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Skyla sighs as she presses her ear against the perfectly polished window. Despite their train chugging along the rails, thus making all the furnishing and crockery vibrate and clink steadily, nothing can seem to drown all the voices around.
In all honesty, it’s ridiculously aggravating. Whatever car she’ll wander off to, she’ll always see the same faces which eventually brings her to the obvious conclusion—not many people have boarded this train to begin with. It’s par for the course, since sleeping cars can only comprise three or four rooms and there’s ever so few of them in general. What she can’t wrap her mind around, however, is the fact that such a small bunch can be so overwhelming and rowdy while referring to themselves as the genteel jet set at the same time. Even trying to seclude herself in her own chamber, she couldn’t take a proper breather due to one of her neighbors chanting something of a suspiciously occult nature relentlessly, in a deep disturbing voice at that.
She stops nurturing a hope for having both rest and fun over time, having no desire to be bound to her anxiety and exhaustion for the rest of the trip. Treating this as another challenge is a better and sure-fire way of preserving that visceral thrill that blazed up in her heart once she turned her whole life around.
Lost in thought, she turns around and gives a start. A young lanky boy stands right in front of her and toys with an apple in his hand. A faint smile is plastered across his face, sincere albeit fun-poking, if it’s not the cynicism the other passengers awoke in her that is talking.
“Hello!” she greets him, tugging down the hems of her hitched up jacket. “How are you on this fine snowy day?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” he answers politely and flings the tail of his scarf to the back. Just by this movement alone, she can tell he’s French and someone’s private artist. “I’ve met close to no people my age on this train, and you don’t look too haughty, so I thought I might try striking a conversation.”
Skyla hums uncertainly, pondering on what would be fitting to say in such a case. She wasn’t raised with perfect manners but common decency at the very least and so set one single rule since she’d embarked on her journey: if there’s no danger, she should keep to the sweet and obedient act. Not too pliant to avoid being manipulated, not too haughty to avoid making enemies. Yet no one seems to care about it aboard, so she might as well say they’re indeed aloof and shady, agreeing with…
She shakes her head, realizing. “Excuse me my poor manners, sir. How shall I call you?”
“Oh, I’m Gregory. No sir, please,” Gregory grins. “I’m going to Amsterdam as a university student. They’re incredibly eager to foster young talents from all over the world these days. I got lucky and won a scholarship.”
“Oh, uh, congratulations!” Skyla rocks on her heels, then steps aside to change her glass for another drink. She could be happier for the boy if her own life bestowed more than a tiny half-empty suitcase on her. “Lucky me, I don’t have to study. I’m having a nice little tour around Europe.”
Gregory lets out an awkward laugh and shrugs his shoulders. “Lucky me, I love studying. I really love what I do.”
The boy proceeds to talk for a while—not to brag, but show what’s there to his occupation to appreciate so passionately as to spend entire life on it—and, surprisingly, it doesn’t peeve Skyla at all. She even hums and nods more frequently, still sipping on her champagne slowly. Yet as she intends to pose him another question to be ingrained in his mind as a reliable acquaintance, a certain figure glides past grabbing all her attention.
She only saw it once and not on this train, which is what truly stuns her, and still remembers vividly all the little things—three-piece thick corduroy suit in rich violet color paired with a chunky golden bracelet and visible untrimmed stubble contrasting those greatly.
Skyla mumbles, “Excuse me, I think I need some fresh air,” and acts before she thinks, jumping on the running tail.
Leaning against the handrail, the man stares into the distance absent-mindedly—or so Skyla thinks before he glances at her out of the corner of his eye and… doesn’t budge an inch more. Her heart sinks for a split second, her own folly dawning on her crushingly, but there’s absolutely no point in retreating when she’s already made her presence felt.
“Hello, sir… I think we’ve met earlier today.”
Although she forces her tone down, he manages to hear the greeting over the deafening racket, giving her a warm smile and saying in return, “Hello to you, too, miss. I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for somebody else.”
