2. Secrets

Marya has retreated to the library carriage. She can't bear to be shut up in her cabin any longer, but she is grateful to escape the nervous chatter of her fellow passengers. Relief at outrunning the storm has turned to anxiety and to bitter complaints about the slowness of their journey and the stricter rationing of water. The crew are trying to present a picture of calm competency, but she can see cracks appearing. The elderly steward who is usually on duty in the library carriage is missing, perhaps because the fans in the library carriage seem even more sluggish than those elsewhere, simply pushing the hot air around. She sinks into a chair by the window. It is like breathing in an oven, but it is worth the discomfort for the blissful solitude.

The Crows have been watching her, she is sure of it.

Outside, the birches cluster close to the train and she thinks she sees glimpses of yellow-eyed foxes weaving their way between the trunks. Now that they have left the main line behind, and the comfort of Rostov's guide, she cannot help but feel as though a chain has been broken, a safety line cut. She taps at the glass with her fingernail. She has found no other windows that contain the signature of her father's glassworks, but still—that one is enough. She wishes she could go back to talk again to the Professor. What else does he know? There is more, she is sure of it. In fact, she feels a growing conviction that she knows exactly who he is. "The only truth that matters." Hadn't Artemis written those same words? What better place to hide than on the train itself, behind the scholarly persona of the Professor, so obvious that it was impossible to see? But she hasn't dared go back to visit him. She hadn't liked how the Crows had appeared; she hadn't liked the thoughtful way they had regarded them both. What if she had led them to Artemis? Hidden right before their eyes this whole time, what if she had uncovered him at last for them? It makes her sick to think of it. And yet, with the sense that their eyes are upon her, she hasn't been able to search the train any further.

It is a moment before she realizes that someone is saying her name, and she turns around with a start.

Suzuki looks apologetic. "I'm sorry. You were looking out so intently."

Recovering herself, she says, "I wasn't disappearing, don't worry. I am armed against it." She opens her palm to show him the glass marble with its swirl of blue. It is warm to the touch, as if she had been gripping it tightly, though she had hardly been aware that she had taken it out.

"Ah." He looks closely. "You must be honored—there are not many people with whom Weiwei would share one of these."

"Really? I had the impression that she found me quite tiresome."

Suzuki laughs. "An impression she has cultivated carefully. They were made for her when she was very small," he goes on. "By our glassmaker. Of course, the crew all cursed him, when they found them under their feet at the most inconvenient of times."

She curls her fingers around the marble. Is there something there, behind his words? She is afraid to raise her eyes—because of what he might see on her face, or what she might see on his?

"Forgive me, I hope I haven't—"

"No, no." She looks up and smiles. And all she sees in his face is concern; worry that he has said the wrong thing. He holds her gaze, and she feels as if a thread between them is being pulled taut.

"There must be interesting research to be done, on these old rails," she begins, at the same time as Suzuki says, "I had hoped to see you—"

They both stop.

"The Company men, Petrov and Li, have been asking questions about you," says Suzuki. "I thought you should know."

"I see" is all she can think of to say.

"They have been preoccupied, these past months, with protecting the good name of the Company. It has perhaps made them rather quick to judge. Although," he adds, "they have always had an untrusting turn of mind."

He takes a step closer to her, and there is worry in his dark eyes. "What I mean is that you should be careful. Whatever it is you want, you should be careful how you go about getting it." She thinks he is going to reach out and take her hand but he draws back.

"I—"

She stops, as the door is flung open and the elderly steward hurries into the carriage, heaving himself into a seat at the far end.

"I fear I am neglecting my duties," says Suzuki, his posture stiffening.

"Of course, you must be busier than ever," she says, quickly.

He bows, and turns to leave, then hesitates.

"I have asked Mr. Petrov and Mr. Li to come to the tower," he says, without turning around. "It seems right that the Company observes the state of the maps for themselves. I imagine that it will take at least half an hour to fully explain the situation."

She looks at his back. It gives nothing away.

"I see," she says, again.

Marya stops at her own cabin, rummaging in her jewelry box and wondering what on earth she is thinking. Had she understood Suzuki's meaning? Yes, she is sure. He is giving her time—an opportunity to act unnoticed, unseen. But his motivation—that she does not understand.

