“I AM VERY sorry, signora, but there are no more trains this evening.”

The ticket agent at the train station in Bolzano was a perfectly pleasant man, and he didn’t seem to bear her any ill will, yet all the same he was determined to prevent her from returning home. Or so it felt to Nina, who was utterly weary of trains, train stations, and anywhere in the world that was not Mezzo Ciel.

“But there was supposed to be a train to Bassano del Grappa at half-past seven. We have tickets—look.” Their train south from Innsbruck had arrived almost three hours late, but it was only seven o’clock. Surely they hadn’t missed it.

“Your tickets are quite in order, yes, but alas there is no train. Not tonight.” The ticket clerk shrugged, his expression properly mournful. “There will be one in the morning. That is not so very long to wait.”

“No, I suppose not. Is there anywhere we may stay?”

“By that do you mean a hotel? I can recommend—”

“No, thank you. I meant here. I don’t want to leave the station.”

One day she might visit Bolzano again, but not yet. Not while her memories of via Resia were still vivid enough to haunt her waking dreams.

“Of course. Our waiting room will be open all night, and the guard will be nearby. You and your friend are most welcome to stay.”

They found the waiting room without much difficulty, and after installing herself and Stella in a pair of seats in the very far corner of the space, Nina inspected her satchel in the hopes that some of their provisions might linger in its depths. Luck was with her, insofar as food was concerned, for there were two apples remaining, neither of them badly bruised, twenty or thirty grams of cheese wrapped in waxed paper, and a very stale chunk of pumpernickel bread, which she’d been unable to persuade Stella to eat that morning. But they were both hungry, and home was another day away, if not more, so she would give the cheese and apples to Stella and find a way to choke down the dark bread that reminded her so horribly of the refuse that had passed for food in the camps.

She was tired, for she hadn’t slept at all well on the train from Prague to Munich, and then she’d had no chance to do more than doze on Stella’s shoulder on the shorter train and bus journeys since. She was tired, but she was too fretful to sleep, and it wasn’t even half-past seven.

If only she had something to read. She wasn’t fussy; even a discarded newspaper would do.

“I’m going to wander around for a bit,” she told Stella. “I won’t go far.”

“That’s all right. I’ll try to sleep for a bit.”