His polite ways together with the refutation catch Skyla completely off her guard. She’s aware that he might be playing dumb on the purpose of denying her a conversation without coming off overly harsh, and this is exactly the reason why she finds it vital to carry it out as is due. After she’ll have explained herself, she’ll simply leave him alone with the feeling that he was the one acting too big for his shoes.
“Impossible,” Skyla insists, making him quirk his eyebrow in curiosity. “I was passing through the gate, and my skirt got stuck on a spearhead, and while everyone was shouting at me for standing in the way for too long because, well, of course, I wouldn’t want to rip it to shreds, you came up and helped me. I was in utter distress and couldn’t thank you because you disappeared too quickly, so I followed you here—I mean, not aboard the train, it just so happened that you and I are headed the same way—to say thank you.”
By the time she finishes her rant, she can swear, his smile widens. “I’d presume your skirt is doing good,” he comments without looking down, then turns to her just a tad, finally giving it his all focus. “But, is your distress gone?”
Feeling much more relieved than just a few minutes ago, Skyla nods and gets the jitters all of a sudden.
She did manage to get her reasons through to him, but has her doubts about… leaving right now.
“That’s a shame,” he proceeds, amused look on his face lingering. It’s as if he were reading her mind all the while. “I hoped I could help raise your spirits with a drink or mont blanc.”
Skyla giggles, “In all honesty, sir, I have no clue what that is.”
“The best food they serve on this train, well, judging humbly by all the rides I’ve had so far,” he explains kindly and cocks his head to the side. “I’m sure I am to know everyone on this train, but your name will elude me.”
“I’m Skyla. Who are you?”
Her new acquaintance lets out a laugh at a backswing so brisk and straightforward, although the cheer gradually falters for some reason. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you my real name. Everyone here calls me The Proprietor and so will you have to.”
He shrugs his shoulders and looks downwards, perhaps because he wants to confide, yet can’t, or perhaps because it’s hard for him to fathom how a young lady can be so unintelligent—Skyla would never figure it out on her own and thus refuses to dwell on it any longer.
Shortly, he looks her in the eye and confesses, “I remembered our encounter. Please, excuse me my lies. I simply didn’t want a sweet miss like you to associate herself with me in any way.”
Skyla doesn’t hesitate a bit with her retort, “But, sir, you’ve just suggested having dinner together! What gentleman would go back on his word?”
“I won’t, and that leaves me with a certain sense of guilt,” he smiles wryly. “I can already feel, I would’ve regretted avoiding our conversation far more.”
Skyla holds herself from saying it out loud, but The Proprietor’s sentiment rings a certain bell. Surely, if one keeps their name a secret, keeps somebody they—oh, so obviously—feel warmly towards at a distance, it has something to do with particular risks. People like her, those having nothing of their own, ought to avoid those at all cost, but Momma would always say that she deserves a point for carrying reliable guts at the very least and those are only telling Skyla that she’ll regret plumping for the sleepless night in her chamber of all things.
At the end of the day, she’s just a girl who would rather run away from trouble for hundreds of miles than not try getting into it whatsoever.
Making up her mind, Skyla turns on her heels and sways from a sudden urge of dizziness. The number of cocktails she’s tried in the span of the last few hours occurs to her only now, but she treats the fact and consequences like it’s no big deal. Withdrawing her hand from her companion’s kindly supporting grip, she fixes the neat gatsby on her head and gives voice at long last, “Sir Proprietor, I’m very much ready to go. Would you be so kind to lead the way?”
“I shall be delighted.”
He offers his elbow so they should link their arms and opens the door back into the boisterous car. Gregory, who Skyla abandoned in such an impudent manner, seems to still hang around, studying and tracing the undulation on the wall beside the bar. It upsets her gravely: she warmed up to him and would like, in fact, to not only hear about his art, but see it once with her own eyes. Frustrated with herself, hoping to go past him unnoticed, she clings to The Proprietor a tad too close and catches a whiff of his cologne. Somehow, its lavender and amber notes come off uplifting enough for her to decide: no matter how Gregory might feel, she’ll come looking for him once they’re done with their dinner and ask for his address to write him a letter to Amsterdam.
