"We can't stay on the train," I said, a few minutes later. "I don't think we can just flee into the night. Someone will find us eventually."
"Why not?" Erik said. His voice was soft, compelling. "We could lose James and Henri in the crowd and simply get back on the train. It would be easy."
"They aren't too bright," I agreed, "but James did say they were going to stay with us. I don't think we can distract them long enough to vanish."
"A distraction wouldn't be too difficult."
I looked at him. His lips curved at the ends in a thoughtful smile; I could almost see the gears spinning behind his brightened eyes.
"Erik," I said, warningly. "What kind of distraction?"
"Oh, I haven't decided yet," he said, and turned away to the window. "Something loud, I think. Something loud and chaotic. Perhaps we could… no, that would be too dangerous. But maybe we could… no… But yes, that might work."
He swiveled back around. "What do you say to stealing a few things?"
"How many is a few?" I asked, trying not to imagine what he had in mind. It would be something awful, I was sure. "And I still haven't said yes, Erik. I really don't think we should leave that poor copyist to rot in the Inspector's newest hellhole. Please tell me you understand I how feel; you're being entirely too cavalier about the whole thing."
Erik frowned. "I am not. Irene, we won't get another chance like this one. If we stay in Venice, we'll be trapped with James and Henri for quite some time. And Christophe will catch up to us, creating all sorts of problems. I'm sure he's gotten out of the hotel by now, or he's more inept than I thought."
"But?" I said, as he paused.
"But if we stay on the train, we can stay ahead of all of them. And then we can figure out what to do next."
I shook my head, growing distressed. Why wasn't he agreeing with me? "I know our chances of escaping in Venice are slim, but what about the copyist? We can't just abandon him. I say we stay in Venice, but lose Christophe's contacts. We can rent an apartment, change our disguises, and begin our own investigation. We could go to art shows-"
Erik was shaking his head, his eyes dark with disagreement. I drew a deep breath, trying not to lose my temper. Why wasn't he listening to me? I made perfect sense. How could we run off somewhere and leave a kidnapped man behind? What kind of people were we?
"Why won't you listen to me?" I said, my voice rising involuntarily. "Why doesn't this make sense to you? We have to help him if we can, and we can."
"You're worth more to me than a copyist," my fiancé said. "I'd rather have you safe than him. I can't agree with you on this, Irene."
I stared back at him, defiant. "Then what are we going to do?"
"I don't know," Erik said. He took a deep breath. "I suppose we'll have to find a compromise."
"We both think we should lose Christophe's men," I said.
"And we both want to stay moderately safe," Erik said.
"But you don't want to help the copyist."
"And you won't leave with me."
"This is stupid," I said, striding over to the fireplace and flinging my hands down on the stone mantel. "I'm not going to change my mind, and clearly, neither are you."
Erik growled, "I don't want to see you hurt. Venice is the last place I want us to be."
"It's not always what you want that matters," I said into the stone. "Sometimes what I want matters too."
He made an inarticulate, choked noise of disbelief. I heard him move away from me, then a thump as he sat down on the bed. There was the click of a latch, the rustle of clothing: he was going through Christophe's suitcase, I assumed.
I breathed slowly, letting the smoke from the dying fire waft up into my face until the burning smell overwhelmed me. Clenching my hands together, I backed away and sat down in the armchair.
"What are you doing?" I said, speaking to the rug. There were wildflowers dotted along the edge, blooming or furled, some half-drooping, some dead. A skull lay trapped, smothered and eyeless, in a coil of withering leaves: I shuddered. Who'd made this? And who had put it here?
"Searching for clues," he said. A pause. "Maybe Christophe has papers in here after all. I don't think I checked this correctly the first time."
I didn't want to look at him because I was angry, but my curiosity got the better of me. I twisted around in the armchair, tucking my knees under me so I could see over the back.
