1. The Ghost Rails

The train moves achingly slowly. Inch by inch, as tentative as a man balanced on a rope bridge high above a ravine, unsure at every moment whether the rope will snap, whether his balance will keep him impossibly aloft. Onto the minor rails, the ghost rails. Weiwei tries not to think of rotting wood or rusted metal. She tries to keep from flinching at every shudder or jolt. If she looks back she can still see the fire burning on the main line where the lightning struck, flames illuminating the night sky.

What luck, the passengers have been saying, that it happened so close to a junction with one of the abandoned lines. What luck, as if the old builders were there, watching over them, gifting them a lifeline. And the Captain, she has guided them safely, preparing them for this change of line, reassuring them that all will be well.

"Please remain in your cabins and bunks while the crew work." The speakers make the Captain sound tinny and distant, but there is not a tremor in her voice, thinks Weiwei, not a sign that being forced off the rail was an uncommon occurrence, and yet the crew know that it is nothing more than an imitation of a captain, a clever act. How dare she?

Weiwei is shocked by the depths of her own resentment.

Where is Elena? Weiwei has taken what water she can and left the flask in the roof space, though she is all too aware of how light it feels, how little water there is. All she can hope is that the stowaway is somewhere hidden and safe.

They have left the storm behind, that is all the passengers care about, huddled in their bunks or clutching drinks in the saloon car, and the crew leave them to their relief—the one kindness they can bestow. How lucky they have been, they agree.

But the crew know better. They have lost their accustomed swagger; with their legs no longer able to predict the swaying of the carriages, they walk like drunken men. The passengers are subdued, wary, grasping toward something but unable to see its full enormity, to truly understand what it means. Only the crew understand—the loss of the line, of the one certainty.

The main line itself is maintained by special trains and repair crews which fix any problems spotted by the Cartographer and engineers. These rails, though, have no such care lavished upon them, and the few maps Suzuki has of them are many years out of date. There is no way of knowing if the minor rails are undamaged, if they will hold. Long-abandoned, now they are nothing more than ghosts. The crew step carefully, as if they are afraid that their weight might crush the rails below them.

Early morning. A sky drained of color, as if exhausted by the exertions of the previous days; the train heaving itself, mile by painful mile, through a landscape that seems to be bearing down on them, contracted into this treeless valley, this sharp rockface, these shadows on the cusp of unfolding. Weiwei kneels on one of the couches beneath the windows in the saloon car. If she looks closely she can see colors in the rock, but when she tries to put a name to them she can't find the words. She lets her eyes become unfocused; sees faces form, bulging from the cliffs. The human mind sees what it wants to, the Professor always says. We see faces in the bark of trees, in wallpaper patterns, because we look for ourselves in everything. But the faces Weiwei sees in the stone are bulbous and contorted; terrified, trapped. She tears her gaze away.

"The question is," Vassily is saying, from behind the bar, "do you believe in heavenly visitors?"

"What?" Weiwei looks over, quickly.

Alexei snorts, but Weiwei can see his heart's not in it. He is twitchy, distracted. None of them have slept since they left the main line, but although Weiwei's eyes itch with tiredness she shares the general disinclination to retire to the solitude of her bunk.

"What do you mean, heavenly visitors?" she demands.

"That's what the rumor is—an angelic vision, just before the lightning struck, arriving to warn us. Sent by your preferred deity, I suppose."

"The Lord would do better to save us from overwrought imaginations," says Alexei.

"I'm only passing on what I've heard the passengers saying."

Weiwei tries not to let the worry show on her face.

"You shouldn't encourage them," says Alexei, "they're all worked up into a fever as it is."

Vassily straightens. "Crows approaching."

Even the Crows' feathers are ruffled,thinks Weiwei. Their habitually bland expressions look strained, and Mr. Petrov's tie is not quite straight. They have lost their symmetry.

"We trust you are well, despite the unexpected change in our circumstances." He allows himself a small, dry smile, as if he has made a joke. No one replies. Not even a matching smile from his partner. Another slip in the symmetry.

"Will we be paid for these extra days?" Alexei asks, and Vassily closes his eyes. "It is likely to add considerable time to our journey, after all."

The Crows turn their heads to him. Mr. Li says, "As you know, the Trans-Siberia Company is dedicated to compensating all its workers adequately. Now, has the water been diverted from Third?"

A pained look crosses Alexei's face. "Yes, from one of the carriages—"

"We asked that it be both. Did you not understand our orders?"

"Water is already rationed, there needs to be at least some available for washing, or—"

"Sacrifices need to be made for the good of the train, I'm sure we don't need to explain further." Mr. Li's tone is saccharine. "Passengers in First may have a jug of water in the morning. There are far too many in Third to allow for this. Better for none to have any, than only some. They will understand. Please see that it is done."

