“Won’t you come over here, pet?” one of them keeps saying. “We’ve got things to show you.”

“That your sweetheart there?” the other one jumps in. “Looks in real bad shape, ’e does. No joy cuddlin’ the sick.”

Livia looks over at Thomas. It is a closed, a haughty look. It must mean she is scared. She does not ask him for his help. But Thomas is already on his feet. The Smoke wafting through the carriage helps him, gives him strength. He breathes it in with a sense of recognition; watches his body exhale a fine blue mist in response. All the same he is careful not to inhale too much. He must not get too angry to think.

“Ah, look at the pup! Chival’russ, ’e is, a proper little knight. Forgot ’is armer though, didn’t ’e?”

“Nah,” says his mate, “he’s got his lass there to protect him. What you say, bonny lad? Sit yourself down again and we’ll help you break her in.”

Thomas ignores them, steadies himself against Livia’s shoulders. From the corner of one eye he is aware of the third man, plucking feathers off a bloody lump of chicken. Ahead, the land shifts from flat to the slight incline of a hill. Livia’s ear is right in front of him, its outside clean, the inside glowing black with coal dust. Her body is shaking under his hands, or perhaps he is shaking and passing it on into her slender frame. He whispers to her.

“I’m too weak to fight them,” he whispers. “But if we stay here, I must.”

Her eye flicks back momentarily. It communicates a question.

Why?

“The Smoke,” he explains. “I’m not like Charlie. It makes a home in me.”

As he says it, he realises he is afraid to fight these men not because he will lose. He is afraid he will disappear, disappear into the Smoke, as he did when he fought Julius. One day, he thinks, he won’t find his way back.

But there is no need to explain all this to Livia. She has already understood the most important thing. They must get off the train.

“When?” she asks.

“Now.”

He has been listening for it, the moment the train’s engine clears the crest of the hill. The moment it is at its slowest, its rump tethered to a dozen wagons, gravity tugging at its nose. It is a sound the body hears, not the ears, a change in vibrations racing through the chain of wagons like a rumour: steel wheel to axle to coupling to wood.

Now.

Thomas pushes Livia with both hands, afraid that she will miss the moment; pushes too hard, perhaps, and sees her stumble awkwardly across the threshold of the door. The wind whips at her hair. Then she is gone from sight.