Sir Proprietor, in his turn, tows her all the way to the last—or rather first—car. Although the sign on the door reads that only personnel can be admitted, he gently nudges her farther and, worse yet, locks them inside with the key. She takes notice that it’s not an ordinary dining car they’ve passed earlier but a half-enclosed kitchen with a single table and crosses her arms as her companion lets the red curtain tucked above the door window drop hanging over it.
“Have there always been such an opportunity? You are not the personnel, are you?”
“I am not.” He shakes his head, yet feels himself at home regardless, offering Skyla the seat farther from where they came from, ringing the bell on the wall, and plopping down across from her, at the other side of the table. “But we’re partners, and I’m here for business they’re well aware of, so I can just do it like that. I doubt they would mind me bringing a sweet miss like yourself along.”
Before Skyla manages her response, a prim whiskered fellow strides up to them to take an order. Sir Proprietor asks for a teapot with a tea chest for himself and, getting a nod from her, some fresh ginger water to pair with the dish he’s mentioned before. That’s when the flyer propped by the small bronze rack at the window catches her eye—a clear invitation to spend the gratifying night in a luxurious hotel in central Paris after the adventures on the Harpy Express.
Something about this train causes her confusion. Still, she refuses to embarrass herself by posing unneeded questions and only points at the flyer in her other hand. “Might it be the partnership you’ve been speaking of?”
“Bingo,” he clasps his hands and scratches his beard in a silly way. “I won’t go as far as to say that the business is mine; it belongs to our family, and I was just lucky to be born one of the descendants. There’re other establishments, of course, but the hotel chain is our pride and joy. We have four in Europe and two in the New World.”
The image in her head and approximate figures she now deals with make it impossible for Skyla to stay collected. Her goggled eyes don’t go unnoticed by her companion, his eyebrows rising in curiosity yet again, although he doesn’t question it much. Not by directly addressing it, at the very least.
“So, what are you doing here, Miss Skyla? Would you mind telling more about yourself?”
“Uh, well, I’m from Louisiana and came all the way here for a tour around Europe. There’s not much else to it.”
The Proprietor hums and sticks the flyer back into the rack, lost in thought. “Who are your parents? You seem so young, are you here all alone?”
Skyla lets out a nervous giggle, nodding. It’s only natural to ask such questions when the two are trying to know each other better, but with how things have been for her lately, she can’t possibly share them with anyone. If she’s being honest, she doesn’t even have the heart to ponder on it properly herself, knowing that the lack of answers and solutions will most likely drive her to yet another distress and series of recklessly made mistakes.
As she hears the thump, she snaps out of it, looking at the empty glass. The Proprietor fills it with plain water and smiles softly upon their eyes meeting. “I must say, when Miss Skyla is so nervous, I’m starting to act like I have ants in my pants, too.”
“I’m wearing a dress,” she states in dead earnest, for she hasn’t unshaken off her broodiness yet, and thus sets him off laughing. “What’s so funny?”
Clearly unashamed of his hearty laugh, he straightens up and bows in apology shortly after. “I’ll go check if anything is ready. Please take a sip or two of water, breathe in, then breathe out. Tell me if I said something that made you uncomfortable so I shouldn’t make the same mistake again.”
Skyla follows exactly the steps she’s been told just now, her mind hopeless blank, and casts her shoes off to keep the creeping numbness away from her feet. As soon as The Proprietor puts the last plate down, she hastens to explain herself, “You didn’t do anything wrong, sir. I have ordinary parents and have had an ordinary life so far. I don’t have much to say about myself and would rather listen to your stories.”
Deeming her response satisfactory as it is, he simply nods and goes about his tea. The teapot that one of the cooks fetched them appears to be covered in a warm tea cozy, embellished with magical beaded roses. At a closer and calmer look, everything around her was brought into life with sophisticated taste for those who lead a life of indulgence, who her new friend is, taking his sweet time to read about each variety of tea, and who she certainly isn’t.