Alexei's face is white. "I take my orders from the Captain."

"The Captain is in agreement with us. Though you may of course ask her yourself."

They let the silence stretch out. They know he won't, thinks Weiwei. They know that none of us will. It would hurt too much to hear it from her lips.

"We thank you for your hard work." And the Crows stride away, their buckles clinking.

Weiwei watches their retreating backs, then turns to Alexei. "You're not going to do it, are you?"

He gives an exaggerated sigh and she has a sudden, vivid memory of the boy she knew when he first joined the train, strutting around in a uniform that was too big for him, exasperated by a small girl daring him to sneak into all the places he shouldn't go. "It's me who gets into trouble for it, not you."

"What choice do I have? And anyway, they're right—the water needs to be saved from somewhere." His voice is dull, resigned.

"But Third is restless already. Any more rationing and they're going to be at our throats."

"Well, they're just going to have to put up with it. I need more time."

"But we'll be back on the main line before we reach the well, won't we?" She feels Vassily go very still. "Won't we?"

Alexei holds her gaze. "Suzuki says there's no way back to the main line until after the well."

"What does that mean? Won't we be—"

"Cutting it very close? Yes. But we have no other choice. If we ration the water even more strictly, we should be able to make it to the next well."

"They're going to be furious. There's going to be a revolt."

"We'll tell the passengers that it's because we've left the main line. There's no need for them to know anything else."

"And when we get off the ghost rails and the water's still rationed?"

"One thing at a time. We'll face that when we get to it."

"But isn't there—"

"For the love of iron, Zhang, we're all in the same position here, we're all going to have to suffer because of this, but it's me who has to take responsibility, something you couldn't possibly understand." He stops. "I didn't mean it to sound like that."

"I know what you meant." She tries to say it lightly, but it comes out as an accusation and she sees Alexei's lips tighten. With a curt nod he strides out of the carriage.

"Best to leave him be," says Vassily. "It's the Crows he's angry at, not you."

"Isn't it strange," she says, partly to distract him from noticing her red cheeks, but partly because it has been bothering her all morning, "that the rails are not more damaged and worn? I thought they would be more overgrown." Though repair teams kept the lines up after they'd been abandoned, just in case they were needed, they gave up eventually, years ago. But here, where everything grows, where moss can cover whole rock faces from one crossing to the next, where vines snake up tree trunks before your eyes, the ghost rails are bare. As if they've been waiting.

Vassily gives a bark of laughter. "Are you complaining now that we have too much luck?" He goes to the icon hanging on the wall beside the shelves of bottles, touches its iron frame and then the face of the saint. Despite herself, Weiwei touches the iron around the window. Not too much luck, she thinks. Too little. Everything is wrong—not just the ghost rails, the storm, the water. Everything. The Professor had been right when he said that some changes were too big to return from. He had been right all along.

Walking through the train seems to take longer, now, as it moves so slowly. In the kitchen carriages, there's a clattering of pans and knives. The smell of peppercorns and spices reaches her nose and she knows what they are doing, they are covering up leftovers with strong flavors, the better to eke out the food as long as possible. How long? How many days will the ghost rails add to their journey? She tries not to think about Elena's thirst, the dry skin around her lips, the way she pressed herself to the window to look out at the storm clouds. The way the passengers turned toward her, knowing that a stranger was in their midst. She reaches the infirmary carriage, and takes a deep breath.

He lies curled up on the bed, his glasses on the table beside him, his eyes closed. Asleep, he seems so frail, as if he might crumble to dust if she touches him.

"Professor?"

He doesn't stir.

She pulls the chair closer to the bed and takes his hand. "It's me," she whispers. "Can you hear me?"

The Professor slowly opens his eyes, unfocused, before a smile twitches at his lips. "You have come back. Did you see it, on the glass? I have been thinking… about what you said. Perhaps I have been too quick to give up. Perhaps it is time to write again."

"That is wonderful to hear," says Weiwei, squeezing his fingers, though she fears his mind is wandering. "When you are better, I will help you, like I used to."

His face folds into a frown. "I didn't tell them anything. They wanted to know… They fear that you are not who you say…" He blinks. "Weiwei?"

She smiles at him, trying not to show her concern at his drawn face, the confusion in his mind. "Has someone else visited you?"

"I forget her name… Dressed in black…" He yawns, and Weiwei smells a sweetness on him that she recognizes.

"Marya…" she says. "A passenger from First—was it her?"

"Tell her to be careful." His eyes are closing.

