Heart of Iron - Ekaterina Sedia [67]
“Let’s sit down,” I said.
We found an available bench where I hunkered down and derived a small measure of comfort from being somewhat hidden. “Everything is well,” I said. “She received the documents, and started correspondence with Wong Jun. If we need to find something out from him, we can write to her.”
Jack kicked out his long legs and stuffed his hands into his pockets, sighing impatiently. “Everything takes forever.”
“You’re welcome to leap all the way to St. Petersburg if you want.”
“I can’t.”
“Of course not. So now you have to obey the same limitations as the rest of us mere mortals. Come on, we need to get to Nizhniy Novgorod.”
We walked out into the cold, and hailed a coach cab.
“Eugenia will get those documents before Constantine, I’m sure,” I said as we settled snugly into the dark interior smelling of leather and horse sweat. “I just hope that Wong Jun’s letter will be sufficient when we reach China.”
“It’s better than nothing,” Jack responded. “But the Chinese do not trust foreigners and they know very little about them . . . us, I mean.”
“And?”
“Sometimes, they think you’re the devil and want you away from them. I can’t tell you how many times I was shot at for no reason.”
“Well, you are English.”
“Is that a good enough reason?”
I thought for a moment. “If there is a war? Of course. You can’t expect people to extend the courtesy you’re not willing to give. I bet the English did not stop to see whether they were shooting at peaceful Chinese civilians or soldiers.”
“How do you know?”
“That is how wars are.” I wiggled my fingers, trying to find a suitable way of explaining this phenomenon. “They are fought in a very general way. Chinese shoot at English, English shoot at Chinese, and no one stops to verify credentials. I just hope that with the war over they at least look at your papers before shooting.”
“Of course,” Jack said. “At least, for the Europeans. I hear that the Manchus and the Taipings happily shoot each other on sight these days. Some of the Taipings have defied the Manchus by wearing their hair long and loose rather than in a braided pigtail as the law requires.”
“I am not surprised if you consider how the Manchus enforced their hairstyles.”
Jack gave me a long look and laughed. “You know quite a bit about Chinese politics, don’t you?”
“No, just what Chiang Tse told me.” I peered out of the window of the cab, to avoid meeting Jack’s gaze. “I hope he is well.”
We caught the train to Nizhniy Novgorod with no trouble, and as soon as we settled in our couchette compartment, I stretched on one of the seats and slept, exhausted. Even the whistles of the train could not rouse me.
They could not rouse me, but they colored my dreams—I dreamt about being on the train, swaying, clanging, sparks flying from the chugging iron wheels. I stood by the glass door at the tail end of the last carriage, watching the tracks recede in a dazzling flash—shining metal, hoar-frosted ties. And I saw a dark figure cutting through the brilliance. My heart jumped to my throat as nameless unreasoned dread enveloped me and the figure approached, fast, faster than the train could travel.
It was Dame Nightingale, running in a strange, simian gait, her impossibly long thick arms with giant hands dragging on the ground aiding her. She ran almost on all fours although remained upright. Nightingale thrust her massive arms forward, grabbing onto the crossties, and pulling the rest of her behind; her neck had elongated and her eyes, unblinking, fixed me with their hypnotic stare.
I sat upright before I even realized I was awake, and came to awareness gasping for air, my arms outstretched, reaching or pleading. My eyes snapped open a split second later.
Jack who was reading on the seat opposite of mine carefully considered me, his eyes especially pale and gray that day. “Bad dream?”
“Not just a dream,” I said, and rubbed my eyes. “The waking reality is altogether lacking in cheer as well.”
He laughed. “We’re safe here, at least for now. Rest, sleep, read.”
I stared out of