“Everyone is losing their mind over art deco now. We had to renovate our hotels according to the trend, too,” he notes. “Do you like it as well?”
“I can’t say I’m a fan, but I can appreciate the hard work behind quite everything,” she shrugs her stiff shoulders. “There’s so much attention to detail. I could never sew anything decent no matter how much Momma would insist and teach me.”
“Which one?”
Skyla sits back straight and takes a look at the three tea bags in the other’s hands. With what intricate designs they bear, they, too, must cost a fortune each. “I like yellow.”
“I would offer you tea, but it’s not the best for your health in this state and ginger will help your body get rid of the alcohol much faster. Tell me if you want it sweeter, I’ll ask for honey. Although…” He freezes, screwing up his eyes. “What about the dessert? You don’t like it?”
She picks up her spoon with a barely audible titter and mumbles, “Sitting here and eating it feels so bizarre because—”
“Because?”
“Because I’ve been eating nothing but stale bread and canned food for weeks now,” she babbles and bites her tongue, regretting it immediately. “I’m here on a quite tight budget, but you don’t know how it is, I assume.”
The Proprietor shows surprise with his entire demeanor. “And what is your destination, then?”
Skyla takes a bite of mont blanc, feeling tender nutty cream enveloping her whole mouth, and fumbles in the pocket of her jacket for all scraps of paper she’s collected and filled out herself up till now. She traces the route with her finger, then stops at the nearest point and checks the hour on the clock behind their table.
“I am to change trains in Simplon deep into the night to go to Paris. I’m planning to stay there for a week or two,” she specifies and folds the hand-made map back. “I might go to Amsterdam if Gregory invites me.”
Sir Proprietor makes a strange sound, confusion all over his face. “You don’t have to change trains. The final destination of the Harpy Express is indeed Paris.” He reaches his hand to the pile of Skyla’s notes and colorful clippings, looking as if there should be something particularly of his interest. “Could you show me your ticket?”
Even without hearing more from him, Skyla already knows where this is going. She bought her ticket at the last minute, well aware that the train was supposed to be brimming with passengers. Even though those vanished into thin air, she also suspected that people shouldn’t pay pennies for free drinks, clean brass, and soft carpets, even if the journey lasted just a tad less.
“I heard people mention Simplon here and there, so obviously, I’d keep thinking I’m on the right track…”
“You got the platform wrong, didn’t you? And this train is probably so corrupt with this bunch now that no one cares who hops on it,” her companion sighs and taps at the number. “Which one is it? Tell me.”
“Platform seven, obviously.”
“No, it’s one.”
Baffled, she bangs on the table. “Why does your one look like a seven?!”
Sir Proprietor laughs, throwing his head back. “People write it like that here. If it’s a seven, you ought to cross it in the middle.”
Skyla gasps for air and stumbles over her words, “I can’t believe local arithmetic is more shocking to me than the fact that I didn’t even pay a tenth of what the Harpy Express ticket is to set people back in normal circumstances.”
That said, Skyla is in no way unhappy with how her slip-up worked itself out in the end. Technically, she paid half the cheapest price for the fastest yet most inconvenient way to get to Paris while reaching it aboard the luxury train, enjoying the finest food she could only try in her dreams and accompanied by the most courteous man the earth could tolerate. Oh, the superlatives are so many that they make it look like she’s scooped an entire fortune on the lottery; the rule of the life where one loses what they’ve gained to achieve the world equilibrium might as well go to goddamn hell.
In so high spirits as probably never before, she crosses her legs and asks, “Sir Proprietor, isn’t that your favorite dessert? Won’t you take a bite?”
“Well, if you insist, I’ll take just one.” He scoops the sweet mass with his teaspoon in no need for more persuasion, yet seemingly in need for seconds.
“That’s already two.”
“Excuse me, that will be three,” he giggles along with her and heaves a deep sigh upon a large gulp of tea. “I’ll have to take off my jacket, if you don’t mind.”
