I turned just in time to catch the mother across from us—baby now passed out in sugar-soaked bliss—staring at the last biscuits in the tin like they might sprout wings and fly into her mouth. Then she looked away, ashamed of the wanting.
Without thinking, I reached into my reticule and flicked a quarter into Lessie’s open hand.
“Last two,” I said. “Plus, a tip for your trouble.”
Lessie winked. “Whew. Sorry folks, I’m sold out.” But she looked proud. As well she should. The train staff hadn’t so much as offered our section a glass of water, let alone ham on warm bread. I studied her sidelong. She was sharp. Resourceful.
Wordlessly, I passed one of the sandwiches to the baby’s mother. She hesitated—because that’s what pride does—but the baby stirred, and hunger does not argue long.
She took it. Tore into it with the quiet ferocity of a woman who knew this was the best meal she’d get for days.
I looked out through the cracked partition, pretending not to watch her.
I had a nice view of second class, though. Too fine to be poor, too poor to be fine. I caught sight of the man. The man who had robbed me, shoved me, named me. The so-called porter. I moved toward him like a bullet.
He was sitting in a sunbeam, positively lounging and eating a sandwich like someone without a single regret in the world. Roast beef, from the looks of it. Thick bread.Realmustard.
I slapped it out of his hands.
He didn’t even look surprised.
“I was wondering when you’d find me,” he said.
“This is my seat, you louse,” I hissed, arms folded, voice low enough to remain respectable. “Shouldn’t you be serving the passengers?”
He raised an eyebrow, chewing slowly. “Oh, you mean that porter’s suit?” He glanced down at the blue coat, now rumpled and unbuttoned. “Bit too tight, wasn’t it?”
I froze.
Hewasn’t evena porter.
He wasn’t employed by this train. He was just some stranger in a borrowed uniform, a walking scandal, a thief with good posture.
“You—you stole a uniform!”
“Technically,” he said, licking mustard off his thumb, “I borrowed it. I’ll be returning it at the next major station. In better condition than I found it, I might add.”
“I—I could have you arrested!”
“Yes,” he said, nodding agreeably. “Or you could sit down here and talk to me, Caroline.”
I glared at him. “How do you know my name?” I demanded.
He looked up at me then, eyes dark and gleaming, like he found me terribly amusing—which, frankly, I couldn’t allow.
He stood and dusted off his coat. I thought he was leaving.
Instead, he reached into the inside pocket and pulled out… my ticket.
Neatly folded. Unsullied.
He pressed it into my glove like a love letter.
“I just wanted to look out the window for a spell,” he said.
He slipped past me and out the back of the car. I noticed something else tucked in with the ticket: a calling card. No name. Just a hand-drawn sketch of a crow in flight, and on the back, in that same neat hand:
Major Washington
