Far-off gunfire and raucous voices still echo in my ears while monstrous, fire-lit shadows dance behind my eyes whenever I blink.

Despite the winding course required, and the fact that there have been far fewer officers than Inspector Campbell demanded for an escort, we have made it here safely.

Our car rocks to a stop below the station entry and I realize my hand is stiff from clutching the pistol in my handbag. I flex my fingers.

"Get the luggage," Campbell orders the copper in front.

He pulls me towards him in the same breath, the pressure of his grip unwavering as he assesses the train station through our back window. There is none of the bright, chaotic firelight here, but the platform lamps disperse enough illumination to estimate the safety of our approach.

It would be a difficult thing, I decide quickly, to conceal oneself along the well-lit rail line. Campbell seems to agree. He shoulders the door open and shifts us out onto the parkway.

The car which has followed us empties as well, three of those officer's trotting ahead. The clap of boots on brick is swallowed up by the chuffing wheeze of an engine billowing steam. Clouds of it float above the station's roof, fading into a starless night. I pray this train is ready to disembark.

"London or Liverpool?" Campbell asks.

The barrel of his pistol gleams when he cocks it in the wan light, and I realize I've never seen him with a weapon in hand.

He fears this as much as I do now.

"I'd board the Titanic in this moment, if it were the quickest way out of Birmingham."

He nods grimly. "Very well. Wherever chance takes us then."

"Has it become an us?"

I mean it as a question of ridership rather than romantic attachment and quickly amend. "You'll leave as well?"

One of the officers on the platform waves for us to come forward and the Inspector pulls me into motion. Another copper jogs ahead, the baggage handler taking up the rear.

"I'd see you all the way through your journey if I could, Grace, but you saw the gatherings on the way here. You know the imperatives of our operation."

Secure the gun consignment until its recovery. Save face for Churchill and the bloody crown.

I understand the limitations of his police force far better than most, but I suspect his insistence does not solely originate from a sense of occupational duty. I've caught his sideways glances on the way here... the way his jaw clenched whenever he considered my neck.

"You would have me travel alone, at this time of night?"

It is an unfair question, for a man who has already abandoned over an hour to protect me, but I'm beyond caring about morality. I've found I fear for him now, with my own safety near at hand.

"Two of these men will travel with you the entire way." He says, stepping onto the rail platform. "Chief Inspectors do not run from gangsters."

We're at the ticket window before I can argue further and he calls for service. I glance about, my attention drawn to the far end of the deserted platform. Its obscured, shadowy corners begin to warp into solid, dangerous forms the longer I stare.

This has all been too simple.

Who's to say Tommy hasn't changed his mind about me, amidst the riotous attitude pulsing through his territory? The policemen around us seem tense with the same worry, shifting in place as they're made to wait in the open. It feels as if the distant, growing thrum of civil discontent will spill down the railway any second.

"...Only traveling to London this time of night, Sir." An elderly man says within the booth.

"Fine. That's fine. Just hurry with the tickets and tell the conductor we'll be leaving now."

There is a slap of coins against countertop, a shuffle of papers, and then I'm drawn close to Campbell's side again.

A train has never looked so beautiful – this sooty, ironclad behemoth. It was surely built to spirit souls away from the grips of ruination, not to simply move people from place to place.

Tommy said he loved me… and then, with barely an explanation between us, he choked me.

I suppress the flash of wicked recollection as the Inspector ushers me onto the nearest carriage. He tucks in close behind while the policeman with my suitcase leads. I realize in a rush how ominous we must appear to the few bleary-eyed passengers we pass: officers with guns in hand, silently ghosting along the aisle without preamble.

"This one is where she'll stay." Campbell gestures to the first private compartment in the coach before taking my bag from our escorting officer and nodding him ahead. "See that the conductor is indeed busy and then come back here. Knock four times."

We press into the tight sleeper room, the space hardly large enough for two people to stand within. Behind me the sliding door closes with a smooth click, and then it's just the stuffy haze of a poorly ventilated room, a pair of bunks, and a man who finally appears hesitant to leave me.

Could I make him stay, I wonder in a new bout of desperation, if I tried convincing him with more than worry and words?

"You've done well to warn us, Grace." He holsters his pistol and pulls me into an embrace, as if it is now a natural compulsion. "I would have stormed the streets to disband this ravel, if not for your informative haste. I believe you may have kept the guns from them again, my brave, sweet girl."

