A groan escaped Siara’s lips, and her eyes flitted open. Whatever she was lying on, it was terribly hard and cold and unpleasant around the edges.

For a moment she had forgotten all about what had happened. Then, it all came rushing back to her, shaking away the kind of peace that forgetfulness sometimes grants a person upon waking up.

Ack!

Shooting up from the bench with a bolt, Sam’s hat tumbled to the ground, and Siara’s eyes followed it down to the shine of her slightly oversized shoes. Head hung low, she searched her memories.

When I got here, there was no one around, and then…

Laying down in a bid to calm her nerves, she had accidentally fallen asleep on the bench outside the ticket booth.

Ugh.

She could hear Sam reprimanding her with pie in hand, crumbs flying, and she agreed with this fictitious version of him. Siara deserved criticism for being so careless; she was on the run and consequently pressed for time, after all.

Fortunately, Siara hadn’t been asleep for very long. Looking toward the east, she took solace that there was still no sun in the sky. Then her gaze slowly floated to the next part of her plan. Contrary to when she had arrived, the blinds to the ticket booth were drawn up, leaving an empty space yawning into the white brick wall. A small oil lamp cast a warm light from above the space, accentuating a floral design that surrounded it.

Siara felt a prickle of unease crawl over her skin. Surely — no, undoubtedly — the Stationmaster had spotted her sleeping on the bench. She didn’t want to think about it, not right now.

“I don’t really need this part of the disguise anymore, do I?” she spoke under her breath as she picked up Sam’s hat and brushed it off with care. In one smooth motion, she plucked her suitcase from the ground, placed the hat inside it, and got up from the bench.

Siara didn’t believe in superstitions. Instead, she took great pleasure in debunking them. Hence, she could confidently say that she was immune to the person she was about to meet. The loud thrumming of her heart, however, betrayed a different worry that she had harboured: the Stationmaster, if not a superstition, was a man of flesh and bone. Such a man was capable of more than just a rumour.

Siara swallowed hard, willing her whirling thoughts away. Her short-lived footsteps rang across the platform, and the dark figure which seemed to fill the booth shifted, causing a glow from inside the building to bend its shape.

Drawing in a big breath, Siara stepped right up to the booth. It was as though she were peering into an enchanted painting comprised of blacks, golds, and greens; luckily, she managed to stop herself from gawking.

The shadow that the brim of his hat cast over his face, augmented by the lamp that adorned the booth, failed to dampen the intensity of the man’s gaze. Siara regretted to find that his attention was somewhat difficult to be under, but she stood ramrod straight and smiled.

Siara was finally standing face-to-face with Sorrel Wood’s pride and joy of superstitions: the terrible, heinous, and very dreaded Stationmaster of Catenary Station. He was a tall young man with piercing, jade-green eyes and soft black hair that casually slipped out of his hat and down to the nape of his neck. Broad shoulders filled in a dark uniform, which was adorned with ornate buttons, modest epaulettes, and gold embroidery on the collar and cuffs. His hat shared the same theme, sporting a floral emblem on its front - the Catenary family coat of arms. Siara found that he was strikingly princely.

This zenith of superstitions sure is something, huh…

The man was strikingly handsome, too. Furthermore, he did not have fangs for teeth or claws for hands. If he did indeed have a vulture, he’d sent it away or stuffed it in his breast pocket.
Siara privately sighed, but she failed to conceal her head from shaking, which caused the Stationmaster to curiously narrow his eyes.

A cool breeze passed through the station platform, as though on cue to emphasise the moment she finally spoke.

“I would like to buy a ticket to the next county, please.”

The wind picked up into a gust then, and she could see a group of sparrows go off course and take refuge in the tall grasses from the corner of her eye.

What had also gone off course was the Stationmaster’s expression. He wasn’t saying anything, but he didn’t need to. Every line and shape of his face blatantly spelled out: You’re kidding, right?

Siara wasn’t sure if he was only assigning such a face to her words, or also to the fact that she was dressed as a footman but was clearly not a footman.

That’s fine, she told herself. Siara had been prepared for something like this, anyway. She took a breath and kept up the smile.

“Is there a problem?”

“A problem? There are several.”

His voice matched his eyes; it was strangely deep and alluring.

“Several?” Siara echoed.

The tilt of his head suggested that she should clearly be aware of these several problems, but the tilt of her head clearly suggested otherwise.

The Stationmaster sighed, tugging at the brim of his hat.

“To begin with, I can’t sell you a ticket.”

To begin with? Oh boy, she thought.

Siara watched him as he slowly lifted his hand, thumb drawn out to the side, as he began counting on his shapely fingers. She found that a bit scary, since he had five fingers he could get through. Not to mention he had another five in reserve.

Without waiting for her response, he then lifted his index finger.

“Secondly, there’s no train that goes to the next town, let alone the next county.”

Liar.

Siara took another deep breath. “That’s not what it’s like on the maps.”

Having poured over tons of maps which clearly showed tracks traveling through Sorrel Wood toward the west, she was confident in contradicting his point.

At length, he sighed. “They’re wrong.”

“What about the train I’ve seen passing through here, then?”

At that his eyes widened a little, but it didn’t delay the appearance of a third finger.

“Lastly,” he continued, “Is it safe for a carefree individual in a half-assed disguise who falls asleep in a public place to travel around unattended?”

Siara nearly choked — the Stationmaster had just fired a shot at her point blank, and the smoke it left behind almost made her knees buckle. While she tried to recuperate from the damage, visibly flustered, he let out a puff of air. Apparently, he found her amusing.

This guy… so he can laugh, huh!

Siara ahem-ed, bringing a fist to cover her mouth in an attempt to snuff out any annoyance or embarrassment that might slip out into her voice as she pressed on.

“Do you take the rumours to heart, sir?”

At that, the man’s hand went slack, and his slight smile disappeared.

“You don’t?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I did.” She answered matter-of-factly. The Stationmaster was silent, so Siara continued.

“Listen,” having dropped her suitcase, she tapped a finger on the marbled counter between them repeatedly, as if to emphasise her point. The Stationmaster followed it with piqued interest, much like a cat with a laser pointer. “I don’t care about superstitions. All I need is to get on the train and leave.”

The man stared at her finger for a moment longer, as though he were entranced. Then he raised his head and revealed a wry smile. “Can’t you take a carriage?”

“Absolutely not.”

“That’s too bad, then. I already told you, I can’t sell you a ticket.”

Siara’s brow twitched, though she was trying not to let her frustration show. “You say you can’t sell me a ticket, which means there are still tickets you are selling. Correct?”

“Hah!” He let out something between a laugh and a disbelieving sigh. He found the brim of his hat again, and tugged it down a little. “You’re a bit too stubborn for your own good, aren’t you?”

Too stubborn for my own good?  What did he know what was good for her?