“This car is much hotter because of the kitchen,” she agrees and springs up almost pointedly staring at him.
The hint lands perfectly on his well manners: Sir Proprietor leaves the table to fling his jacket on the back of his seat and comes closer, delighted to help her out of her own. She squeezes through to stand up properly and roots to the spot in the same instant. It takes him hardly any time to notice her curled up toes in socks alone, and just like during their previous, more awkward interactions, her whimsy begets no scorn on his side. Only a smile. Almost fond, if she isn’t seeing things.
“My shoes were pinching me horrendously,” she mumbles, turning away from him and spreading her arms. “I’ve been dying to take them off the entire day.”
As the clothing slides down her shoulders, there’s a tiny halt in his movement, follow by the remark, “The dress is a tad tight, too, I can see.”
“Uh-huh! You know how it is,” she plays dumb, trying to breathe deeply. “Growth spurt can ruin a girl’s life.”
“May I ask how old are you exactly?”
“…Twenty-one. Uh-huh.”
“Oh, I’m just a tad older,” The Proprietor notes for no particular reason and takes on a contemplative air. “So, what do they feed girls like Skyla in Louisiana? I’m intrigued.”
Skyla turns around, her eyes shifty. The question gives her a severe pang of consciousness, making her regret that she hasn’t just kept silent like her companion did instead of tangling herself in lies more and more.
“I’m from Mississippi,” she concedes in a tiny voice, pressing her jacket to her bosom like a little child would cling to their favorite toy. “And Skyla is my family name. Princess is my given name, but I renounced it because I have nothing of it in me. My parents were just stupid to give it to me.”
The Proprietor doesn’t even bat an eye, still smiling. “How come? I haven’t met anyone bearing nearly as much resemblance to a princess as you do.”
Skyla covers her mouth—what a stale, predictable flattery! What a shame that her neck breaks out in fire as soon as she hears and processes it.
As Skyla asks it, she does so sincerely, “Are you… trying to get to court me?”
Her companion shakes his head frantically and extends his arms in front of himself to get to the safest and most appropriate distance they haven’t bothered with even once up till now. “I’m fancy-free, but absolutely no, by no means,” he refutes, adding an extra bit no one asked for, and flattens the waistcoat on his chest. “I realize we will part ways when we come to Paris. Besides, you told me you’re planning to go to Gregory.”
“What does Gregory have to do with it?” Skyla frowns and plops back down with her back to the wall in order to stretch out her legs on the semblance of a couch. No manners, and no shame felt for it all—something The Proprietor signed up for by indulging her continuously throughout the night. “I’m not crazy for this type of guys, anyway.”
The Proprietor clears his throat as he sits down and comments, “There’s a bunch of people that are crazy about him, all right. They won’t follow him to Amsterdam; they want him right here and right now.”
The wording gives Skyla the creeps and takes her to what she’s had at the back of her mind all the while, yet never had the chance to address.
“So, what exactly is wrong with your Harpy Express?”
“Plenty,” he responds briefly if quite expressively. “The train is fine, don’t get the wrong idea please. It’s the passengers this time. Most of them are terrifying beasts, stopping at nothing to achieve their goals. You didn’t know that Gregory is like me? Well, to a certain extent. His family was one of the first to start an oil company in the States, and he’s at the point of his life when it is to be set in stone. Of course, with a conservative family like his, he wouldn’t want to stay around any longer. Little Gregory worked quite hard, jumped on the ferry all the way to Europe, changed to the Harpy Express, and everyone who had right friends at the right places already waited for him here.”
Skyla clutches her head, for she expected to hear anything else but a full-fledged scheme. Despite having no business or politics knowledge whatsoever, she can at least say confidently, “He can’t give them anything! Hasn’t he, like, disclaimed all the rights and fled? Seriously, what are these folks even thinking!”
“Negotiating, bribing, kidnapping, murdering,” he sounds like he isn’t a part of the scheme, puckering up his lips. In all honesty, it makes Skyla’s blood boil. “That’s exactly why I was so surprised to see you on the train, among all these people.”
