Which was quite a feat considering it wasn't much past dawn.įather had taken ill in Paris and had placed his trust and my virtue in both Mrs. She was the charming, silver-haired woman who watched over Thomas while he stayed in his Piccadilly flat in London, and was currently on her fourth nap of the new day. Thomas had his own quarters but insisted on spending every hour the day possessed in my company, lest a career murderer board the train and unleash carnage.Īt least that's the ridiculous story he'd told our chaperone, Mrs. Thomas Cresswell shifted and began tapping his gloved fingers against the windowsill in our compartment. I pressed my head against the plush high-backed seat, focusing on the soft velvet instead of poking his offending leg with my hat pin. One more jitter of his long limbs might unravel my fraying composure. I closed my eyes, praying that my traveling companion would fall back asleep. Quite a charming thought for a blustery morning.Ī knee struck the side of the carved wooden panel in my private booth once again. Judging from the heavy snow falling, they were likely as cold as dead flesh. From our position outside Bucharest, the capital of Romania, the peaks were the color of fading bruises. Our train gnashed its way along frozen tracks toward the white-capped fangs of the Carpathian Mountains.
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