She gently squeezed his hand. “You don’t need them.”
“But—”
“Do you trust me?”
Trust was something Q reserved for his paintbrushes and walking stick, objects that couldn’t lie or lead him astray. But Raya’s hand felt as familiar as any of his brushes and their tether as solid and sure as any cane. Q drew a breath and shut his eyes, bracing for the ballroom’s frenzy to be amplified in the dark.
It was not. The ballroom in his mind emptied, leaving only the sound of Raya’s breath and heartbeat as his guide. He followed them, easily and willingly, unlocking a door he had kept barred since his father died. Behind it beat the softest part of his heart. But for now, he kept the door closed, having mustered only enough trust for a dance in the dark.
Raya brought their dance to an end. “We’ve reached the door. You can open your eyes.”
Q kept his lids closed, holding Raya in his arms.
“Q?” Raya said. “You can open your eyes now.”
“Wait.” His heart raced but not from the dance. “I’d like to remember this.” He released her, holding his hand up between their faces, tracing the air as gently as he would have touched her cheek if they were more than just strange friends. But he did not need to touch her to memorize the shape of her face. The warmth Raya radiated was enough to meld her memory into his palm. He opened his eyes. “Thank you.”
“For what?” Raya’s cheeks flushed.
Their invisible tether heaved with their chests. “For not letting me fall.”
Raya smiled. “Maybe I can be the train’s dance instructor.”
Q bit his lip, waiting for her to tug her smile down and take her words back when she remembered how much she wanted to leave.
She didn’t.
Raya left her words hanging in the air as though she had not regretted them and walked around the black door. “There’s nothing behind it.”
Q gripped the door’s crystal knob. “Then I guess we better hope that the engine’s inside.”
A sparsely furnished living room welcomed them through the door. Raya stepped inside. Q followed her in, shutting the door behind him. Creamy white gardenias bloomed in a wallpaper garden that made Q wonder what he might see if he pushed their petals and leaves aside. Two butter-yellow wingback chairs sat across the room, arranged at the perfect angle to enjoy the midnight garden. Between the chairs, a pedestal table was set for tea.
“I think the operation manual didn’t just miss printing a word.” Q’s eyes roamed over the room. “It got the directions to the engine completely wrong. We should regroup with Rasmus.” He turned on his heel.
Raya laid her palm against a wall. “Q.” She drew her hand back. “I think I know why the dancers look like the train’s passengers.”
“You do?”
“What do they remind you of, Q?”
“Nothing. I’ve never seen anything like that ballroom in my life. Why?”
“Do you remember what Lily said about the Elsewhere Express being run by passengers?” Raya said. “And what Rasmus said about faith being the train’s fuel?”
Q nodded. “Every passenger has a place on the train and a part to play.”
“Just like those dancers.” Raya glanced back at the door to the ballroom. “Each dancer knows its steps and its position on the dancefloor. They never deviate from the choreography or their assigned track.”
“So?” Q said.
“What else on a train works with such regular, choreographed precision?” Raya pressed her palm against a printed gardenia. “Feel the wall.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Q rested his hand over the floral wallpaper. It vibrated against his palm, conjuring images of pistons, valves, and gears moving in perfect sync.