Christophe's suitcase lay open on the bed, clothes strewn around it, pouring out of it, dropping onto the floor. Erik was bent over the suitcase, pulling at something inside of it, his arms tensed, his jaw tight. A snap – and he yanked a folder of papers from the inside, holding it up in triumph, his face glowing.
I sprang out of the armchair and snatched the folder from him. "Erik, look! It's about the copyist!"
The first page read:
Pietro Crocetti, twenty-one years old, was last seen in Piazza San Marco on March 6th, a little after eight pm, by his art dealer, Matteo Favero. His young sister Stella Crocetti was with him; both are missing. His apartment was ransacked, but the amount or quality of items taken (if any were taken) is unknown.
The copyist specialized in copies of Raphael paintings. According to Matteo Favero, he had suddenly acquired a new customer a few weeks ago, an older, overweight man with an interest in buying one of his best. The interested party wanted a copy of Woman with a Veil, which Pietro sold to him five days before he went missing.
Pietro's sister, Stella, is twelve and orphaned. Their parents passed away from typhoid ten years after she was born. Pietro has been supporting her ever since.
Both victims are unacquainted with criminals or criminal activity.
I handed the first page to Erik and went on to the second.
Instructions: retrieve the Crocettis and detain the Inspector.
Supplies: two contacts waiting outside the D'hôtel Papillion. Further instructions will be given upon meeting the contacts.
Destination: Piazza San Marco, Venice, Italy. Bring bait.
I turned it over, but there was nothing else. The folder was empty. Erik lifted it out of my hands and slid the papers back inside, saying nothing.
"Well?" I said, the new information settling into my brain like lights turning on in a dark room. "We know who we're looking for, we know when he vanished, and we know why. I think we should do something with this information, shouldn't we?"
Erik slipped the folder back into the bottom of the suitcase and snapped the hidden compartment shut. I could see the tension in the lines of his face, his clamped lips.
"Erik. He has a twelve-year-old sister. She's been taken too. We have to do something."
He didn't make a sound, but he turned to me, and his eyes were fierce.
"I know," he said. He let out a sigh. "I know. You're right. We have to save them."
I was still kissing him when the train crashed.
Erik felt the shudder first, and then I felt it too: a horrible ringing vibration that stammered up through my legs and spine into my skull. I clutched one hand to my face, gritting my teeth in the terrible earthquake of pain, and felt Erik wrap his arms around my shoulders before the world went sideways and upside-down.
The next few seconds were akin to being inside a thunderstorm. The boxcar flipped over, spinning Erik and I inside of it like toothpicks in a cardboard box. The bed flew with us – the mattress crushed us against the ceiling, trapping the two of us underneath.
A flash of darkness… my head ached… Where were we? What was happening? A flash of pain…
My cheek pressed against the grainy ceiling, melding into the wood. My eyes burned with dust. I coughed, swallowed a mouthful of dry, dead air, and coughed again.
"Erik," I whispered, spitting out bits of dirt. His arms were tight, very tight around my shoulders. His chin rested on the top of my head.
He hadn't heard me; he didn't answer. I wondered if he was conscious. I tried to move, but my arms and legs screamed in agony, trapped as they were between the mattress and the ceiling and Erik, and I stopped. My ribs were smashed together; my lungs hardly worked. I lay between the ceiling and Erik like a squashed bug, half-dead and barely aware of my surroundings.
For a long moment I wasn't sure if I was dreaming or awake. Everything was surreal. The dust flickered past me in slow motion through the interplay of light and shadow.
The Inspector, leering down at me. His pudgy fingers clasped together, his beady eyes were as black as pitch. He smiled: his lips moved. I didn't hear what he said, but I understood the smile.
He was happy. He tapped his hands together, looked behind him and nodded. A group of people moved in the darkness behind him, weapons glinting in their hands. A flash of fair hair, a long knife.
My heartbeat picked up, strangling me – I tried to step away, but my feet were frozen to the ground.
The Inspector stepped towards me, gesturing with his hand for the others to join us.
