Property of a Lady Faire (A Secret Histories Novel) (30 page)

The bat and the hat flew out after it. I waited till I was sure they were safely gone, and then sat down in the opening with my legs dangling over the side and watched the scenery rushing past. Molly came lurching forward, and sat down heavily beside me. She leaned against me companionably, as we both got our breath back, and then we just sat there together and enjoyed the world speeding past. It was very . . . scenic. An endless sea of snow, stretching away in all directions as far as the eye could see. Rising and falling but frozen in place, just a great expanse of gleaming white, without even a single tree or shrub to break the monotony.

“Where are we, exactly?” said Molly, after a while.

“Siberia,” I said. “Somewhere. It’s a big place. Covers a lot of ground.”

Molly shuddered. “Damn, it’s cold! I mean . . . really cold!”

“And this is just Siberia,” I said. “It’s going to be a whole lot colder once we pass through the Gateway into Ultima Thule.”

Molly looked down at her long white dress. “I’m really not dressed for the occasion, am I? Hold on while I break open the suitcases and have a good rummage round for something more suitable. Preferably with furry bits of dead animal attached.”

“I think we’ve let loose enough annoyances for one day, don’t you?” I said. “God alone knows what else they’ve got packed away in here.”

“Good point,” said Molly. “I’ll just find a passenger on the train who’s wearing something seriously furry, lure her to a quiet place, and then mug her. My need is greater.”

“How very practical,” I said.

Molly shuddered again from the cold, so I helped her to her feet and slammed the heavy sliding door back into place. I squeezed the lock shut with my golden glove, and then sent the armour back into my torc. I was shivering now too from the cold that had got into the baggage car, and my breath steamed on the air, along with Molly’s. We went back to the coffin and sat down, hugging ourselves tightly. Molly banged on the coffin lid.

“Are you awake, Count Magnus?”

“Can’t take you anywhere,” I said.

She glared at me. “Explain to me again why we’re having to do this the hard way?”

“Once more, then,” I said, “For the hard of learning at the back of the class. This train will carry us to a naturally occurring Gateway, somewhere in the snowy depths of sunny Siberia, and this Gate will in turn deliver us to Ultima Thule, the Winter Palace, and eventually, the Lady Faire.”

Molly sniffed loudly. “And how long is it going to take to reach this Gateway?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Hours, I should think.”

“What?” said Molly, sitting up straight. “Hours?” She stood up abruptly and planted herself before me with her fists planted on her hips, the better to glare down at me. “I am not sitting here, in this dump, freezing my tits off, for hours on end! And . . . I am hungry! Very seriously hungry. Eddie Drood, we are going to the restaurant car. Right now!”

I stood up, and smiled at her. “Your relentless logic has defeated me. I will admit, I am feeling just a bit peckish myself.”

“Then let’s go!” said Molly.

“Can we at least try to keep a low profile?”

“Who’s going to know us here? Let them look.”

“You’ve never been one for hiding your light under a bushel, have you?”

“Listen,” said Molly, “I am so hungry right now, I could eat a bushel.”

• • •

The door between the baggage car and the next compartment was of course very firmly locked, but a little firm pressure from a golden glove was all it took to persuade the door to open. Having Drood armour is like possessing a free pass to everywhere. Molly slipped her arm through mine, and we strode proudly on into the passenger carriage, which turned out to be a much warmer place, and far more civilised. A perfect re-creation of an early-twentieth-century railway carriage, with every conceivable comfort and luxury, and every relevant detail carefully preserved. Or at the very least, cunningly duplicated. The old original gas lamps in fact contained carefully concealed electric light bulbs, while hidden central heating soon took the chill out of our bones. The richly gleaming beechwood panels were stamped at regular intervals with the golden crest of the Trans-Siberian Express Company. The carriage was made up of spacious separate compartments, with padded leather seats and specially reinforced wide windows through which the rich and important passengers could enjoy glorious views of snow-covered scenery. Very nice views. If you liked snow. And not much else.

Molly and I sauntered down the narrow aisle, arm in arm and heads held high, as though we had every right to be there. The few people we encountered just smiled and nodded pleasantly to us. Molly and I nodded and smiled in return. No one raised a fuss, or asked any questions, because since we gave every appearance of belonging there, then obviously we must.

