“It was?” Will says, surprised by this praise.
“One of the best debuts I’ve witnessed.”
“I was terrified.”
“It didn’t show. And those drawings you did were remarkable. Such energy!”
Will didn’t even get a chance to see them properly, they were whisked away so fast. He blushes. He can’t remember his father ever complimenting him like this.
“You’ll give him a swelled head,” Maren says.
“I think he’s got a very steady head on his shoulders. Now, William, why don’t we visit the washrooms and allow Maren to change.”
Will wonders how he’s supposed to stay clean. He can’t wash properly because of the face paint. Brushing his teeth is impossible since his toothbrush and paste are neatly laid out on the gleaming porcelain sink in his first-class stateroom. He supposes he can just use his finger and water. As Will removes his vest, the odd cloth spectacles he bought fall to the floor.
“What’re these?” Maren asks, picking them up.
“Oh.” He feels foolish. “I got them in the Junction. . . .”
“Muskeg spectacles,” says Mr. Dorian.
Will’s hardly surprised the ringmaster knows about them—he seems to know about everything bizarre. “Is it true?” he asks. “About the hag?”
“Some people think so. I’ve never seen her myself. And I only started hearing stories once the train went through.” He nods reflectively. “It’s like the rails cut a scar across the continent and released all sorts of things. But the explanation may be quite simple. Perhaps some people get hypnotized by the barren landscape and the moonlight. A kind of lunacy. And that’s why they throw themselves into the bog.”
“All I can see is shadows of things,” says Maren, trying on the spectacles.
“That’s the point,” says Will. “You’re not supposed to look in her eyes.”
Maren takes them off and slips them back into Will’s vest. “Seems far-fetched to me.”
“We’re passing through the muskeg tonight,” Will says uneasily, remembering the postmaster’s comment.
“We’ll keep the curtains closed,” says Mr. Dorian. “Now, shall we go?”
In the wash car Will and Mr. Dorian wait their turn for the crowded sinks and toilets. A man with a hairy back sluices water under his arms and makes puddles on the floor. He glances suspiciously at Mr. Dorian and Will in the mirror. Will is aware how they stand out—an Indian fortune-teller and a Métis gentleman in a suit.
Afterward, as they walk back to their compartment, Will sees the rear door of the carriage open and Lieutenant Samuel Steele step inside.
Will is overwhelmed by a strange mixture of emotions. Elation, for there’s the Mountie in his scarlet uniform, looking as impregnable as a mountain fortress! But disappointment, too. Is his adventure over so soon? It seems too simple, too quick.
All he has to do is call out and tell his story. He’ll be escorted back to first class. He’ll see his father. Brogan and his men will be apprehended.
He hesitates only a moment before stepping toward the Mountie. Mr. Dorian’s hand closes firmly around his upper arm. The sensation is curiously familiar, and he realizes it’s how Mackie held him back when he was first brought before Brogan. In confusion Will looks up at Mr. Dorian, fear fluttering through him. The ringmaster stares down at him calmly, and gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Will knows he could shout out for help and the Mountie would come. But he doesn’t. He trusts Mr. Dorian. There must be a reason for his wanting silence.
“Ah, Mr. Dorian,” says the Mountie, “I saw your performance our first night out. Marvelous.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” says Mr. Dorian. “We’re looking forward to performing for you again in a few nights.”
“And who is this fellow here?”
“Amit, our spirit artist. He might have drawn you blindfolded, with utter accuracy, but now that he’s seen you, he will have to draw someone else.”
The Mountie chuckles. “A shame. Take good care. You can find some rough types on board in the lower classes.”
“We’ll be most cautious.”
“We’re passing through the muskeg tonight, gentlemen. Best to keep your curtains closed.”
“Indeed,” says Mr. Dorian.
Will feels a lump in his throat, and can’t help looking back as Samuel Steele disappears from sight. With leaden footsteps he follows Mr. Dorian to their compartment. As soon as the ringmaster has locked the door, Will whispers:
“Why didn’t you want me to talk to him?”
“What’s happened?” asks Maren from the top bunk. She’s in her nightdress. Even in his distress Will notices how pretty she looks with her hair down.
“We passed Samuel Steele in the corridor,” Mr. Dorian tells her.
“Don’t you trust him?” Will wants to know. “You can’t think he’s in with Brogan!”
“I’d trust Lieutenant Steele with my life. No, he’s the most honorable of men. But if you’d gone to him, William, and poured out your story, Brogan would have been apprehended—”
“But that’s good!” Will says, confused.
“—and the funeral car would no doubt have been placed under very careful surveillance.”
Mr. Dorian says nothing more, just watches Will patiently.
“You want the golden spike too,” Will breathes in amazement.
An amused smile twitches Mr. Dorian’s lips. “No. What I want is entirely different.”
“But you do want something inside the funeral car?”
“Indeed.”
“You want to rob the Boundless?”
“There’s a painting I need.”
“A painting!” he exclaims. “You expect me to believe that? Just a painting?”