“We need to tell Gregory about everything right now,” she springs up and hastily puts her shoes back on, suddenly stopped by the other’s hand. “Don’t just sit here, do something, you prick!”
“Woah,” The Proprietor exclaims and follows her, but instead of pulling himself together, takes her by both her hands. “Pet, if you’re being so reckless, you’ll get into trouble, too. Me and—”
“I don’t care because I have nothing to lose,” Skyla cuts him off, pulling away and sliding into her jacket, her whole body in shudder. “I fled home. I stole everything: money, clothes, my parents’ happiness. I’m not on tour, and I have no plans. I’m just going wherever, hoping to find anywhere to dwell. Momma told me the grass tends to be greener on the other side while I was breaking my back my whole life trying to survive and prove that I’m worthy of something, and perhaps she was right, perhaps this train and these people are as repugnant as those back home, perhaps I won’t find a place and die on the street, but I at least have a semblance of purpose right now. Someone and something to help. I can’t possibly waste it.”
The Proprietor refuses to retreat somewhat suspiciously, placing his hands on her shoulders and holding firmly. “You’re so ingenuous, it’s… It’s endearing,” he mutters under his breath. “Would you listen to me? Please? Those who are here for Gregory, have as much grudge against each other. There’s also me, investigators, reporters, hitmen. Gregory is perfectly aware of the weather, and we’ve talked things through with the whole crew many and many times.”
“And a black magic guy…”
“Excuse me?”
“He lives next door,” Skyla explains, giggling. The absurdity together with the danger of the circumstances seems so uproarious to her that she bursts out laughing. “Is the guy practicing black magic helping you too? Is somebody here possessed, too? Good lord!”
“Who the hell is that? Is there a deadhead no one knows about?”
Skyla shrugs her shoulders, leaning against the table, and drops her face in hands. Terror, frustration, guilt, anguish, and relief—every possible feeling swells inside her so intensely that they spill over her brims eventually, leaving her alone, hollow and numb, in welling up tears. The Proprietor who’s been keeping an eye on her all along realizes that she’s crying shortly after and acts upon it immediately, taking her hat off to fix her hair and wiping her tears with his handkerchief.
“You prick, why didn’t you tell me anything from the very beginning…”
“I tried to…”
“No, you didn’t!” she stamps her foot intentionally on his. “Selfish wretch!”
The Proprietor doesn’t even wince, seemingly too focused on his mission, whatever it might be. “Do you know who your roommate is?”
“I don’t. Knowing my luck, it’s probably your hitman,” she speaks through her nose, then yanks the handkerchief from his hand and blows her nose on it with all her might. “He told me he’s, um, Something-Something Fall. That bad things brought him here.”
“That’s our hitman, all right,” The Proprietor confirms with a giggle which makes her drop her hands pointedly. She’ll be sick physically and mentally, oh, she’s so sick with everyone and everything on this goddamn train! “He won’t hurt you, but if you feel uneasy or defenseless, come to my room. Mississippi is the birthplace of the blues, eh? I have portable gramophone and tea; you’ll be safe and sound with me.”
Skyla snorts in a shamelessly rude manner and turns away. “If I feel defenseless, I’m not coming to a man. I’m jumping off the train.”
“You won’t survive that.”
“I will!” She steps on his foot yet again, bringing on more force this time. “Would you look at him? He would toy with me and tell me what to do!”
The Proprietor chuckles, acting like it wasn’t his intention at all. Although he finally grows silent and stops fumbling for excuses Skyla won’t eat up, she spots some strange motion from him. Presently, the bracelet slides down his wrist onto her hand he forced flat open. Seeing it up close and feeling to touch, she’s almost sure it costs enough to cover the two weeks she’s arbitrarily planned to spend in France recently.