And there you have it. How to be a secret agent, in one easy lesson.

A steward in a blindingly white uniform with lots of gold piping and serious braid on his shoulders and rows of gleaming buttons came bustling forward to meet us. He smiled and bowed, and inquired how he might best be of service, in formal Russian he’d clearly learned from a book. I answered him in English, and he immediately responded in English he’d clearly learned from a book. Molly dazzled him with her smile, and asked for directions to the restaurant car. The steward bobbed his head quickly.

“Just follow the corridors through carriages second and third, honoured sir and lady, and you will emerge immediately into the restauranting car. Second serving of the day is just beginning.”

I gave the steward my best dazzling smile, to make up for the fact that I didn’t have any suitable money about me with which to tip him, and Molly and I moved on. The steward was gracious and understanding about it, and made a rude gesture at our backs that he didn’t realise I could see in the mirror on the wall. I wasn’t worried he might say something. The rich are often notoriously poor tippers. It’s part of how they got to be rich.

• • •

We reached the restaurant car without further mishap, and it turned out to be barely half full. Perhaps the constant lurching of the train had made the other passengers travel-sick. At least it meant we had no problems getting a table. Molly and I just marched down the aisle with our noses stuck in the air, and none of the exquisitely dressed people already at their tables paid us any attention at all. I chose the very best table, picked up the
Reserved
sign and threw it away, and pulled out a chair for Molly to sit down. She sank elegantly into it with a gracious smile, and I sat down opposite her and studied the setting details as the spoils of conquest.

Gleaming white samite tablecloth, luxurious plate settings, and first-class cutlery, all of it stamped with the Trans-Siberian Express company crest. I shook out the heavy napkin, dropped it in my lap, and pocketed the silver napkin holder. I glanced out the window, just in case anything had changed. Snow. Lots of snow. And even more snow. For a moment I thought I saw something moving, but when I looked more closely I realised it was just the train’s shadow, racing along beside us. Molly caressed the inside of my thigh with her toes, underneath the table, and smiled at me demurely.

I picked up one of the oversized menus. The heavy paper stock was bound in red leather, and everything on offer was in French. I can read French, but it was a sign the food was almost certainly going to be overcooked and underwhelming. That kind of food nearly always is, outside of France.

“There aren’t any prices,” said Molly, running her eyes rapidly over what the menu had to offer.

“If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it,” I said. “That goes as standard, in places like this. Ah, there’s an English translation at the back, if you need it.”

Molly glowered at me over the top of her menu, and withdrew her foot. “I’ll back my French against yours any day.”

“Splendid idea. Bring her on,” I said. “Baguettes at dawn?”

Molly giggled, and we turned to the menu’s back pages, honour satisfied. The English-language translation was in very small type, as though it was being presented only very grudgingly. I couldn’t say I was particularly impressed by any of it. Just because something is rare and expensive and fashionable, it doesn’t necessarily follow that it’s going to be in any way tasty. I can remember when baby mice stuffed with hummingbirds’ tongues was all the rage, in the most-talked-about London restaurants. I once outraged a celebrity chef by asking if I could have mine in a sesame seed bun.

“Oh look!” said Molly. “There’s going to be a caviar and vodka tasting later this afternoon.”

“Don’t get too impressed,” I said. “Unless it’s the real Beluga stuff, all caviar tastes the same. Salty. The trick is to get them to provide you with enough dry toast to eat it on.”

“Snob,” said Molly, not unkindly.

“I’m a Drood!” I said cheerfully. “We’re entitled to the best of everything the world has to offer. It says so in our contract.”

“You have a contract with the world?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Of course, we don’t let the world see it.”

“Of course,” said Molly.

“You can’t talk,” I said. “All the time you were staying with me at Drood Hall, you insisted the kitchens provide you with six boiled eggs for every breakfast, just so you could choose the best one.”

“I got the idea from Prince Charles,” said Molly.

“You’ve never met Prince Charles!”

“I read about it, in
Hello!
magazine. And if it’s good enough for him . . . Have you anything witty and informative to say about the vodka?”