"I did nothing," I murmur into his wool overcoat. "Except ruin a five-month long operation."

I feel him lean back and assess me before the cool whisper of a leather glove is under my chin, urging me to look up.

"You completed your mission," he insists. "I'll be writing nothing but praises in my report."

The professional and personal shame of it all threatens to undo me again, a tightness growing in the back of my throat. But there are other things I should be saying now – things I should be convincing him to do.

"I fear more than lives will be lost if we part ways now, Mr. Campbell... If you stay to face whatever unlawfulness is brewing, I worry you'll have to sacrifice a portion of your soul in the process."

I hold onto his coat lapels, as if I could anchor him to this tight, muffled place. It could be a safe haven for a time, removed from all the guns and retribution and bloodshed.

Would it truly be such a sacrifice, I want to argue, to abandon vengeance and abdicate tonight's duties to your second in command? Just this once? At the deadliest hour?

He studies me like I'm a painting in the city gallery, attention tracing every part of my face in detailed, flickering strokes. When the train whistle cuts through the lingering moment, his eyes soften.

"When this horrible business is done will you permit me to come to you?" He inhales, looking away. "I shouldn't dare ask it, but you continue to give me hope... Do you think you would perhaps accept me then, Grace?"

It is too much, delivered far too soon. Heartache still clouds my vision. Commitment is impossible.

My gaze slants to the doorway window, trying and failing to summon words to convey my emotions with kindness and honesty. I find the answer is more yes than no, but such a response is too simplistic when I consider the implications of falsely bolstering his prospects.

Do not break his heart again, sympathy protests. Honesty can wait.

For if tonight goes as I fear... if I never see Inspector Campbell again… kindness is far greater than truth.

"You may." I say softly, "And though I will never live to deserve your regard, it is possible that with time and distance from my experiences in Birmingham, I could someday come to accept the idea of marriage."

Campbell's lips stretch into a smile which is surely made for finer things than I, but my attention is drawn to a shadow moving behind him, across the door's distorted glass pane.

Four quick knocks sound, the interruption loud enough to make me jump, and I'm desperate for my handgun in a wild, illogical moment.

In the next, the Inspector's lips are pressed against mine, puckering into a shush as he feels my tension.

My fright at the officer's return ebbs like a retreating tide, giving way to the warmth and almighty goodness of being kissed well and slow and without further ambition. Only the threat of the Inspector's departure keeps me from abandoning thought completely, for this I find, is a distraction I'd burn for – this blurring sensory bliss.

Perhaps I might be mended, one day, by his unflinching attention and admiration. I try to hold onto that emerging hope as he withdraws.

Campbell tilts his forehead against my own, something close to a laugh breaking through him. It's so foreign and pure that the contagion of it finally draws a grin from me as well.

"You've made me very happy, Grace." He whispers, fingers spanning my waist.

The knock comes again and the officer shouts, "Time to go, Sir."

The train carriage grinds into motion as if in agreement, pitching us both sideways. Campbell holds me steady while I clutch him all the harder.

"Wait in London," he urges. "Send word where you're staying and I'll come as soon as I'm able."

"I'm sending word now – I'm here. Don't leave."

The heavy chug of the engine is building, as if my own thrumming trepidation is somehow fueling the machine. Campbell's resolve seems so close to breaking, his hand trembling against my cheek, gaze desperate to memorize my own.

The thought that I may truly be enough to withhold him from Tommy's murder is so sweet and intoxicating that I hear myself sob. It's like tasting country air again – like being given a chance at something fragile and mythical, yet too real to deny when it stands right in front of you.

I still matter to someone. I'm still seen.

There is suddenly more noise than there is train, and the fantasy of it all shatters. The huffing progress of turning pistons fades behind three sharp retorts.

Gunfire. Outside. On the platform. On the other side of the coach.

Campbell steps away from me and draws his weapon in a blur, opening the doorway.

"What did you see?" He demands of the copper, "Who? How many?"

"I think they shot Moris. It's John Shelby, with at least three others. There might be–"

Another pistol sounds and a rapid exchange of fire follows, all from outside. Glass shatters somewhere within our coach and a woman screams. Others shout and bully for cover, the clamor turning mob-like and terrifying.

I fist a hand into Campbell's coat, my other tightening around the cold grip of my pistol.

