The porter leads Will and Maren and Mr. Dorian through the car. Will’s knees are wobbling, and Maren, too, looks badly shaken. She puts her lips to his ear and whispers, “Thank you.”
As the porter shows them inside their compartment, Will is hardly paying attention. Mr. Dorian locks the door and then parts the curtains, peering out onto the prairie. There’s no sign of buffalo or the Natives.
“Lieutenant Steele seems to have put a quick stop to the madness,” he remarks, his face still drawn. He looks at Will. “That wasn’t a Native that shot at you. You know that, don’t you?”
Will nods. “I think it was Chisholm.”
“I caught a glimpse of him. It was a perfect chance to kill you in the confusion. No one would’ve known.”
Will looks at the bullet hole in his suitcase and feels ill.
“Thank you,” he says. “You saved me from that second shot.”
“A good coat serves many purposes,” the ringmaster replies.
“They know who I am,” Will says, fighting panic. “They’re going to come for me again!”
“Quite possibly, yes,” Mr. Dorian responds.
Will blinks. He was hoping for a shake of the head, some kind of reassurance.
“But they won’t attempt anything during the day,” Maren tells him.
“They just did!” Will exclaims.
“We’ll change compartments before nightfall,” Mr. Dorian says. “Until then I think it might be wise to spend as much time in public areas, the busier the better. Let’s begin with a visit to the dining car. Both of you must be famished.”
Eating is the last thing Will feels like doing. Someone has just tried to kill him. But after Maren changes out of her tightrope costume, the three of them venture out to the dining car.
Second class, though still a far cry from the luxury of first, is a lot more comfortable than third. The corridors have wood paneling and fabric wallpaper. Thick carpet cushions Will’s footsteps and insulates the carriage from the noise of the tracks. The windows are larger and the gaslights more numerous.
In the dining room Will feels people’s eyes on him, and recognizes a pair of men from the shooting car. Everywhere Will glances, he thinks he sees Brogan or Chisholm or Mackie.
When the meal arrives, it looks delicious, but Will is afraid to eat it. How does he know one of Brogan’s men hasn’t crept into the kitchen and drizzled poison all over it? Enviously he watches as Maren tucks into her chicken pie. She catches him looking, and notices his uneaten food. She seems to understand what’s worrying him, because she raises an eyebrow, forks some of his food into her mouth.
“Pretty good,” she says, and then swallows.
Will eats. Everyone is talking about the gunfight with the Natives, and Will hears all sorts of gossip flitting between tables. Ten passengers killed. Fifteen Natives. Three passengers. Two Natives. A brave jumped aboard and scalped a steward. Sam Steele leaped onto a Native horse, chased off the hunters, and then reboarded the Boundless with a tomahawk.
Will feels better after his food. Having all these people around almost tricks him into believing he’s safe—he could stand up and walk off into his normal life.
Toward the end of the meal, Sam Steele strides into the dining car and speaks to one of the senior stewards before moving forward up the train.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the steward says, “Lieutenant Steele has asked me to pass on the news that there was a brief skirmish with some Indians. Two of our passengers were tragically killed.”
Gasps of horror engulf the dining car. Men thump the table and vow bloody revenge. Mr. Dorian eats, staring rigidly ahead. The two men from the shooting car look over darkly, and Will thinks he hears them muttering the word “half-breed.”
He stares longingly in the direction where Sam Steele disappeared. Forward. He catches Maren looking at him anxiously. Is she worried he’ll make a run for it? He wants to, but he won’t. They’ve saved his life three times now. He’s made his promise to Maren, and he means to keep it.
* * *
“Nearly had him,” says Chisholm, nervously forking some meat from a tin. “All lined up, and then Dorian waves his coat in front of him. How does a coat stop a bullet?”
“You should’ve let me take the shot,” says Mackie. “I wouldn’t have missed the first time.”