“Flappers are ruling Paris now. You’ll take to it like a duck to water, you’ll be one of these smart and sharp ladies with your backbone and attitude. Can you sing, Cessa?” Pet name escaping his lips so naturally, Skyla forgets what the question was temporarily. He takes her standstill as a no, contemplating, “I suppose farming, then. You could get a job at a botanic garden or flower boutique; honestly, there’s plenty of golden opportunities there. But if nothing good comes your way, you can use this bracelet to find me. I saw you taking that flyer, so you know the address of our hotel. The bellboy is my good friend, he’s nice and sweet, like a pup. Just give it to him, and he’ll give me a notice.”
Skyla furrows her brow, trying to fit everything for it to make sense, and gives it to him straight, “You won’t make me work at your hotel.”
“I’m not trying to give you a job. Just a couch to crash on, for as long as you’ll need it,” he clarifies and adjusts his paisley tie as if he were fidgety from nerves. “Although I would gladly take you to a tea dance if you let me, I must say.”
Shackled to old festering traditions ever since she was born, Skyla inherently came to hate the idea of being tied to anything whatsoever. There’s naught she desires more than free will and liberation, devotion to what she herself chose and gratification from achieving it with her bare hands. Despite being a henny penny, she knows she possesses each aptitude necessary for it without people telling her; if she doesn’t, she’ll make sure to foster it with care. If she feels that her life is slipping through her fingers, she’ll break free risking it all.
If she gets to live her life at long last, she’ll live it only for herself committed to her own selfish reasons.
Skyla hides the bracelet into her pocket and smiles courtly. “I’ll sell it and spend this money on something incredibly illogical. Aren’t you overly presumptuous, Sir Proprietor? We haven’t had a normal conversation until just an hour ago.”
“Please do if it fills you with joy. But I’ll lose more if I lose you, not this trinket,” he places a kiss on the back of her hand chivalrously. “Don’t you believe in love at first sight? I can swear, my grandfather felt the same way towards my grandmother.”
“Uh-huh,” she scoffs. “And how are they doing now?”
The Proprietor grins. “Well, apart from the fact that she once almost stabbed him in his sleep, everything is relatively fine.”
“I would have stabbed if he asked for it,” she lies, rucks up her skirt so he should get out of her way, and works her way towards the exit. “I don’t need a husband, thank you so very much. I need the key to go out.”
“I’ll say it as a compliment: Cessa, you make my head spin.”
The Proprietor trudges along and, holding the key, unlocks the door with no resistance. As it slides to the side, Skyla can hear the innocent laughter of a child at play. It makes her remember something, turn around, and take The Proprietor by the collar firmly. “Play music and give candy to that boy if things do get stirred up. Please keep him and Gregory safe.”
“Eleanor will kill anyone laying a finger on him. Losing him will set her back nasty.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re a big girl, you must know what child laundering is,” he heaves a heavy sigh. “Before you start panicking, everyone’s on her tail at this point. Your little German boy will be safe and sound by the end of the trip and from then on, of course, too. Will you?”
However ludicrous it may sound, hearing some good news among all the horrors does calm her down just a tad. She gives a firm nod, taps him on the chest, and gets back on track assuredly. The moment she takes a step forward, assessing that she’s brave enough to live through the long night on the Harpy Express surrounded by lunatics on her own, the lights go off and give her a fright so terrible and earnest that she shrieks at the top of her lungs.
The Proprietor guffaws in the same instant, trying to console her, “Don’t worry, it will happen every now and again. Nothing dangerous, I promise.”
Skyla rubs her eyes once all the colors return and looks back for the last time. Despite the fact that The Proprietor intimated many secrets to her, she still knows ever so little about him. What is his name? What is his business here? Why would he beg for her to stay when he seems to have every little thing?
What if he isn’t as omnipotent as he tends to deem himself?
“You’ll be safe as well,” she doesn’t particularly request. Hidden behind her sincere concern, it comes off as a command of sorts. “You promise?”
“Don’t even think about it,” The Proprietor dismisses her worry on the spot. A lovely, almost wistful smile lingers on his lips as he waves her goodnight. “I’ve found something I might pine for my whole life today. There’s no way I’ll let go of it so easily.”