She waits, but his breathing is regular and deep. Gently, she rolls up his right sleeve. There, in the papery skin at the top of his arm, is a cluster of puncture marks.

Back outside the doctor's cabin, she presses her forehead against the window. She should have visited him sooner. Is he really ill enough to be drugged? She knows it can be the kindest thing, to stop sufferers from hurting themselves. Or is there another reason, to do with his visit from the widow? Weiwei scratches at her damp collar. The changed rhythm of the unfamiliar rails makes it difficult to think. Marya Petrovna, always asking questions, always where she shouldn't be. They fear she is not who she says she is… She could go to First right now, pass on the warning and demand to know what it is she wants. But perhaps she should not show her hand so soon. What if the widow was trying to get information out of the Professor… Could she know who he really is? Weiwei thinks of the Professor's unfocused eyes, the frailty of his hand in hers and she feels an irresistible urge to find a quiet space to curl up and screw her eyes shut. She is so tired, and she doesn't know what she should do. Without the Captain, without the Professor, she is just—what? A rail rat. A nobody.

A soft noise makes her look up. Dima is padding down the corridor in the direction of the service car, his nose to the floor, tail raised and alert.

"Dima, Dimochka…" She crouches down but he ignores her and walks straight past, with an air of determination. She sits back on her heels, feeling, absurdly, tears prickling at her eyes. But then she smells it—the damp, musty smell she associates with Elena, and she sees, if she looks closely, damp patches on the carpet, thin ribbons of weeds. She curses, rubbing at the carpet with her feet and stuffing the weeds into her pockets, hoping that they haven't been noticed yet. The passengers had known Elena was there, she remembers—during the storm, they had felt her presence. And Grey. Henry Grey had seen her. Would they believe what he saw? It doesn't matter—rumors and fear spread as fast as the train itself. Faster. They would all be watching, now, for Grey's visitor; angel, ghost, monster.

She follows Dima to the storage carriage, where he stops just outside the door and begins to wash himself, with an air of studied unconcern. "Thank you, Dimochka," she says, rubbing his head.

Elena is sitting on the floor of the carriage, open boxes and spilled goods all around her.

"No! We can't let anyone know we've been here." Weiwei starts to tidy up, but Elena tugs on her sleeve. There are marks now like greenish bruises on her skin, and her lips are dry and flaking.

"We are moving so slowly. When will there be speed again?"

"We've no choice, we don't know if these rails are safe. It won't be for long." Weiwei tries to keep the doubt from her voice.

"We must play! It is my turn—no, it is your turn—you must reach the cab. Look—I will hide here and watch—"

"Elena, no." Weiwei takes her hands, feeling their clamminess. "No." She holds on, as if she could root the stowaway in place. "Someone saw you. A passenger saw you. You have to stay hidden. Do you understand? No more walking the corridors."

But Elena has already darted out of the door. "There is no one here! I will play—you can watch."

There is a feverishness to her now, a restless energy that Weiwei associates with those afflicted by the sickness. She has seen it sometimes, before an attempt to wrest open the doors to the outside, to pull and pull at the lock until they collapse, out of exhaustion or the needle of a syringe.

"Come back," Weiwei whispers as gently as she can, then sees Elena's attention sliding away, to the window beyond. "What is it?"

"Nothing, nothing. Come. I will hide, you must find me."

"Wait—"

Outside, a black dog is slipping past, its yellow eyes turned toward the train. No, she thinks, a fox—its ears and tail pointed. As she watches, another emerges, like a shadow sliding free from its owner, then another, and another, one becoming two becoming four until there is a sea of lithe bodies beside them, keeping pace with the train, flashes of silver, of rust red in their coats. They are beautiful, she thinks. They are not like the foxes in the city; they are bigger, sleeker; they seem to slip in and out of time—you can't follow a single creature, your eyes won't let you, even though theirs are fixed on the train.

"You mustn't look," says Elena, tugging on her arm, an odd cadence in her voice. "You must pretend not to see."

"They can't harm us, we're safe in here." Their pupils are a dark, vertical line. Their eyelids close sideways, like a lizard's. They are watching me, she thinks. No—they are watching Elena.

"Please." She pulls so hard that Weiwei falls backward, banging her head against the wall. Elena crouches down beside her, remorse on her face. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm sorry."

"What's wrong? Please tell me." Weiwei rubs her head. "It's not just the water, is it?"

"I told you," whispers Elena. "I don't know what I am anymore. Since I followed the rail, since I started to watch, and learn… And they do not know what I am, either."

Weiwei half expects to see the foxes' snouts at the window, their eyes staring in.

Elena says, "I can't hear them anymore, I can't feel them. I don't know whether they are taunting me or calling me back."