The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

woman in green—for a glimpse of green anywhere—but saw no one. He flicked away his cigarette butt and entered the rear of the train, resigned that his was a fool’s errand and that she would be located by Chang. He caught himself. Why the flicker of jealousy, of—he had to admit—peevish possessiveness? Because he’d met her before Chang? But he hadn’t—they’d seen each other on the train…he shook his head. She was so young…and Chang—an absolute rogue—practically feral—not that he or Chang presented any kind of match—not that he even could consider—or in conscience desire…it really was too ridiculous.

    A greying, unshaven conductor, his face looking as if it had been stippled with paste, snatched Svenson’s ticket and brusquely indicated he should walk forward. Svenson did so, reasoning that he could speak to the man later about arrival times, return trips, and other passengers. It would be better to find her himself without drawing attention, if possible. He walked down the aisle of the first car peering into each compartment as he passed. They were empty, save for the rear-most, which held the many members of a family of gypsies, and at least one crate of indeterminate fowl.
    He entered the second and last car, which was more crowded, with each compartment occupied, but none by Miss Temple. He stood at the end of the corridor and sighed. It seemed a futile errand—should he get off the train? He went back to the conductor, who watched him approach with a reptilian expression of cold dislike. Svenson screwed in his monocle and smiled politely.
    “Excuse me. I am taking this train to Tarr Village, and had hoped to meet an acquaintance. Is it possible they could have taken an earlier train?”
    “Of course it’s possible,” the conductor spat.
    “I am not clear. What I mean to ask is when was the last train, the previous train, which my acquaintance might have taken?”
    “2:52,” he spat again.
    “That is but ten minutes before this one.”
    “I see you’re a professor of mathematics.”
    Svenson smiled patiently. “So another train stopping at Tarr Village left as recently as that?”
    “As I have said, yes. Was there anything else?”
    Svenson ignored him, weighing his choices. It was possible, if her coach had made good time, that Miss Temple could have caught the 2:52. If that were so, then he needed to follow her on this train, with hope to catch her at the Tarr Village station. But if she hadn’t come here at all—if she were still in town—he should go to Roger Bascombe’s house, or to the Ministry, to do what he could to help Chang. The conductor watched his indecision with evident pleasure.
    “Sir?”
    “Yes, thank you. I shall require information about my return tomorrow—”
    “Best to get that from the station master himself, I usually find.”
    “The Tarr Village station master?”
    “Exactly so.”
    “Then that is excellent. Thank you.”
    Svenson wheeled and strode down the corridor toward the second car, the conductor audibly snorting behind him. He was hardly confident in his choice, but if there was even a chance she’d come this way, he needed to follow. He could ask for her at the station—they would have to notice her—and if she had not appeared, take the next train directly back. At most it would be only a few hours’ delay. And at the worst, he would still find Chang at Stropping the next morning—if he was lucky, with Miss Temple on his arm.
    He glanced into the first compartment and saw it held a man and a woman, sitting next to each other on one side. As the opposite row of seats was empty, he pulled the door open, nodded to them, and installed himself by the window. He slipped the monocle into his pocket and rubbed his eyes. He had not slept above two hours. His heavy mood was now compounded by the likely pointless nature of his journey, and a vague gloomy disapproval of the reckless danger Miss Temple had thrown herself—indeed, all of them—into without any larger plan or understanding. He wondered when their descriptions would be given to the constabulary. Was this Cabal so confident as to involve the power of the law? He scoffed—for all practical purposes they
were
the law…Crabbé had a regiment at his call, Blach had his troopers…Svenson could only hope that a train to the country would take him free of their immediate influence. The whistle blew and the train began to move.

    It took perhaps a minute to clear the