We've only seconds to decide, I fear, for the train is moving. Gaining speed. Leaving. Separating us from our chance to aid the men who will be left behind.

"Stay or fight, Sir?" The copper asks from his position on the floor – my own question thick on his tongue.

"Fight, god damn them!" Campbell roars, pushing out of the room.

He yanks the officer to his feet and shoves the man towards me in one fierce motion, his eyes stark and brutal for a fractured moment.

"If you leave her – if you let any harm come to her, O'Connell – I'll shoot you myself!"

The threat echoes in my mind, clear and crippling against the growing chaos, and then Inspector Campbell is simply gone. Before we can exchange any sort of farewell, the door slams shut.

"Forget me," I breath, leaning against the wall, fighting to control my shaking hands. "There aren't enough of you – you have to help them."

O'Connell straightens quickly and draws himself against the door jam, a tall man crouching low to listen through the haze of panic outside. Ignoring me. There is the undeniable, bumping promise of a train car picking up speed now, beneath our feet.

"Get out there and help!" I shout, "Or move aside so I can!"

A new smattering of pistol-fire echoes somewhere in the night, sounding more distant than before. I panic anew.

"We can't abandon them! The Shelby's surely came for me. It's me they want. Let me out!"

O'Connell finally glances my way, his dark, hollowed gaze darting to the room's only exterior window.

"We're already moving too fast to jump," he nods behind me. "The Inspector likely hasn't made it out and is still on board. We wait, as he ordered."

When he turns back to the slider again I press my gun between his shoulder blades, the fabric of his uniform tenting around the barrel.

"Move."

"I won't," He answers without hesitation, "I've been given an order that I intend to follow."

"Then bloody follow it and stick beside me. We can at least check the other coaches."

As O'Connell considers this, I realize the noises beyond our small room have dimmed. Voices have begun talking instead of yelling, and the train is almost at a hurried clip, rocking and swaying on the rails.

"I sweep this car first while you stay here," he concedes grimly. "Deal?"

"Yes, do it." I lower my pistol and watch him slip out.

The world tilts, from either the surreal minutes which have passed or the train's movement, I cannot be certain.

Deep, steadying breaths help me remember that worrying is futile. I repeat the slow mantra as I wait: Worry is useless. Worry can get you killed. Worry will not help you now. Focus, only focus may aid you.

When O'Connell reopens the slider and bids me to follow I feel somewhat steadier. He leads us through the back carriages at a jog, helping me bridge the windy turbulence of the connectors in between them. People are wide-eyed and talkative, but none appear harmed. Gangsters haven't boarded.

My heartbeat is wild and my breath ragged when we finally reach the last of the attached cars. Two windows have been shot out and a fierce gust whips above the open booth seating, swirling my hair back into my face. Most of the passengers are huddled towards the front, away from a cluster of turmoil at the coach's rear. A few in the aisle scatter aside when we yell and gesture with our pistols.

"Get back from there!" O'Connell barks, side-stepping past a crying mother and child. "Unless you're a doctor, move!"

I can't see what he sees right away, but the fresh tang of blood and soot and gunpowder is heavy here. Almost as if the three have melded to create a perfume of death and ruin.

Don't look, a part of my being screams.

I try to focus on the mother instead, as she clutches her daughter close – try to only examine the beautiful, tragic way she has managed to cocoon her screaming girl with her whole, shuddering body.

"Miss Burgess!" O'Connell is pulling me hard, drawing me forward despite my hesitation. "Do you have any first aid training?"

"Yes, some." I manage, stealing myself for what I will surely see.

Who I will see lying there.

Because of me... This evening has unfolded this way, because of me.

Tears are already wet on my cheeks as O'Connell steps into an open seat, letting me pass.

For a long, unfathomable moment all I see is Inspector Campbell lying there, twisted and bleeding across the aisle way.

But then I blink. And then blink again.

And I realize a different man is there instead. A stranger. A passenger I have never met.

I dip to this person, hands fluttering over their bicep wound.

My vision blurs as I rip away a shirt sleeve, tourniqueting a bullet hole I barely register; my hearing growing dull and distant, amidst the roar of wind and people and fear.

Relief turns cold... so very cold and uncertain, like the arm draining blood within my grasp.

I glance up, out the back carriage window.

Where is Mr. Campbell?