“Well,” I said, as lightly as I could manage, “welcome to what appears to be the baggage compartment of the renowned Trans-Siberian Express.”
Molly laughed and clung to my jacket lapels with both hands so she could grin right into my face. “You just faced down the Detective Inspectre, Eddie! I am so proud of you! But if you ever scare me like that again, I will slap your head right off. What do you mean, baggage compartment?”
“I have never known anyone who could change direction so often, and so fast, in the same conversation,” I said. “So, in order, thank you, understood, and take a look around.”
We finally got our balance and let go of each other, so we could properly investigate our new surroundings. We’d arrived in a narrow railway carriage, constructed almost entirely from wooden slats, an unpolished wooden floor thickly covered in sawdust, and a rough, curving wooden ceiling. Two bare bulbs swung in the gloom overhead, unlit, but bright light punched through slits and holes in the carriage walls, filling the long open space with great blasts of flaring light, more than enough to push back the constantly shifting shadows. Crates and boxes and expensive leather luggage were piled up everywhere, and crammed tightly into shelves that ran the whole length of the carriage. Much of it had the look of expensive designer brands, while the carriage itself was deliberately old-fashioned. A blast from the past, in the service of tradition and nostalgia.
Molly staggered up and down the rattling carriage, looking closely at anything that seemed expensive or interesting and getting into everything. She didn’t seem particularly impressed by our new surroundings. I said as much.
“You don’t seem too impressed by our new surroundings, Molly.”
“Oh, come on!” she said, not even glancing back at me. “It’s a dump! Whoever put this place together had never even heard of style or comfort, except as something other people did. Look at all this unfinished wood, I’ll get splinters, I know I will.”
“It’s traditional,” I said. “It’s supposed to be . . . basic. The whole journey is a throwback to the grand old days of steam travel. This kind of in-depth historical re-creation is very popular these days. And extremely expensive. It costs a lot of money to look as authentically crap as this. I’m sure the passenger carriages are much more stylish, and comfortable. In a determinedly old-fashioned way, of course. Steam trains are considered very romantic, mostly by people who’ve never actually travelled on one. You have at least heard of the Trans-Siberian Express, Molly, haven’t you?”
“No,” Molly said shortly, idly testing the locks on a suitcase. “Sounds very much a boy thing, steam trains.”
“The journey starts off in Eastern Europe,” I said patiently. “Runs from one side of Russia to the other, including Siberia, and then down through China, to its farthest coast. The height of old-time luxury, I’m told, for those who can afford it.”
“Then what are we doing in the baggage car?” said Molly.
“Hiding out,” I said. “We don’t want to be noticed, remember?”
Molly sniffed loudly, giving all her attention to a pile of designer luggage with entirely insufficient defences. Given that this was the luggage of very rich and important people, I have to say most of it was painfully badly protected. The bigger crates and boxes were just held together with elastic cables, leather straps, and the odd length of baling wire. And the locks weren’t anything I couldn’t have opened in a moment, if I’d been so inclined. I looked thoughtfully at one long rectangular box, pushed up against the far wall . . . which gave every appearance of being a coffin. Wrapped in heavy iron chains. I drew Molly’s attention to the coffin, and we stood together, to consider it.
“Are those chains there to keep thieves out, or whatever’s inside in?” wondered Molly.
“Let sleeping mysteries lie,” I said. “And since there aren’t any seats or chairs in here . . .”
We sat down on the coffin lid, side by side. The baggage car continued to throw itself violently back and forth, as the train hammered along the tracks. The air was close, and the cold was starting to bite, but for the first time it felt like I could relax and feel safe. Or at least not immediately threatened by anything. It felt good, to be somewhere no one was looking for us. Molly stared unblinkingly at the expensive suitcases piled up opposite us, and I sighed inwardly as I recognised a familiar mercenary gleam in her eye. Molly was considering going shopping, and not in a good way.
“I will bet you there are all kinds of serious valuables in those cases,” said Molly.
“Could we think about that later?” I said, even though I knew a lost cause when I saw one right in front of me.
“No time like the present,” Molly said cheerfully. “You’re the one who didn’t inherit any money from his grandmother. One of us has to be the provider.”
“I’m really not going to like this month’s bills, am I?”
“Oh, hush, you big baby. It’s only money.” Molly looked around her speculatively. “There’s got to be a safe in here somewhere, where they lock up the really tasty stuff.”
“We don’t want to set off any alarms,” I said sternly. “Or alert people on the train that we’re here. We need to be quiet.”
“What’s all this we shit, kemo sabe?” said Molly. “A girl has to look out for her best interests . . .”
“We are on our way to a place that doesn’t officially exist, to steal something that almost certainly doesn’t do what it says on the tin, from a person who isn’t even a person, to buy my parents back from someone we don’t even have a name for!” I said. “While every secret organisation in the world, very definitely including my own family, wants us dead! We don’t need any more complications, Molly!”
“Oh, all right!” said Molly. She sat back on the coffin lid, stuck out her lower lip, and glowered at me. “I can remember when you were fun . . .” She looked around the baggage car some more, and a deep frown slowly etched itself between her eyebrows. “You know, Eddie, there is some seriously strange stuff in here. I’m picking up all kinds of magical emanations, leaking past a whole bunch of quite unusual wards and protections.”
“All the more reason not to go messing around with them,” I said.
“I’m just curious . . .”
“Oh, that is always a bad sign.”
Molly was already up off the coffin lid and on her feet again, staggering across the lurching floor to peer closely at this piece of luggage and that. She knelt down opposite a large hatbox and considered it thoughtfully. The hatbox had been sealed with all kinds of pretty ribbons, tied in really intricate bows, along with several lengths of delicate silver chain and one really heavy steel padlock.
“Molly . . . ,” I said warningly.
“I want it.”
“You don’t even wear hats!”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” said Molly, still staring intently at the hatbox. “How dare the world hide things from me . . .”
She snapped her fingers smartly, and the padlock flew open. I braced myself, ready to dive for cover, but nothing happened. Molly smiled sweetly, and pulled the silver chains away, dropping them casually on the floor beside her. She undid the pretty ribbons with nimble fingers, and then opened the lid. Only to immediately fall backwards onto her haunches, as a very large hat covered with all kinds of brightly coloured feathers flew up out of the box and fluttered vigorously around the baggage car. It bobbed this way and that and then flapped upwards, where it bounced back and forth along the curving wooden ceiling. The hat rose and fell and turned itself around, as the fluttering feathers tried to drive it in a dozen different directions at once. It seemed cheerful enough, for a flying hat.