She’d walked several blocks in what she thought was the wrong direction, and was beginning to consider hiding in a doorway until dawn so she could ask for help without raising suspicion, when a strident whistle pierced the air.

A train whistle.

She fixed the sound in her mind and chased it, practically running. The streets were dark, lit only by the moon and streetlights placed so far from one another that she felt like a frog attempting to hop between bright stones, only to fall each time into the deep.

At last, she turned down a narrow lane bordered by squat brick buildings and there, at its end, was a wide piazza and the soaring edifice of the station. She hurried through the main archway, clutching her cloak close to her body and darting glances around, worried more soldiers would appear.

The train station was just as she remembered: large and echoing, with tall girders and the constant stench of coal and thick haze of steam. There were few travelers this late at night, and the lack of bustle gave it a hollow feel.

A few men and women shuffled through the large ticketing area, but only the rumble of male voices filled the lofty space. That, and the click-clack of the departures board. Nomi looked up—there were two trains to Bellaqua listed. One was an express that left just before dawn, the other the six-day regional train she’d taken with Serina and Renzo. It didn’t leave until midday. Renzo and Malachi would surely see her waiting for it when they came for the train to Porto Rosa.

Nomi took a steadying breath. Then she headed for the ticket counter.

Her hand tightened on her cloak. A man walked by her, almost close enough to brush her arm. Could he tell what a fraud she was, how obviously she was trying to disguise herself?

She couldn’t bring herself to glance back to see if he paused or turned to look at her.

When she reached the counter, an older man with heavy white brows and a bulbous red nose asked for her destination.

“Bellaqua,” she croaked.

“Regular or express?” He stared down at his timetable.

“How much’s the express?” Nomi asked, praying she had enough. She thought of her father hoarding this money, the money he’d been paid for her life. Why hadn’t he spent it? Why hadn’t he told Mama she didn’t have to work anymore, or looked into buying Renzo a bride? She wished, more than anything, that she could ask him.

“Eight golds,” he said. “Two golds, ten silvers for the regular.”