The train was alarmingly familiar.

Alice and Oliver had arrived in Whichwood on a remarkably similar contraption; the only difference, of course, was that their transport had traveled underwater.

The iteration before them appeared to be an endless string of pentagonal prisms built entirely of glass panels and held together with brass hinges. Each prism was connected by yet more brass hinges, and the lot of them were set upon enormous brass wheels that sat firmly upon the tracks built into the ground. It seemed like a modern, reliable version of the ancient apparatus they’d arrived in—which inspired only a little bit of confidence in our wary travelers—and, sadly, that would have to be enough. Alice and Oliver cringed and shrugged (and hoped these glass carriages would not shatter) as they followed Laylee and Benyamin in their search for empty seats.

The train had pulled into their peninsula station after having already stopped to take on passengers at several other stations, so it was with only a few minutes to spare that Benyamin managed to find two open carriages. He and his barrow took up just over half the space of one, so he clambered in and offered to ride alone. But Oliver and Alice exchanged a meaningful look and, a moment later, announced they would be splitting up: Alice would ride with Benyamin, and Oliver would ride with Laylee. It was a curious arrangement—one that would require an explanation that was yet to come—but there wasn’t time to deliberate. Laylee was perplexed and Benyamin was (quietly) thrilled and too soon Alice and Oliver had said their friendly good-byes and the four children took their seats—and settled in for the long ride into town.

It was a beautiful day, even in the cold.

The scenes through the window seemed manufactured from fairy tales: Snow fell fast on curlicued boughs, golden sunlight glimmered across rolling white fields, birds chirped their displeasure at the blustery day, and though it was a fine and strange and dizzying time, it would be the coldest night on record.

Luckily, the glass prisms were lined with plush velvet chairs and a magic that flooded their interiors with a cozy, toasty warmth. Oliver had just taken his seat across from Laylee as the carriage gave its first jolt forward, and she found she could not look at him as she set down her bones. She was not ignoring him—no, she was beyond that now—but there was something about him that felt suddenly different, and whatever it was, it made her nervous. Would he use his persuasion on her? she wondered. Would he try to magic her into a dangerous situation? More troubling still: She knew he’d chosen to sit with her—that in fact he was eager for the privacy—and now that she was about to find out why, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

But Oliver wouldn’t be the first to speak.

Finally, Laylee forced herself to look at him, feeling shy for the first time in years. Her irises were more silver than usual today—feverish and bright with feeling.

Still, Oliver wouldn’t say a word.

Instead, he leaned forward on his elbows and gazed into her eyes with a seriousness she wasn’t expecting. Oh, there was something astonishing in the power of solemnity! Oliver, in his intense preoccupation, was transformed in look and demeanor; he appeared more severe now than Laylee had ever seen him and somehow, simultaneously, more tender than she knew he could be. This transformation suited him (and appealed to her) in a way that was rather inconvenient, given the circumstances, but there was no helping the situation: There was a great and quiet dignity in the face of a compassionate person, and not only did this side of Oliver surprise Laylee—it scared her.

Something was terribly wrong.

“What is it?” she finally said. “What’s happened?”

Oliver looked up, away, pressed his fist to his lips; only when he’d closed his eyes, dropped his hand, and lowered his voice did he say—very, very calmly—

“Please tell me why you think you’re going to die.”

It was turning out to be a brisk, frenetic winter day. Diagonal hail had crossed with horizontal snow, fading sunlight slanted through frost sleeping on slender branches, and the fresh, rushing roar of half-frozen waterfalls rumbled in the distance. The afternoon was gently melting into evening and in an effort to change the hour, the sun had stepped down to let the moon slip by. Reindeer peered out from behind tree trunks; black stallions emerged, galloping cheerfully alongside the train; and snowcapped mountains sat still and solemn in the distance, reigning over tall and small with quiet thunder.

And yet—

It was impossibly quiet in the little glass coach.

The wind whispered against the hinges in an attempt at conversation, and still, no one spoke. Laylee touched fingers to trembling lips, terrified to say aloud any word that might collapse her; and though she tried to hide the tremors that shook the tremendous world within her, the bones in the baggage beside her would not quiet their rattle.

Even so, she was not ready to respond.

Of all the things she’d thought Oliver might say to her, this was not one of them, and she was so utterly unprepared for his clairvoyance she hadn’t even the wherewithal to perjure herself—or to pretend he was wrong.

No matter: Oliver Newbanks was willing to wait. He was perfectly comfortable on his plush, lavender bench—as the bucolic scenes outside his many windows were unlike any he’d ever witnessed—but the beautiful Whichwood winter could only do so much.

Quietly, he couldn’t help but worry.