“Only that vodka usually only tastes of whatever you mix it with. I’ve had peppermint vodka, paprika vodka, chocolate vodka . . . What an afternoon that was. I do remember a story my uncle James told me, from his time in Russia during the Cold War. He said he always used to drop a little black pepper onto the surface of a glass of vodka, let the pepper sink to the bottom, and then knock the vodka back in one, so that the peppered dregs stayed in the bottom of the glass. Because in those days you got a lot of homemade bathtub vodka showing up in Moscow, even at the best parties, a lot of it spiked with fuel oil. The fuel oil floated on the surface of the vodka, and the black pepper attached itself to it, and took it to the bottom of the glass. Made the stuff safe, or at least safer, to drink.
Blind drunk
wasn’t just an expression in those days.”

“You know such charming anecdotes,” said Molly. “Better not try that trick here; I don’t think it would make a good impression.”

“Of course not,” I said cheerfully. “Only the very best for us, because we’re worth it.”

“I love to hear you talk,” said Molly. “You’ve lived, haven’t you, Eddie?”

“Not as much as you,” I said generously.

Her earthy laughter filled the air, and well-manicured heads came up all around us. I don’t think they were used to hearing the real thing. Perhaps fortunately, a train conductor came bustling into the carriage just then. Wearing a sharp and severe black uniform, with lots and lots of gold buttons down the front, and a stiff-peaked cap. He looked quickly round the restaurant car, fixed his gaze on Molly and me, and headed straight for us. He had that look, of a small man with a little power, determined to abuse it for all it was worth. And make everyone else’s life as difficult as possible, just on general principles. It was clear from his expression that he didn’t like the look of Molly and me. We weren’t dressed well enough, didn’t look rich or powerful enough, to be eating in his restaurant car, on his train. The likes of us had no place in such a salubrious setting.

He walked right up to us, ignoring all the other diners seated at their tables, and everyone else sensed trouble coming and determinedly minded their own business. Molly studied the conductor lazily as he approached, and smiled a quietly disturbing smile.

“Want me to turn him into something squelchy?”

“Not in front of the passengers,” I said quickly. “We’re trying not to draw attention to ourselves, remember?”

“All right,” said Molly. “I’ll try something subtle.”

“Oh good,” I said, wincing. “You always do so much more damage when you’re trying to be subtle.”

The conductor slammed to a halt at our table and drew himself up to his full height, the better to puff out his chest and sneer down his nose at us.

“Yes?” I said, drawing the word out in my best aristocratic English, so that it sounded like an insult. “Is there something you need, fellow?”

He’d clearly heard that kind of English before, and it threw him a little off balance, but one look at our clothes reassured him that we were definitely not the right sort. He glared at me unblinkingly, ignoring Molly. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that going down really badly with Molly.

“Pardon me, sir and madam,” he said, in only lightly accented English. “I am afraid I must insist you show me all your tickets and passes. Including your reservations for dinner at this serving. If you cannot, you must explain yourselves immediately! I hope it will not be necessary for me to summon the security guards. They can be . . . most unpleasant.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” I said. “Molly dearest . . . ?”

“Of course, darling,” said Molly. She snapped her fingers imperiously, to draw the conductor’s attention, and then fixed his gaze with hers. His face went blank, and his jaw dropped, just a little. Molly held out an empty hand to him. “There. See? We have first-class tickets. And reservations. And everything else we need. So you don’t need to bother us ever again. Do you?”

The conductor started to say something, and then his mouth snapped shut as Molly frowned. The conductor looked at her empty hand, and then smiled meaninglessly at Molly and at me.

“Of course . . . madam and sir. Everything is in order. You will not be troubled again.”

“We’re not the diners you’re looking for,” I said.

“Quite so, sir . . .”

He turned abruptly away and marched off, looking completely convinced and terribly confused. He rubbed at his forehead with one hand, as though bothered by something he couldn’t quite place, or something in his head that shouldn’t be there. He glared at everyone he passed as he hurried back down the aisle, looking for someone to take out his unease on, but everyone had the good sense to keep their heads down and say nothing. Molly looked around for the nearest waiter and caught his eye, and the young man immediately snapped to attention and hurried forward to take our order.