Chapter 5

The little town was behind them now, swallowed by the snow and the dark, and the train had settled into a steady rhythm that made Lucas feel like they were gliding rather than moving — as if the world outside had stopped and only the cabin existed, warm and golden and small.

He had taken off his scarf. He had taken off his coat. He had even, at some point, leaned back into his seat and let his shoulders drop, and it occurred to him that this was the most relaxed he had been all day — all week, maybe — and that the cause of it was sitting two feet away from him, wrapped in a white fur coat, playing with the fringe of her cream scarf.

“You’re doing it again,” Clara said, not looking up.

“Doing what?”

“Staring at me.”

Lucas snapped his gaze to the window. “I wasn’t staring.”

“You were staring. It’s fine. I’m a good thing to stare at.”

He couldn’t argue with that. She was — her blonde hair soft under the lamp, her face lit in percentages, her fingers moving absently along the silk fringe. He had seen elegant women in the old town, in the city, on streets and in stations. But Clara was different. Clara was real. Clara had memorized his worst moment and told him it was a better thing to be than smooth.

“I was thinking,” Lucas said.

“About what?”

“About how we keep talking.” He turned back to her. “About how you knew the train I was both on, and you changed your ticket, and I don’t know what that means.” He paused. “But I want to.”

Clara looked up from her scarf. Her fingers stopped moving.