It has been, for Charlie, a lonely week, stuck in a hole in the earth. He spent many hours sitting with Thomas, unable for much of the time to reach him through his fever, listening to his dark ravings, cut off even from his Smoke that appeared to have no smell in the dark, nor any power to infect, and danced aimlessly before the timid light on the few occasions when they dared to light a lamp. He talked to Lizzy, of course, but the girl was taciturn with him, jealous of sharing her time with Thomas. And Charlie talked to Livia: touched her, kissed her, took her breath in his. But even this was an adulterated joy in a world without sight; a love affair conducted by shades. In the dark, Charlie felt, they could not be fully present to one another. It was a world without smiles. Without beauty. He would wake from sleep and be beset by the fear of not having woken; would reach around himself and find no one; or a stranger; or a friend — a lover? — whose emotion he could not read.

The dark did something for Livia, though. Something important, a kind of tempering, something smiths do to their steel. Charlie looks at her now, his first look since their kiss, and finds her changed. Thinner. Dirtier, of course. Holding herself differently. It makes him shy and awkward with her, and shier yet, more awkward, when she looks back at him and does not mirror his smile.

If Livia is thin, Thomas is emaciated. Cleaner than the rest of them (Lizzy saw to that, with the constant application of bucket and sponge) and pale underneath the speckling of coal dust. Out of the lip of his bandage crawl the tendrils of a dark blue tattoo, touch his eyebrow and the corner of his eye, where coal has grown into fresh scar tissue. His face is a mask of concentration: on the muddy path, on each step, keeping himself going by a sheer act of will.

By the time dawn has given way to midmorning they see it before them: not so much a village as a train supply station. Freight trains stop here to take on goods. Apparently, one can hop on a freight car for pennies, and ride with pigs or chickens or black mounds of coal. Mr. Mosley advised them to come here; it would attract less notice, he said, than going to town. It is a place tramps come, in the hope of transport. Tramps. Well, thinks Charlie, we certainly look the part. His trousers and jacket are stiff with filth. A drizzle has started and is leaving patterns on his dirty skin. As though on command, they stop in the shelter of a hill. It is time to make decisions.

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