Ester Rosenkrantz had got up before either of them woke, and they found her in the restaurant car, tucking into an enormous breakfast. Klaus was opposite her, breakfast finished already, knitting needles in hand. Celeste arrived only moments after Max and Marguerite, and sat down with a book. It was almost a complete set of suspects: only Rupert was missing. There were some strangers in there too, mostly half asleep, clutching coffees and tackling piles of breakfast. Max just ordered a hot chocolate. She wasn’t really hungry. And besides, she hadn’t gone this long without chocolat in years.

“No food? None of my delicious food?” said the Romanian man in charge of the car. He was round-faced and ruddy, with a permanent smile, and spoke to Max in English. “It is very good. I guarantee!”

“No, thanks,” said Max, smiling to make up for her lack of Romanian and her limited English.

“With that smile,” declared the man, “I forgive you! Some people in this car do not have smiles.” He glared over at Ester, who chewed steadily on her breakfast as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “Sadness! I will not have people bring sadness into my restaurant car. We shall have some happiness.” And he turned on a radio, which he apparently thought would bring happiness. A poundingly cheerful pop song played. Ester turned a violent shade of purple, Celeste pointedly held her book even closer to her face, and even Klaus looked a bit pained.

Max joined Sister Marguerite at their table, where the houseplant was already in place. Marguerite was tapping her foot in time as if she, at least, was quite enjoying the radio.

With one last flourishing key change, the song finally ended, and a serious Romanian voice came on and told them the news.

Marguerite smiled at Max. “Did you sleep well, mon lapin?”

Max stirred her hot chocolate. “Kind of.”

Marguerite leaned closer. “You are quite safe,” she whispered. “I promise. I am taking care of you.”

“Thanks,” said Max. And she did feel a little better. Outside, the snow twinkled merrily at her, as if it was on their side as well.

There was a clatter behind them. The chef had dropped a plate of toast, and was staring at the radio in horror. At the smash of plate-on-floor, everyone turned to look. The man kept staring.

“Everything all right, mon poulet?” Sister Marguerite asked him.

A rapid exchange of English followed, that Max couldn’t keep up with. Marguerite’s face drooped in horror, and she fired back urgent questions. Celeste seemed able to follow, and listened wide-eyed. Ester and Klaus continued eating, unconcerned.

“What was it?” said Max, when the chef had bustled out of the room, muttering worriedly to himself.

Marguerite had turned very white. “A man was found by the side of the train tracks,” she said. “There was some sort of accident. He fell from the Ister last night.”