The air was colder on the edge of Landgraevan's canopy, where the crisp smell of ice from the Pythean range rode the constant, gusting breeze. A thin layer of new frost had settled over the broad marble steps leading to the station lobby, sparkling in undisturbed perfection under the ambient light of lampposts. A pair of imposing bronze lion effigies, one on either side of the great lobby doors, gleamed under a thick cover of ice as if made of transparent, green tinted glass.
Isobel's footsteps echoed lightly in the empty concourse lobby, her boots clipping the frost dusted stone floor of the gutted building. Underground, a hamlet had been founded by a small number of displaced families after the storms, and over the centuries it had grown to cover the entire second level of the station. The residents had built their homes from materials found throughout the station after the storms, and the concourse had been targeted first. Aluminum signs, advertising services no longer offered, were used as doors as were the wood tops of large whiskey barrels, found on freight trains along the rails, which still smelled faintly of peat and the sea. Rusted wrought iron gates hung alongside broken panes of stained glass windows and other decorative relics. Layers of soot from fires, kept burning against the perpetual winter, covered everything, obscuring the finer details of the station's ornate architecture.
The gurgling of a water fountain played softly in the night quiet, a steady, meditative sound that occupied the far right of the concourse. The deep, oval fountain, which served as the only source of fresh water for the residents, flowed abundantly from a subterranean river, pouring forth from a spout set in the mosaic concave wall backing it, the jewel tone stone glistening wet.
Isobel sat at the edge of the fountain and drank deeply from cupped hands, splashing the remaining water over her face to wash away the blood and fatigue. She gently patted the imprinting wounds with her scarf, and stood with a determined groan, every bone and muscle in her body protesting.
The ice-covered stairs crunched crisply under her feet as she climbed the wide central staircase leading to the concourse balcony, barely feeling the frozen brass handrail under her numb fingers. The centuries had stripped the upper tier balcony of its tempered glass windows, and the remaining framework did nothing to protect the concourse from the relentless mountain winds.
She leaned into the exposed steel frame and stared out east over the blue Pythean mountain range. Bucky thundered and the lightning illumined the empty balcony in cold flashes of blue. The sky was slate gray, the veil of Bucky's emissions hanging over the territory like heavy fog. Just below the balcony stood a small group of men, huddled around a blazing barrel fire. They spoke in low, rumbling voices, agitation evident in their nervous back and forth shifting.
She checked the balcony, and, finding no sign of Montgomery, descended past the lobby to the lower levels, continuing to the third level where self-proclaimed emperor of the central terminal station, Admiral Vin Gilligan, resided in his grand old locomotive.
A man in his position was privy to all station happenings, and he, Isobel reasoned, may have heard from Montgomery.