Even more than the places, she wanted to know about the trains, but they weren’t in books. The train from Paris to Munich was in the newspapers, because it was new: a brand-new double-decker train, called the TGV Duplex. Max cut out the articles about it and stuck them next to her map. But for the other trains, she couldn’t find out anything. She had hundreds of unanswered questions.

Her mother didn’t know the answer to any of them, and her father wasn’t much more useful, although he did try. “I learned something that might interest you, Maxie,” he declared one evening. It was four sleeps before she was going to leave, and only her father was still listening to all her questions. “I was talking about your trip to a chap at work who likes trains, and he told me that the names of the trains all have meanings. I’ve written them all down.” He pulled a note out of his pocket, with great satisfaction, and cleared his throat. “The Kálmán Imre – Munich to Budapest – was named after a Hungarian composer. The Budapest to Bucharest train, that’s called the Ister; now that’s the Latin name for the Danube River, which you’ll cross. And –” he beamed “– the Bosfor train from Bucharest to Istanbul – now this is interesting – Bosfor is the Romanian word for the Bosphorus Strait, Istanbul’s waterway.” And he rubbed his beard in a pleased sort of way, like a Father Christmas who specializes in bringing useless facts to children.

“Oh,” said Max, in her best interested voice. “Thanks, Papa. Did you ask him anything about what our carriages will be like? Or what we might see on the way?”

He had not asked this. He leaned back in his armchair with his eyes shut, well pleased with his contribution.

The days at school passed unbearably slowly. At last, there was only one more day of lessons, and then one sleep, and then it would be time to go. Max’s mother gave her some money before she went to school that day, and told her to buy a case for her things on the way home.

This proved tricky. Max trailed around every bag shop she could find. There were huge suitcases and handbags and hiking rucksacks, but nothing quite right: they all seemed to belong to a different kind of person going on a different kind of journey. In the end she found exactly what she wanted by accident, in the window of a second-hand shop. It was an old-fashioned travelling case, small and brown, with metal clasps that pinged and a silky cream lining with a row of little pockets in the sides. It was a bit small, but Max was sure she could cram everything in.