you write the letter ‘u’. ”
Simon rubbed at his face, obviously disoriented in more ways than one. “I haven’t—” he stammered. “That is – I don’t believe I caught your name. How do you know Professor Carew? And… you’ve seen my notes?”
Emma took his arm again gently, leading him deeper into the car. More silver benches glimmered on either side of them as they walked, barely visible within the soupy mist. The passengers sitting upon them made for dark, ominous figures, blurred into formless shadows by the environment.
“You know me very well, Simon,” she murmured, lowering her voice. “Oh… bother. I fear I haven’t any time to be gentle with the truth. How long do you believe you have been on this train?”
Heads turned as they passed, and Emma realised that they were drawing too much interest. She shoved Simon onto an empty bench and sat herself down beside him.
Simon glanced over at her sharply. With his arm still in hers, he was close enough for Emma to see the slow, dawning horror in his warm brown eyes. “I am sure that I have only been here for a few hours,” he whispered. “Four stops? Maybe five.”
Emma shook her head. “Perhaps it has only been that long for you,” she said gently. “But it has been five years for me since the day that you disappeared. Of all people, I expect you are familiar with the way that time can move in Faerie.”
Simon froze. For a long moment, in fact, he did not breathe at all.
Had they all the time in the world, of course, Emma would have tried to console him; the idea of losing five years in the space of a few hours would have been enough to distress anyone.
But naturally, time was the one thing that they did not have.