“Ease up, Mackie,” Brogan says, flicking some food from between his teeth. “Sounds like it was a tough shot.” He’s angry about Chisholm’s cock-up too, but he wants to jolly him along, especially after nearly drowning him in the muskeg. He needs all hands on deck for what’s coming.
The three of them have fallen back to Peck and Strachan’s brakemen’s cabin, not far behind colonist class.
“We won’t get another chance like that,” Mackie says sullenly.
“Maybe we don’t need one,” Brogan says.
“What d’you mean? You said we needed to take that boy.”
“Oh, we’re gonna take him, all right.”
“So what’s the plan?” asks Chisholm, his eyes bulgier than usual.
“When I was in the saloon car, that Mountie was right there. I thought I was sunk. Why didn’t the boy go to him? The boy wants something, that’s why—or Mr. Dorian does, more like. He’s got his hands on a key to the funeral car. I reckon they’ve got their own plans.”
“I don’t like this waiting,” Mackie says.
“That Dorian can disappear things,” says Chisholm. “How we know he won’t disappear what we’re after—and himself?”
Brogan thinks about this, and shakes his head. “That’s magic,” he says. “And I don’t believe in magic.”
* * *
After the porters have made their last rounds, putting the train to bed, Will, Maren, and Mr. Dorian slip silently out of their compartment. Luggage in hand, they move five doors back and enter a smaller, empty room. After bolting the door behind them, Will starts quietly helping the others pull down the sleeping berths.
“When are you doing it?” he asks as he spreads a sheet and blanket over the middle bunk. “The robbery.”
Mr. Dorian takes out his watch and consults its two faces. During the afternoon he several times asked the stewards about the train’s precise location and speed. “We need to be inside the funeral car no later than four o’clock this morning.”
“You can just stay here, Will,” Maren tells him. “Lock the door behind us. No one knows where you are. We’ll be back before breakfast.”
Will shakes his head. “I’m not staying here alone.”
“It’s best if you don’t get mixed up in this, Will,” she says.
He laughs. “Could I be any more mixed up? I’m coming with you. I’ll feel a lot safer.”
Mr. Dorian regards him. “I warn you, Will. You might regret your decision. I have a feeling we may run into resistance.”
Still, it’s not a hard decision to make. He’s truly horrified by the idea of being left alone in the compartment. Even more, he wants to be there to help Maren if she needs it.
“I’m coming,” he says again.
“Very well. I suggest you both get some sleep.”
“You’re not sleeping?” Maren asks the ringmaster.
“Not yet.”
Later, under the covers, Will is still wide-awake. The gaslight has been turned low. Maren shifts above him, already asleep. Opposite him, Mr. Dorian stretches out in his berth, fully clothed, writing. He looks over and sees Will watching.
“Will you be young forever?” Will asks. “After your portrait?”
“I think not. The portrait ages, and presumably when it reaches a goodly age, it will die, as it were.”
“What happens to you then?”
Mr. Dorian looks up from his writing. “Perhaps all my years will catch up with me, or maybe I’ll just start aging again normally
. That would be an unexpected bonus. I merely want my allotted years, William. Is it greedy to want that?”
Will doesn’t know the answer. “Maren says you have big plans for the Zirkus.”
Mr. Dorian smiles—and it’s a different kind of smile from the impassive ones Will has seen so far. This is the kind you get when you’re thinking of your favorite thing. “Yes,” he says. “I’d like to open circuses overseas, and add more animals to my menageries—make Noah’s ark look paltry!”
He chuckles, and Will laughs too.
“You must be the only person with a sasquatch.”
“I believe I am, for the moment. But there are always more animals, and more marvels to collect. Imagine if I could trap a Wendigo!”
“Have you seen one?” Will asks, caught up in the ringmaster’s enthusiasm.
“Not yet, but I plan to. And there’s a man in the Far East who can fly. Imagine that, William. Flight! I hope to enlist his services before Mr. Barnum does. Everything on this earth I want to gather, and every feat that’s possible. A new world to let us escape our own.”
