Prue retrieved her bag from the battered innards of the twisted mechanicart and ran towards the locomotive. The Gigantrak was an enormous metal hulk as tall as three houses, its great pipes, cylinders and panels were like a huge insect’s exoskeleton. Steam poured from the frontal spout while mechanics busily checked wheels as high as an oak tree. Passengers were boarding midway on a metal stairway; perhaps she could blend in and pass along with one of the groups? She adapted her run to a nonchalant amble, trying to look invisible, but as she approached, her smoke-smudged face and dishevelled appearance after the crash drew stares from the crowd. She turned as if walking northwards, then did her best to tuck everything in and tame her hair, her dad’s voice in her head telling her it was no use trying to fight those curls into place; they had a will of their own.

Her parents would have found her note and would probably have gone after her to North Owlcot by now, although she doubted they would go further than Batterthwaite; they had barely been beyond the farm since Francis … she pushed the thought away and swallowed. She had to get on the Gigantrak. When she got to Medlock, she would send another note to tell them she was all right, and that they shouldn’t worry.

She saw a large family with five children joining the back of the line.

“Yes, I’ve got the tickets, you all concentrate on not getting lost!” said a man, who she presumed was the dad. He was brown-skinned with a round, smiley face like her own dad’s, and the children’s hair was deep brown with dense curls similar to hers – she might pass as one of them.

She slotted in behind them. The smallest turned and looked at her for a moment, but when Prue made no eye contact, he started twisting in his sister’s skirt again. It wasn’t long before there were others behind her in the queue and she began to feel more invisible. The line was moving fast.

“All aboard, hurry along now, we depart in five minutes. Gigantrak is never late!” the conductor called. She had ink-black, shiny hair and a neat green uniform; her appearance matching the efficiency with which she was whizzing people onto the locomotive.

The family Prue was behind started up the metal steps.

“Tickets, please,” the woman said, and with a practised snippety snip of her marking tool, she’d checked the man’s tickets and was hurrying them inside. Prue tucked in tight so that the youngest was hidden and six children would look to be five.

Then, the young child suddenly yelled, “My boot!”