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The last of the passengers boarded, the whistle screamed, and the train pulled out of the Pine Crest station. Winifred, the conductor, ambled along the aisle, smiling and stopping to speak to everyone, including Gwen and me.
“We’re going to climb up to the very top of Pine Crest Mountain, where the old historic depot is located,” she said in a conversational tone. “That’s where lunch will be served, so sit back and enjoy the scenery in the meantime.”
Gwen and I both murmured our thanks. Winifred tipped her black hat to us, then moved on to repeat her spiel to the folks in the next section of seats a few feet away.
I stared out the window. As its name implied, Pine Crest Mountain was covered with pine trees, all of which were outlined in a picturesque coating of ice and snow. A couple of inches of snow also covered the ground, adding a clean white sheen to the landscape, although the sparkling crystals were quickly melting away under the clear blue sky and bright March sunshine.
As the trees and snow slid by and the train slowly chugged up the mountain, I kept talking to Gwen, asking question after question and trying to find out more about her.
The girl was polite, if exceptionally vague. Still, I learned a few things. In addition to attending Mythos Academy, Gwen also had an after-school job in the academy’s library, which she referred to as the Library of Antiquities, as though it held more than just old reference books and dusty encyclopedias. Her grandmother lived in a nearby town and worked as some sort of fortune-teller, although Gwen kept referring to her grandmother as an Oracle, as though the term meant something special.
“What about your parents?” I asked.
“My dad died a long time ago. I don’t even remember him.” Gwen’s face hardened. “My mom died a couple of years ago when I was sixteen.”
Her cold, flat tone indicated there was a lot more to the story than that, but she clearly didn’t want to talk about it. And who was I to make someone else talk about their feelings? Especially since that was always the very last thing I wanted to do myself.
I nodded in understanding. “My parents are both gone too. I don’t remember my dad much either, but my mom died when I was thirteen. It was . . . tough.”
That was an understatement, but I wasn’t about to share how Mab Monroe had murdered my mother, Eira Snow, and my older sister, Annabella, and burned our mansion to the ground with her elemental Fire magic. That was way too heavy a conversation for what was supposed to be a fun, relaxing train ride.
My gaze dropped to my hands, and I massaged the scars embedded in my palms, which were suddenly aching. The marks had been a parting gift of cruel torture from Mab the night she’d murdered my family, and each silvery scar was shaped like a small circle surrounded by eight thin rays—a spider rune. The symbol for patience, something that had influenced my life in so many ways, especially as an assassin.
I was also wearing a silverstone pendant shaped like a spider rune, although I had tucked the necklace and matching chain under my T-shirt. Normally, the slight weight of the pendant against my skin comforted me, but right now, the spider rune was as heavy as an anvil pressing against my heart.
That was the funny thing about grief. No matter how much time passed, no matter how happy I was now, every once in a while, that heavy, heavy grief would sneak up on me like, well, an assassin in the night, twist the broken shards of my heart that belonged to my mother and sister, and remind me of everything I’d loved—and lost.
Gwen frowned. “Are you okay? What are those marks on your hands?”
My fingers clenched into fists, my nails digging into the scars embedded in my palms. My first instinct was to hide the marks, but she was just asking a simple question, and I didn’t see a reason not to answer. Besides, if I opened up to her, then maybe she would trust me enough to let me help with whatever trouble she was in.
So I stretched my fingers wide and held out my palms where she could see them. “Just a couple of old scars. Sometimes they ache. They’re spider runes, actually. The symbol for patience.”
Her frown deepened, but she didn’t seem to recognize the marks or what the symbols truly meant. She opened her mouth to ask another question, but the whistle screamed again, cutting her off, and the train slowed, sputtered, and ground to a halt.
“All right, folks,” Winifred called out from the front of the car. “We’ve arrived at the original Pine Crest station. Lunch is going to be served inside the historic depot. If you will all follow me, please.”
The conductor plodded down the stairs, opened the door, and got off the train. Gwen grabbed her messenger bag, stood up, and moved into the aisle, and I fell in step behind her.
The train had stopped at the very top of the mountain, although the town of Pine Crest was still visible in the valley several miles below. From this height, the colorful shops, clean streets, and surrounding stands of evergreen trees looked like miniatures that had been carefully nestled inside a snow globe.
Another sharp shard of grief twisted into my chest. My mother had collected snow globes, and Bria and I used to spend hours shaking them when we were young. I admired the pretty, panoramic view a moment longer, then shoved my grief aside and followed the rest of the passengers.
Winifred and the other employees herded us across a wide wooden platform, through some glass doors, and into the station. Historic black-and-white photographs showing both the inside and the outside of the old depot, along with various trains, adorned the white brick walls, and glass display cases containing tools, bits of metal, and other objects were scattered around the main lobby. Round dining tables covered with green linens were set up in the middle of the area, while long rectangular buffet tables lined one of the walls.
Most folks made a beeline for the food, but a few people wandered over to the far side of the lobby, where a wide, waist-high table ran the entire length of that wall. Tiny mountains, pine trees, and gray stones jutted up from the tabletop, along with several small houses and businesses, and several electric trains careened around the tracks in endless loops, occasionally belching out some low, rumbling choo-choos.
Gwen glanced around curiously, then headed over to the buffet tables. I trailed after her. We each fixed a plate of food and grabbed a seat at a table. Gwen slung her messenger bag down onto the chair beside her and arranged it so that the sword was propped up and staring out over the table, almost like it was a real person sitting here with us. Weird.
A waiter came around and poured lemonade into our empty glasses.
I held mine out. “A toast to a safe trip?”
A shadow passed over Gwen’s face, but she clinked her glass against mine. “I’ll drink to that.”
We both dug into our food. Hot roast-beef-and-cheddar paninis studded with apple slices, all of it encased in thick, crusty grilled sourdough bread. Crispy fried baby potatoes seasoned with dill and loads of Parmesan cheese. Dried figs stuffed with blue cheese and wrapped with brown-sugar-glazed bacon and then baked to perfection.
Everything was excellent—except for the desserts. I cut into a cranberry-orange scone that was as dry as dust, while the chocolate chip brownies were almost as hard as the brick walls.