“As an aspiring artist,” Mr. Dorian replies wryly, “I’m surprised you don’t have a higher opinion of the arts.”
“Is it very valuable?”
“Some think it is. I offered Van Horne a small fortune for it years ago. If he’d sold it to me, I wouldn’t need to steal it now.”
Will has a sudden recollection of Mr. Dorian on the company train, talking to the rail baron.
“It’s the same one?” Will asks. “The blacksmith’s shop?”
“Ah. You do remember. Van Horne loved that painting. Why, I’m not sure. I find it rather mediocre myself.”
“Then why do you want it?”
“That’s my business.”
In astonishment Will turns to Maren. When her eyes slide guiltily away, a sinkhole opens inside him. He swallows, his mouth dry.
“You knew about this?”
Slowly she gives a nod.
He looks back to Mr. Dorian. “I thought you were protecting me—”
“We are protecting you, Will,” Maren says.
“—but you’re just using me!” Looking from her to Mr. Dorian, he feels hurt—and for the first time with them, frightened. “My key! That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Mr. Dorian sits down on the lower bunk and starts methodically unlacing his shoes. “Not at all. I have my own key.”
From a chain inside his jacket, the ringmaster produces a familiar-looking key and holds it out to Will.
“How?” Will asks in amazement.
“It was in your father’s pocket during our show. I simply took an impression in a block of clay and had my chief machinist make a copy.”
Will plays the scene back in his mind. The audience was stupefied by the train’s passage through time zones—or Mr. Dorian’s mesmerism, or both. The ringmaster could easily have done many things, invisibly.
“What do you want me for, then?” he demands uneasily.
“All we need is your cooperation—and silence,” says Mr. Dorian. “Just two more nights,
William. Then you’ll be free to return to your father.”
“‘Free,’” he says numbly, “which means I’m a prisoner now?”
“Perhaps I chose my words poorly,” says Mr. Dorian. “I hope you will see your way to helping us.”
“Help you?” he says, anger suddenly steaming through him. “Why should I help you? You’re just a couple thieves!”
“William, you’re tired . . . ,” says the ringmaster.
Mr. Dorian is looking at him with his dark eyes, and Will does feel exceedingly tired. Last night he hardly got any sleep at all.
“You’ve been going hard for a long time,” says Mr. Dorian. “Anyone would feel very, very tired.”
Will wrenches his gaze away from the ringmaster.
“Don’t hypnotize me!” he says.
“I’m saying you need rest, William,” Mr. Dorian says. “Rest is what you need more than anything else right now. If you’d just listen to me, listen to sense—”
Will raises his voice to drown out the ringmaster’s. “Brogan’s trying to kill me! The longer I wait, the more chance he has of finding me!”
“Yes, and we’ve disguised you so Brogan won’t find you. We took you in without asking you a single question and harbored you.”
“We’ll protect you, Will,” says Maren.
He can’t meet her eye. He’s been stupid. He thought she truly liked him, but she was just pretending so they could string him along like a puppy.
“You can’t protect me against a knife, or a pistol!” he scoffs.
“You’ll certainly make it much harder if you draw attention to yourself,” Mr. Dorian says softly.
“And what about my father!” he carries on. “Who’s to say Brogan won’t try to kill him!”
“Keep your voice down, Will!” Maren says sharply.
“I’ve got to warn him now!”
She looks ill at ease but says nothing.
Mr. Dorian says, “Your father is safe.”
“You can’t know that! You probably don’t even care!”
“Two nights, William. That’s all I ask.”
Mr. Dorian stands and walks to the door, blocking the exit. There is nothing menacing about his posture, but Will knows if he were to try to reach the door, Mr. Dorian would stop him. Will could never overpower him, and the thought fills him with fear.
So he nods and says no more.
But he already knows what he will do, later tonight.
* * *
Brogan shivers as he enters colonist class, glad of the heat but not the ripe stench. He makes his way to Peters’s car and finds the Englishman stretched out on a cushioned bench, reading the newspaper.
“How’s business?” says Brogan, eyeing the shelves, trying to judge how much trade Peters has done.
“Bit slow today,” says Mr. Peters.
“I told you, you gouge too deep, you’ll cut off your own leg.”
“You’ll want your share, I daresay,” says Peters, stirring himself reluctantly and reaching under the bench for a strongbox.
“Keep it for now,” Brogan says. “As a down payment. You get the stuff I asked for earlier?”
“Ah. Indeed I did.” From a shelf he takes down a small wooden box, and then pries off the lid. Nestled in sand is a slim wooden vial.
Brogan draws it out carefully, reads the label, then opens the vial and sniffs.
Peters smirks. “An acceptable vintage?”
“Suits me just fine.”
Brogan takes a pouch from his pocket, fills it with sand, and slips the vial inside.
“You’re very casual, sir,” says Peters a little nervously.
“When you’ve worked with this stuff as much as I have, you know what’s allowed and what’s not. And I think there was something else you said you could sell me.”
“Of course,” says Peters. From the counter he takes a shallow case, and opens it.
“That’s the stuff,” says Brogan, reaching for the pistol.