No time to worry now—here it is, a special hairpin, bent just so, the fruits of a childhood spent rebelling against the locked doors and silences of her family home. She has kept it with her ever since, waiting for the time when she would have as much bravery as she had when she was younger. Now, she tells herself, to calm her shaking hands. Now it is time.

She walks to the farthest end of the carriage, to the cabin with a silver 12 inlaid on the door. Marya puts her ear close to the polished wood and hears no sound from within. She takes a last look down the corridor, then takes the hairpin and fits it into the lock. It is the work of moments to hear a click and slip into the cabin, closing the door behind her.

She is in a cabin suite, bigger than her own, with two doors off to one side. There is a large desk in the center of the main room, with a chair on either side, and rows of shelves around the walls. She wants to sit down at the tidy walnut desk and score deep black lines of ink through all of their papers, to say I was here.

"Concentrate," she whispers to herself. There is no telling how long Suzuki will be able to keep the Crows away. But while she flinches at every creak, freezes as her skirts brush against the table and set it rattling, there is also a part of her that is thrilled. The secrecy, the risk. She shuffles through the papers on the desk but finds nothing incriminating. Though how would she understand it, even if she did? All these names and figures in tidy copperplate mean nothing to her. The ledgers on the bookshelves are equally opaque but she recognizes some of the names—ministers for the treasury, for the Department of Ways and Communications. All in the deep pockets of the Company, she thinks.

She crouches down to open a cupboard. Inside are at least six large flasks—each of them filled with water. Her lip curls. The Crows have not been going thirsty, of course they haven't—the Company takes what it wants.

There is a framed map on the wall. At its center, picked out in gold, is the line of the rail, joining the continents. And from the rail countless other lines of different colors stretch out, threads linking the cities of the world. The lines of the rail and the sea. Here you can trace the routes of the goods the train carries, taking porcelain and tea from the west of China to Beijing to Moscow then Paris, Rome, New York. Taking wool from England to Beijing. Threads of power and plenty. No wonder the Company has been so desperate for the train to run again.

She has been trying not to look outside, afraid of disappearing into that dangerous, dream-like state, but a flash of sunlight catches her eye and she sees something shimmering up ahead, through the trees. Water. This must be why the train is slowing. She must move faster.

She hurries over to the ledgers on the shelves. All contain columns of goods and figures. She screws up her nose and wishes she had paid more attention to Artemis's columns. There have been accusations of corruption, of silks and ceramics vanishing before reaching Moscow, of funds diverted, lost between one ledger and another, though nothing is ever proved. She glances at the clock on the wall. She has been in here for a quarter of an hour already.

She opens a box file, one that had been tucked away in a corner. Page after page of reports, all meaningless, then at the very bottom—

—her father's handwriting.

She takes out the flimsy sheets, trying to keep her hands steady. They are clipped behind a letter written on much better quality paper and bearing the logo of the Trans-Siberia Company. The letter is written in English and addressed to Messrs Li and Petrov. It is one line long and signed by the Chairman of the Board. Dear Sirs, it says. The following has come to our attention. We trust it to your experience and discretion.

She turns to the attached pages. She makes out the date—just before the final crossing—and that the letter is addressed from her father to the Board of the Trans-Siberia Company, but the words and phrases dance in front of her eyes: The new lenses, along with the photographic records, have provided irrefutable proof of the increasing rate of change, which correlates with the increase in crossings. There can no longer be any doubt that the train itself is causing specific and localized changes. We have advised a reduction in the number of crossings but to no avail.

A warning to the Company. Her father had seen that there was danger already—even before the last crossing.

A jolt of the train makes her lose her balance. Are they slowing down further? She forces herself to take in more of the words. I cannot in all good faith keep silent, when the safety of hundreds of lives is at stake.

Not just a warning—a threat.

She hears knocking on cabin doors down the corridor, the sound of footsteps hurrying past, and she quickly folds the papers and hides them in her bodice, returning the file to its corner. She slips out of the cabin, locking the door carefully behind her.

We trust it to your experience and discretion.