"When?"
"When we're secure." He finally moves, sliding away from my knee to check his phone. "Which won't be for a while."
The loss of contact feels like cold air rushing in. I tell myself I don't miss it.
The businessman ahead stands, stretches, heads toward the bathroom. Remy tracks him the entire way. When the man returns and sits back down, his attention shifts to the young woman with the paperback. She hasn't turned a page in several minutes.
"Is she a problem?" I ask.
"Don't know yet."
"How long before you know?"
"When she either turns that page or puts the book down." He settles back slightly, but tension coils in his shoulders. "Real readers move. Fake readers freeze."
I watch her. Another minute passes. She turns the page.
"Not a threat," Remy says.
The train's rhythm changes as we pass through a small station without stopping. Lights flash by—platform, signs, empty benches. Then darkness again.
My messenger bag sits heavy on my lap. Everything I stole from Geneva, everything that's turned me into a target. Weeks of hiding in Prague, thinking I was smart enough to disappear before anyone found me.
Before Remy pulled me from burning chemicals and explosions.
I watch him in the dim light. The sharp line of his jaw, the scar along his temple that disappears into his hairline, the way his gaze never stops scanning even when he's talking to me. He hasn't slept since the extraction. Every breath costs him, but he doesn't slow down.
The door between cars opens. A conductor enters, crisp uniform, checking tickets. He’s older, tired, with the practiced efficiency of someone who's done this route a thousand times.
He works his way down the aisle. Reaches us.
Remy produces our tickets without being asked. The passports too—I catch a glimpse of the names. Fontaine. Monaco residents married six months ago according to the date.
The conductor glances at me, then at Remy. "Long journey to Budapest?"
"We're used to traveling," Remy says in English.
"Ah. American?" The conductor's English is accented but clear. "Your wife, she is French?"
"Oui," I say softly, playing the role.
The conductor smiles. "Young love, yes? But these seats—" He gestures at the open car, the other passengers. "Not so private for honeymoon. We have sleeper compartment available. Upgrade, very reasonable price."
Remy tenses slightly. I feel him calculating—threat assessment, tactical advantage, cost versus benefit.
"How much?" he asks.
The conductor names a price. Remy doesn't hesitate.
"We'll take it."
Cash changes hands. The conductor's smile widens slightly. "Very good. Compartment in next car forward. More privacy for you and your beautiful wife."
He moves on. Remy stands, offers me his hand.
"Why?" I ask quietly.
"Because anyone searching this train will check open seating first." He pulls me to my feet, steady and certain. "A locked door buys us time. And privacy means we can talk without being overheard."