Peters pulls it back. “Expensive things you’re purchasing.”
“You’ll get your payment. Don’t you worry.”
“Before you blow yourself up, is preferable to me.”
One of Peters’s guards clears his throat and taps his rifle butt against the floor.
Brogan sniffs and pulls a small wad of bills from his pocket. He peels a few off and hands them to Peters. “I’m feeling generous.”
“Big plans, no doubt,” says Peters.
“Yep. You ain’t seen that boy I told you about by any chance?”
At this, Peters’s eyes became more sly. “The redheaded boy?”
Brogan looks at him, hard. “That’s the one.”
“I believe you said you’d pay for that information.”
Gritting his teeth, Brogan peels off a couple more bills and hands them over.
“You might want to take a look at the Indian boy traveling with Mr. Dorian.”
“Why would I want to do that?” Brogan’s voice is hostile.
“He’s not who he says he is.”
“My men saw that kid when he was walking up the train.”
Peters shrugs. “The porter, Drurie, said he doesn’t speak English, but one of my men overheard him talking. And he had three dollars on him. Seems an awful lot for a circus brat.”
“I hope this ain’t some goose chase, Peters.”
“You won’t know unless you chase the goose.”
In his guts Brogan knows Peters might be right. “They still here?”
“Moved on to third class for the night.”
“I’m much obliged to you.”
“My pleasure. Do you plan on buying some bullets for that pistol?”
* * *
In the middle bunk Will waits, seething with anger and fear.
Below him Mr. Dorian snores softly; above him Maren is silent. The room is nearly pitch-dark, except for the faintest moon glow coming from around the curtains. He’s lost track of how long he’s been waiting, but surely they must be asleep by now.
What a fool he’s been, to be taken in by these two. All those stories about circus folk being scoundrels—all true! Despite Mr. Dorian’s fancy manners and clever tricks, he’s just a common thief. And Maren, too. Didn’t she steal his sasquatch tooth? He wants to transform her into a villain, but he keeps seeing the lively-eyed girl he met three years ago in the mountains. Furious, he crumples the image up like a ruined drawing. He’s got to get out of here.
All he has to do is swing himself quietly off the bunk and make it to the door, and then he’ll be free to run. He’s worried about passing between cars. If the brakemen are still watching, he might be spotted. And what about passing between classes without his ticket? Surely the porters will believe his story. If he makes a ruckus, they’ll at least drag him before Samuel Steele—unless they’re working for Brogan. But not everyone can be working for him.
He takes a slow breath and tenses his muscles.
“Will,” whispers Maren from the bunk above.
He says nothing, just closes his eyes. He hears her shifting and knows she’s leaning over the side, peering at him. She prods him in the shoulder.
“I know you’re awake.”
He doesn’t reply.
“Don’t go,” she says.
He lies still.
She pokes him in the eye.
“Ow!” he gasps.
“Sorry—did I get your eye?”
“Yes!”
He can see the shape of Maren’s head, her hair spilling darkly down. Below them Mr. Dorian stirs, but then resumes snoring softly.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I just meant to poke your head. I know you’re planning on leaving.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“If you
go, Mr. Dorian won’t be able to rob the funeral car.”
“You get a cut, I suppose?”
“Not really.”
Will frowns. “Not really? What does that mean?”
“I don’t care about the painting. He just needs me to turn off the electricity.”
“Why can’t he do it himself?”
“The keyhole’s underneath the funeral car—and the train will be moving.”
“Moving?”
Her voice is unconcerned. “I can do it. I’ve been practicing.”
He remembers her in the gymnasium, shimmying down the tightrope on her back. The image makes him queasy now.
“Is he forcing you to do this?”
“Not exactly.”
“How, then?”
She sighs. “If I do it, he says he’ll release me from my contract—my brothers, too. And he’ll pay me five thousand dollars.”
Will inhales sharply. That’s a lot of money.
“We’ll be able to start up our own show, my whole family. My father’s leg won’t heal properly, ever. No one’ll ever hire him again. I need that money if we want to be together in one place. This is my chance to get free.”
“Still. Thieving, it ain’t right. There’s gotta be another way.”
Without noticing, he has fallen back into his old way of talking, words smacking together like shunted boxcars.
“And what would you do for me, Will Everett? Are you going to rescue me?”
Will blushes, glad it’s dark. “I wouldn’t know how. It just don’t . . . doesn’t . . . seem right, your risking your life.”
“I’m not worried.”
“No chains can bind you, no lock hold you.”
“That’s right. Please, Will. Stay.”
He doesn’t want to be swayed by her. He still doesn’t trust her. He thought she liked him, but how can he know properly now? Yes, they’re helping him, but they’re also using him. And what kind of man would ask a girl to do something so dangerous? And all for a painting?
“You’ll stay with us?” Maren asks him.
“Yes,” he says.
“You’re lying.”
She’s right, but he still doesn’t trust her. For all he knows, she’s invented her father’s injury and her plans to start her own show. Maybe the painting is a lie too, and they’re really both after the gold spike.