Heart of Iron - Ekaterina Sedia [54]
I could picture him so clearly, with his gangly frame that concealed his superhuman strength and agility so well, one hand on his hat, a satchel in his other hand . . . possibly a briefcase, for all the papers. Oh, how I feared Dame Nightingale then, how certain were the moments when I thought Jack captured by her and imprisoned. I hoped if that were the case he would be important enough for Alexeevsky Ravelin.
The locomotive chugged and its whistle sounded one piercing note that became quickly muffled by the snow and the night. Clouds of steam fogged the windows and obscured the view, my heart jumped to my throat when I had to seriously consider that even if I waited three days, I might never see Jack again. The thought constricted my throat—I had lost too many friends lately, and to be completely honest I would’ve liked some company on such a perilous journey.
The locomotive was gaining speed and I felt restless. Unsatisfied by the view from my window, I went to stand by the door—I was in the last carriage, and the back of it was occupied by a door with a large square glass window. In the snow that seemed to fall faster as the train sped ahead, I could discern nothing but the endlessly receding rails behind us, glinting in the starlight. It was quiet, save for the train whistle and an occasional crow cawing. I glimpsed an intermittent palimpsest of one building or another—black against speeding dark—but had no hope of identifying them. Beyond the overwhelming feeling it was the second time in less than a year I had left behind everything I knew, I was so overcome by nostalgia and self-pity that at first I did not notice a quick shadow moving behind on the rails behind the train.
Curiously, the shape did not disappear from view but remained—as if it were impossibly following the train and matching its speed. Then it began to grow larger, and I realized it was gaining. It resolved from a dark speck into a figure of a man. I gasped, and clasped my hands to my throat. There was no one in the world who could run like that—except Jack.
He was close enough now for me to see his breath pouring out of his mouth in one continuous ribbon, the mad pumping of his arms. He had lost his hat, it seemed. As his feet struck the crossties, the frozen wood groaned and splintered, geysers of pebbles flew into the air.
He had almost caught up, and I struggled to open the door for him. Of course he could not see me—the train was dark inside, and he was too preoccupied to notice me struggling with the lock. He jumped, and I barely had enough time to get out of the way.
I threw myself into the empty compartment on my left, just as the glass shattered with the impact and Jack . . . There is no way to describe it. He did not fly or break through or do anything else comprehensible. For a moment, it felt as if time had stopped: jagged fragments of thick glass hung in the air, frozen, shining like Christmas tree ornaments. Jack was suspended amongst them, a sleepwalker with one foot in front of the rest of his body and the other behind, both of his arms folded in front of his face to protect it.
Then I heard the tinkling of broken glass as it rained to the floor. Time resumed its flow and Jack landed on his feet, crouching, not a yard away from me.
His gaze lingered on my prostrate form, confused and apprehensive, and I remembered he had not yet seen me in my hussar disguise.
“Jack, it’s me,” I said, and sat up on the floor.
He laughed, delighted. “Sasha?”
“Of course.” I stood up and waited for him to unwind from his crouch—he had remained in it since landing. “Now, let’s go—I have a compartment claimed, and the conductor has not yet come by.”
He looked behind him, at the shattered window. The look in his eyes struck me—he seemed confused and a bit apprehensive, disoriented. He was like