I turned and started for the car. This was the moment in the stories when the bold young man would come running after the lady. He would sweep her into a romantic embrace, and for one storybook moment everything would be safe and happy and perfect. In the wake of my grand disaster, with my dress still caked in blood and dust and soot, I really could have used a storybook moment. Just one.
I stepped aboard the train alone. Romance was for saps, I reminded myself. There was work to be done. Innocent victims had not yet been avenged, their killer still at large. I was not the safe and happy type. I stood at the end of the cramped hallway, feeling the opposite of great. Jackaby’s head poked out of a cabin halfway down the car. “Miss Rook? Do you know which way you’re going? We’re over here.”
“Yes,” I said, but then I stopped and stood a little straighter. “Yes—I know precisely where I’m going.” I turned on my heels and took a deep breath. “I’m choosing both paths.” And I marched back out to the platform.
Charlie had not moved. His uniform had slowly grown darker as the specks of rain melted together. His eyebrows rose as he watched me cross the gap, and Toby stood at his side, wagging his tail in the drizzling rain. I kept my head high and did not stop until Charlie and I stood toe-to-toe.
“Miss Rook?”
“I’m going to kiss you now,” I said. “That’s going to happen.”
Charlie swallowed, his eyes wide, and then he nodded quickly. I held on firmly to his starched lapel and leaned forward on the balls of my feet. His lips were warm in the chilly rain, and his fingers were gentle and delicate, if just a little tremulous, as he lifted a hand to my cheek. I dropped back to my heels. “I have work to do,” I said. “I matter. What I do matters. But I look forward to hearing from you. Oh—and the next time you write,” I said as he blinked his eyes open dreamily, “I do hope you will address me as Abigail.”
The whistle blew again, and I hurried onto the train. The car rumbled to life as I dropped into my seat, and we gradually chugged forward. I slid myself close to the rain-spattered window and waved good-bye. Charlie stood on the wet platform just where I had left him. He looked tired and damp, but a smile was spreading from ear to ear. He waved back earnestly until the train sped up and the station slid out of view.
Jackaby had buried his nose in an old ragged book before Gadston was behind us. I sat back happily on my seat cushion, revisiting the moment in my mind. It was, with every reprise, an unquestionable victory—my first unadulterated success in weeks. I felt my cheeks dimpling in a sappy schoolgirl smile, and I could not even bother to bring myself to feign composure.
“Did you see . . . ?” I asked Jackaby.
He lowered the book just beneath his line of sight and eyed me inscrutably. “I see that you are . . .” He sighed gently. “Giddy.”
“He kissed me.”
“You kissed him—which I believe was rather the point. I’m sure Miss Cavanaugh will be very proud when you inform her. Please feel free to contain your enthusiasm until such time as you can share it with her.”
“He kissed me back, though.”
“Oh for Pete’s sake. Melancholy might have been more palatable.”
He ducked back behind his dusty book, and I contented myself with watching the rain stream gracefully across the window as the countryside rolled past.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Commissioner Marlowe stood on the platform with his arms crossed as we disembarked. He had the cheerful demeanor of someone who has been beaten about the face all night with a sock full of porridge—only even more so than usual.
“Marlowe,” said Jackaby.
“Jackaby,” said Marlowe.
“Commissioner,” I said. “How kind of you to come to greet us. How did you even know that we would be on . . .”
“I make a habit of being well-informed,” he said.
Jackaby nodded. “Then I take it you’re already well-informed about the most recent developments in Gad’s Valley? Well, that saves a great deal of paperwork on our end, doesn’t it? Miss Rook, you should be pleased about that.”
“I could use a few more details,” Marlowe said.