Prue had been trying so hard to keep close that she’d caught the child’s boot with hers and it had been pulled off. She crouched and hurried to find it for him, but as the child had not been heard by the dad the first time, he exploded with tears, repeatedly sobbing, “My boot!”

All eyes were suddenly in their direction, including the conductor’s.

“She did it!” the boy shouted, pointing at Prue.

Prue had found the boot and was holding it out to the dad, with pleading eyes. He frowned. But it was too late.

“Hey! There were five children on your ticket, you’ve got six there, sir.”

“No, five it is, Madame, you can count them again.”

“If you’re trying to get away with—”

He began patting his children on the head and counting as though to illustrate the point. Prue was frozen, hemmed in by people on either side, her heart rushing like a rotavator.

The youngest had stopped crying. He was still pointing at Prue.

Everyone within ten deep of the queue stared. The conductor’s lips tightened, and her eyes narrowed. She held out her hand to Prue. “Ticket, please.”

“I … I lost it.”

“No ticket, no ride.” The conductor pulled Prue back to the steps.

“What’s all the commotion about?” came a voice.

The conductor paused, and Prue looked up at the kind face of the man who had visited the farm and left the card: Craftsman Primrose. She took a swift deep breath; in that moment she knew what she had to do. “I’m Frances Haywood,” she said to him.

Craftsman Primrose tilted his head, then his face broke into a smile. “This young lady is with me.” He presented two tickets to the conductor.

“Seems mighty strange that she was trying to…” The conductor’s eyes flicked to a pin which Primrose wore on his lapel. It was the same silver symbol as the card: three interlaced arcs enclosed in a circle. “Do pardon me, sir. I didn’t realize.”

With a congenial nod, Craftsman Primrose indicated to Prue to follow him on to the Gigantrak. “Come along, let’s find our compartment; it says thirty-two on my ticket.”

Prue tried to say thank you, but it was as though her jaw had seized. She’d just told the biggest lie of her life, and she could hear her mum’s voice in her head telling her how dishonesty shows on your face, like a big smudge of oil. But was it really a lie if it was necessary to achieve something so important?

They hurried back through the locomotive, past booths bustling with excited passengers stowing luggage above and beneath their seats, until they reached a large compartment with plush fringed armchairs, patterned rugs, red velvet curtains and, to Prue’s astonishment, a crystal chandelier.

“Here we are,” Craftsman Primrose said. “Do take a seat.”

Prue put her bag beneath one of the armchairs.