There’s a wistfulness, Will thinks, in his last words. The ringmaster folds his piece of paper away inside his pocket, and then writes a brief note on a second piece.
“Just a little message telling my Zirkus friends how we’re faring,” he tells Will.
“How’s it going to reach them?” Will asks quietly.
“A favorable tailwind,” Mr. Dorian replies.
As Will watches, Mr. Dorian folds the paper in half lengthwise, then makes a series of other folds, ever more complicated and ingenious. When he’s finished, he has something that resembles a goose. He pulls a little tab at the tail, and its wings flex and quiver expectantly.
“It really flies?” Will asks, incredulous.
“It really does.”
Mr. Dorian goes to the window and slides it open. Night air tinged with coal smoke gusts in. The ringmaster puts his face out, turns it from side to side, then makes a slight adjustment to the paper wings.
And then he launches his bird into the air.
Will wishes desperately he could somehow follow its journey. If he could, he would see the paper bird swoop up, wobbling slightly. The train shuttles past so quickly, it’s hard to tell if the paper bird is moving at all, but occasionally the wings give a flutter or flare and the bird rises and banks. The cars flash past beneath it.
The paper bird soars toward a brakeman standing atop a freight car, smoking. He squints, then reaches out to grab it, but the bird veers around his outstretched hand.
Farther down another brakeman sees it and, thinking it’s a bat, punches it with his hand, sending it tumbling through the air, away from the tracks. The bird rights itself and flaps, but the train is far away now, and the mindless paper craft just keeps sailing straight ahead, into the night.
But perhaps it is cleverer than it appears, for straight ahead comes the last half of the Boundless, still rounding a big curve. The paper bird banks slightly, to come in line with the train. Whatever paper mechanism animates it now seems to falter. The wings stop fluttering, and slowly the paper bird begins to sink, toward the roof of the freight cars.
Lower and lower it glides until it flies right into some kind of web jutting from the window of a car that says: zirkus dante.
It’s not a web but a Native dream catcher, and the paper bird is tangled snugly in its threads. The dream catcher is pulled swiftly inside.
The paper bird is unfolded, the note read.
THE FUNERAL CAR
* * *
Will feels a hand shaking him awake.
“It’s time,” says Maren.
The gaslight is turned low. She’s already dressed, as is Mr. Dorian, who’s slinging a coil of light rope over his shoulder. Hurriedly Will pulls on his trousers beneath the covers.
“Sure?” Maren asks him when they’re ready to leave.
He nods. Mr. Dorian takes up an unlit lantern and unlocks their door, and they slip out into the corridor. Will feels like a ghost as they make their way through the sleeper cars. On both sides thick curtains are drawn across berths, muffling the sounds of snoring, murmuring passengers. Will’s eyes sweep from side to side, terrified that an arm will shoot out at them. Every cough and snuffle makes him start. Mr. Dorian has a sixth sense for avoiding the few porters and sleepless passengers who come their way—ushering Will and Maren into washrooms or empty berths until it’s safe to emerge.
The dining car is deserted, all the tables already laid with linens and cutlery. As the three of them pass the kitchens, Will glances through the round window in the door and sees long gleaming counters and blazing ovens, and pots as tall as smokestacks, spewing steam. Already the cooks are chopping vegetables and kneading bread for the breakfast onslaught.
Every time they’re ready to cross to another car, Mr. Dorian has them stand back while he peeks through the window to see if a brakeman is poised on the roof, watching. Then he quietly opens the door and the three of them dart across the couplings.
In the laundry car the air is heady with starch and bleach. Line after line of tablecloths and sheets and uniforms silently sway to the motion of the train. The fabric glows in the pale gaslight. Watching the shadows, Will hurries through.
At the door to the next car, Mr. Dorian pulls back suddenly from the window.
“There’s a man on the roof,” he whispers. “Brogan definitely wants to know what we’re up to.”
