REVELATIONS
JIMSON WAS DOZING WHEN SHE RETURNED AT LAST, STILL SHAKING, to their passenger car. Not only was her purse missing, but now the loss was compounded by her unsettling conversation with the marshal. She looked at Jimson. His lips were parted, and his head slumped against the curtained window. Was he handsome? She couldn't decide. What would Emily, her one friend from school, say? She would say that his nose was lopsided and that his chin was too sharp. But she'd like his eyes, as thickly lashed as a girl's.
Lena buried her face in her hands. There was almost no chance the marshal would retrieve her purse; she was sure of it. What had her father done to be known by the man, to make his eyes burn with such intensity? When she looked up, her eyes sloppy with unshed tears, Jimson was sitting upright watching her.
"You didn't find it." It was a statement rather than a question.
"No."
"Have you talked to the conductor?"
"I talked to a marshal. He questioned me about the shooting in the dining car."
Jimson quirked an eyebrow. "And?"
"And nothing. He doesn't have any idea where it is. He says that the train was in so much chaos that anyone might have taken it."
"Can you do without it? I mean, do you have enough to get by until it's found?"
Lena bit her lip to keep from crying. "For a few days, maybe, but there were other things-addresses, and a map, some private papers…" Her voice trailed off, and she stared at the brocade curtains.
"I'm sure Mr. Beasley would be willing to-I could help you out if you need anything."
"Thank you, but I'll be fine." Her voice was cold. She couldn't risk becoming dependent in Knob Knoster. It was only a launch point for her quest. But now she would be seriously hampered by her lack of funds. How would she afford to purchase the things she needed for the journey into Scree?
Jimson was looking at her with perplexity, and Lena realized that he had asked her a question.
"I'm sorry. I didn't hear you."
"I asked you about your hands. Were they burned?"
"Burned?" The question caught her by surprise. "Why would you think they were burned?"
"Because you keep them covered all the time. But perhaps it's just to protect them. You said you are a pianist."
Not many people asked about her hands or feet directly. They stared. They whispered. They made sideways remarks: "You must be quite artistic." Or they asked jokingly if she planned to grow into her feet the same way a puppy grew into oversized paws. Not many had the gumption to ask her a real question. It was always easier to joke than to be sincere. She admired Jimson's directness.
"No, they're just rather…long." Her face flamed.
"But that's good for a pianist, isn't it?" He looked genuinely puzzled.
"I didn't grow them this way to make me more accomplished at the piano."
Soft light flickered in the car. The brocade curtains had been drawn against the dark. They were entering a deeper dark now, the first of three tunnels blasted through rock.
"Each finger has an extra knuckle. I was born that way. That's the only reason I'm a pianist. I thought I'd better put them to use." She feigned a laugh as if it didn't matter and splayed both hands on the table, exposing their full mannerist length.
Jimson didn't laugh or make a smart comment; he seemed genuinely curious. "You were born that way?"
She nodded. "A disorder, an accident of birth."
"They're so thin. Do they hurt?"
"Sometimes, but not much."
The chandelier overhead cast shadows across her gloved hands. When Jimson looked up, his blue eyes were also shadowed.
"May I see them? Without the gloves?"
Again, Lena was surprised by his directness. Coming from anyone else she would consider it rude, abrupt. What did it really matter here in this car, hurtling through the dark? The worst that could happen, the very worst, was that she would see the revulsion in his face. She'd seen it in people's eyes many times before, but it was never something she grew used to. This time she felt reckless. What he thought wouldn't matter. In another hour, she would never see him again.
"All right." She didn't meet his eyes as she deliberately rolled the black fabric of the glove down the length of her left arm. In the gaslight, her skin was moon-pale and smooth. The gloves had protected her hands not only from prying eyes but from the scorch of sun as well. Hesitating at the wrist, and then with determination, she peeled the fabric from her palm and down the length of her fingers until the pale pink skin of her hand lay bare. Only then did she look up to read his expression.
Jimson's eyes rested on her hand. His lips were slightly parted, as they had been in sleep. His gaze was so intense, she curled her fingers.
"They all bend? Each joint, I mean." His voice had a breathless sound.
"Of course they bend," she snapped. "They work like normal hands."
"It's just that I've never seen anything like it. They're amazing, so long and delicate."
Lena checked to see if he was mocking her. But his face was serious, reverential almost.
"They're ugly. 'Goblin phalanges,' my nana calls them." Why did she say that? An almost imperceptible sob escaped her lips. She had come to terms with her differences long ago. She tugged the covering back over her fingertips.
"No, they're not. Ugly, I mean. And you don't have to do that. It must be annoying to have to wear gloves all the time." He leaned back against the seat and looked her full in the face.
"It is. They itch and they're hot in the summer. But I don't like having to explain my hands to everyone. I don't like people staring."
He nodded as if he understood. "I won't mention your hands again, unless you do. Take both your gloves off. I won't even look." He closed his eyes.
"We'll be to Knoster soon, and then I'll just have to put them on again." But the offer was tempting, and Lena peeled the gloves from her right hand as well as her left. She flexed her fingers, then leaned her head back against the seat. But she kept her feet hidden in the shadows.
When the train stopped an hour later, Lena was startled awake. Her mouth was dry and her head felt thick. Her bare hands were curled in her lap. Across from her Jimson was brushing off his ridiculous hat. Hurriedly, she yanked on her gloves and smoothed wisps of her hair behind her ears. Then she remembered her purse. It was gone. Her head ached. There would still be enough money for a few nights' lodging, she calculated, but not enough to purchase the supplies she needed. Not enough to hire a guide. She stood and buttoned her green jacket. At least she could remember the address she needed-Miss Brett's for Women, 22 Thistlewaite. Only blocks from the train station, according to her lost map.
"I suppose your cousin is meeting you." Jimson was standing at her side, his black curls poking out from under the unfortunate hat. "Here. I wrote down Mr. Beasley's address in case you need anything. Perhaps I can see you again?"
The conductor interrupted before Lena could answer. "Good evening. I hope you enjoyed your trip." Lena nodded her thanks while trying to keep her feet from poking out too far from beneath her gray skirt.
As the train doors slid open, the smell of the sea rushed to greet them.
