Where there are people, there is sin. Charlie is shocked when he catches the first whiff of Smoke. It’s been a week since he has smelled it. As he draws closer to the train station, clouds of Smoke become more obvious, drift on the wind, dusting the buildings in Soot. He breathes it in and feels himself grow irritable. It is hard, in this world, not to walk around with clenched fists.

Securing passage to Oxford is surprisingly simple. A man on the platform has made a business of it: selling tickets for a berth on the freight train. He operates out in the open, from behind a little table, just like a normal ticket seller. A group of men are in his employ, one more disreputable-looking than the next. They walk up and down the platform, discouraging customers who think they can just leap on a train without paying. “We’re conductors,” one of them keeps shouting. “No tick’t and you pays yer fare in teeth.” He himself is missing most of the latter item along with the better part of the lower jaw. It looks like it has been sliced off with a knife.

Like Thomas, Charlie lost his portmanteau along with the rest of his luggage when they ran from the ambush. Livia never brought a purse in the first place. Consequently, the only money they have between them are the few pennies Mr. Mosley gave them early that morning, counting them out into Charlie’s dirty hands.

“Won’t get far without,” he told them when they tried to refuse.

They divided the money evenly before splitting up, reasoning that Charlie had two trains to catch to Thomas and Livia’s one. Now that he faces the ticket seller, Charlie worries that it won’t be enough and holds the coins on his open palm.

“How much. .?”

The man looks at him, snorts, and swipes the lot. Only then does he ask, “Where to?”

“Oxford.”

“‘Ohx-fjord,’” the man imitates his accent. “Posh boy, eh? Runaway son of a burgher, is that it? Didn’t take to the cane. Or fell in love, what, with a lass that wasn’t suitable. Suited you though, eh?” He makes a gesture of such obscenity that Charlie finds himself blushing to the roots of his hair. “Ah, you should’ve left with fuller pockets, son. Never mind, you’re in luck. Train due in an hour. Any of the last five wagons. The doors’ll be open. If the stationmaster catches you, in Oxford like, say you’re travelling express. Won’t give you any trouble, he won’t, the man’s well paid.”

“Thank you.”

“Ah, no bother. It tickles me. Being friendly with a toff. Now off with you, I have business to conduct.”

ф