I felt frantically for my knife.
I blinked again, shaking the strange images away, scraping my cheek against the wood as I moved. Little lights winked in and out around me, white orbs so small they would have fit ten times across my fingernail. Blinking them away, I gasped for air, and felt the boxcar shift.
Then it moved: we tumbled out from under the bed, rolling across the floor like china dolls. I wrapped myself up in a terrified ball and closed my eyes to the shaking, stumbling motions.
It seemed like an hour before I found the strength to stand.
The window was still open, but it was above us now. Its wall had become our new ceiling. A shaft of dirty sunlight fell through its broken panes, blazing on the back of my head from where I knelt above Erik. His eyes were closed, and a bruise blackened the edge of his cheekbone. The ground around us was scattered with broken bits of pottery, ashes from the fireplace, dirt and dust and mayhem. The bed lay up against the wall, the blankets and sheets hanging off like curtains. Christophe's suitcase lay open and empty in the corner, clothes scattered around it like so many limp ghosts.
I dipped the rag of torn petticoat into the pitcher of water and dabbed Erik's forehead with it. It had been a minute or so since the boxcar had decided to settle on its side against two large pine trees. Thanks to them, we hadn't rolled any farther down the hillside.
"You're dripping water on me," said an amused voice. I looked down at Erik – I'd been staring up at the window, watching the shadows of the tree branches flicker in the wind, listening for sounds of survivors – and smiled.
"You're awake," I said. My voice trembled with relief. "Thank goodness."
He sat up carefully, putting an arm around me. I thought he was steadying himself, but instead he pulled me close and pressed a kiss into my forehead. I blinked, coughed a bit of dust from my throat, and dropped my head against his chest. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.
"Dear Irene," he murmured.
I closed my eyes, breathing in his scent: sweat, chocolate, ink, wood shavings. One hand lay on his shoulder, fingertips pressing softly into the linen shirt.
"You're all right? You're not hurt?"
As he said this, I heard someone call out, their voice quite near: "Help me! Please, someone, help me!"
My skin went cold. I pulled away from Erik. We looked at each other with wide eyes.
The voice was a child's.
Erik got to his feet, cupped his hands together, and nodded at me.
"I'll hoist you through the window," he said.
"But you-" I started.
"I'll stand on the bed," he said. "I'm taller than you. Come on, step up. I've got you."
I put both hands on his shoulders and stepped into his hands with one foot. Erik pushed upward: I rose towards the open, broken window.
"I'm going to step onto your shoulder," I warned him.
"Go ahead," Erik said. "The left shoulder, if you don't mind. And watch out for the glass when you go through the window."
I climbed onto his left shoulder, ripped a large section of cloth from my skirt (Erik grunted when I did this – he was getting tired, it seemed), wrapped my hands in the cloth and pulled myself through the window. My knees hit hot wood as I rolled onto the top of the boxcar: I winced and crawled away from the window to look down.
The trees were very close to us: a handful of pine needles poked at my cheek. I swiped them out of my way and leaned further over the side of the boxcar. The ground appeared to be very far away: the pine trees had stopped the boxcar, but they had also created an impenetrable wall. I pulled my knife from my pocket and began to hack away at the nearest branch, attempting to create a space to jump through.
"Are you coming?" I called. Whoever had called out was somewhere out here, needing help, needing people to find him. But I couldn't see anything.
"Almost," Erik groaned from behind me. There was a crack, a thump, and then the boxcar wall shook. "Yes, I'm here. What are you doing?"
"We can't get down through here," I said, dropping another hacked-off branch on the boxcar. "Do you think-"
"Shh…"
I stopped talking. Erik crouched down beside me silently, head cocked to one side, eyes narrowed.
"Do you hear that?" he whispered.
I shook my head. I couldn't hear anything but the wind rustling through the pine needles. It was very warm out here; the sun was beating down on me like a hot drum.
Where were the other boxcars?