They wait several minutes for the brakeman to move along, then several more.
“He’s not budging,” says Mr. Dorian. “We need to distract him.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Will says.
He retraces his steps into the laundry room. He takes a starched white shirt from the line and slides open one of the windows. After feeding out the shirt, he closes the window tightly so half of it flails about in the wind, like a man wildly signaling for help.
“Nicely done,” says Mr. Dorian. “Let’s see if he bites.”
They return to the carriage door and wait. Will kneels and peeks out the window. The tip of the brakeman’s cigarette flares orange. Then there’s a sudden movement of the head, and a lantern flares. The brakeman jumps over to the roof of their car and treads in the direction of the laundry room.
“Now,” Will says.
He pulls open the door and leads the way across the coupling to the next carriage. Inside, Maren smiles at him. “That was a good idea. You’re quite an accomplice.”
“I’m not an accomplice,” he says, shocked at the idea.
“Anyone who helps is an accomplice,” Mr. Dorian points out.
Will frowns, then chuckles softly. “I suppose so, then.”
He knew Van Horne pretty well; maybe the old fellow wouldn’t mind if his painting were stolen. After all, the rail baron always had a flair for the extraordinary. He was so full of life himself, no doubt he’d have been miffed to know he could have had more. But he’d also like all the intrigue his painting was causing.
When they near the end of second class, Mr. Dorian stops them and says, “We need to go to the roof now. There will be porters on guard at the border, and we mustn’t be seen.”
Will knew this moment was coming, but he is not looking forward to it.
“Are you ready for another walk atop the Boundless, William?” Mr. Dorian asks. “The train’s a bit slower now. We’re slowly rising toward the mountains. The route’s dead straight.”
Will nods. “I’ve done it before; I figure I can do it again.”
“That’s the spirit. We need to move as swiftly as we can. There may be other men on the roof.”
At the next coupling, they cross, and Mr. Dorian climbs the ladder. He pokes his head above the roof, takes a good look each way, and then gestures for Will and Maren to follow.
Despite his coat, W
ill shivers as the wind meets him atop the Boundless. He steadies himself. The passenger cars are different from the boxcars. They have no running boards, and their roofs slope down even more than the freight cars’.
There’s a fingernail clipping of moon, and Will can see only a few feet ahead of him. Mr. Dorian does not light the lantern. Good for staying hidden, terrible for jumping cars. Mr. Dorian walks with ease, and Maren strolls along like she has no cares in the world. To a tightrope walker this is nothing.
At the end of the first car, Will watches as Mr. Dorian and Maren make their jumps, getting swallowed up in darkness. Only the lanterns along the train’s sides tell Will that the Boundless is still moving in a straight line. He quickly rubs the sasquatch tooth in his pocket. He can barely see the other car as he takes a run and launches himself into the night. For a second, midjump, he feels a hot pulse of vertigo, but then he’s coming down and Maren is waiting to offer a steadying hand.
“You did it,” she whispers.
Car by car his confidence grows, his body reacquainting itself with the train’s restless pitch and sway.
Up ahead Will catches a flicker of lantern light, maybe three cars distant. He moves to touch Maren on the shoulder, but she’s already turning, and he sees Mr. Dorian, jabbing his finger to go backward. Will crouches and hurries back to the end of the car.
“Down!” he hears Mr. Dorian whisper.
Will climbs back to the platform, stands to one side of the car door so no one can spy him through the window. Maren and Mr. Dorian quickly descend and join him.
“He may not have seen us,” says Mr. Dorian. “We’ll go past underneath him.”
He checks the window, opens the door, and ushers them inside. It’s strange for Will to be back in first class again. It feels like a different world—or maybe it’s the same world and it’s him that’s different. He’s dressed as an Indian spirit artist, part of a band of thieves come to rob the funeral car of a rail baron.
He looks around, trying to figure out where they are, and then catches a whiff of roasted almonds and popcorn. “The cinema’s just up ahead,” he says.