I swiveled around, looking up the hillside, and was horrified to see that there was nothing there. No boxcars, no people, nothing. Only a line of broken track straggling down through the grass. And a boy lying beside it, one arm bent at an awkward, awful angle, unmoving…
"Erik," I said.
He turned and looked, broken from his reverie.
I scrambled over the edge of the boxcar and tumbled onto the grass. My feet seemed to be moving of their own accord: I did not know what I was doing, only that I had to get to him. I fell to my knees besides the boy and pressed my fingers to his neck.
He had a pulse. He was going to be all right.
His hair was light brown and scattered over a high, sallow forehead. His lips were parted; spots of red dotted his cheekbones. At my touch, he groaned, and his eyes flew open.
He reached for his arm, but I managed to his wrist before he could touch the broken arm.
"Don't," I said. "It's hurt. Lie still."
Brown eyes looked into mine without understanding; then they cleared, and he closed them and pressed his arm down by his side. His lips trembled.
"Who are you?"
"Irene," I said, forcing myself not to look at his broken arm. I had never been good with broken bones – blood I could handle, but not limbs bent at sickening, wrong angles. "What's your name?"
"Shawn," said the boy. He lay quite still, but his lips were white. "What happened?"
"I'm not quite sure," I said. "Do you – do you have anyone on the train?"
The boy shook his head a tiny fraction, then lay still again. I did not understand. How could he be on the train alone? Didn't he have parents? Did he mean there was someone he knew on the train, but that they were dead? Where was Erik? I needed him; he understood what people were saying even when they didn't say it.
Then a crashing, tearing noise from behind me; a chorus of snapping and breaking sounds. The boy shifted, moving his hurt arm, and bit his lip. I patted his shoulder and looked behind me.
A small group of people emerged from the newly created door in the side of the boxcar, all disheveled, all pale and confused-looking, their eyes wild. I counted four: an older man, bent and wizened; a couple, their arms around each other; a man with dark hair and darker eyes. Erik came last, carrying a poker in one hand and my knife in the other. He slipped the knife away into his boot and laid the poker down near the splintered wood next to the boxcar.
The couple trailed past me, staring blankly at the grass, and sat down in the shade from the pine trees. The elderly man looked up at me and the boy, frowned, and stepped through the grass towards us. Erik and the other man followed.
"I'm a doctor," the elderly man said when he reached us. His voice was tremulous with age, but his eyes were bright and intelligent as they looked down at me and the boy. "I can help him."
He bent down and spoke to the boy. "You have a broken wrist, young man."
"I know," the boy said, without opening his eyes. "What – what are you going to do?"
He was striving to appear calm and without pain, but his whitening face betrayed him.
"I'm going to set it," the doctor said. "Young woman, would you give me a piece of cloth?"
I handed him the strip of cloth I'd torn from my petticoat. He took it in both hands, pulled it taut, and nodded.
"And a long, straight piece of wood," he said, turning to Erik, who'd stopped behind him. "I think that one lying over there would do."
Erik hurried away to get it, and the other man bent over the boy, his dark eyes unreadable. "Do you want help?" he asked the older man.
"No," the doctor said. "You two can go. Thank you, mademoiselle."
"Do you want me to stay?" I asked the boy.
He shook his head. I stood and went up the hillside, feeling oddly shaky. My head was aching again. Why had the train crashed? And where was the rest of it? Was our boxcar the only one left?
I came to the top of the hill.
The railroad stretched unbroken and empty on both sides. To its right was the forest; to the left was a sea of grassy hills. In the distance was nothing but green: great lines of pine trees, long rolling slopes of foliage. The tracks coalesced into a tiny black speck, vanishing into nothing. There were no cities, no towns, no villages.
The boy cried out as the doctor pulled his arm straight and tied it to the board. Erik climbed up to me, his eyes grim as they surveyed our surroundings. I looked down at the small group of people on the hillside, then back at the empty countryside.
We were alone.