The Cautious Traveller’s Guide to the Wastelands by Sarah Brooks EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Sarah Brooks
- Language: English
- Genre: Fantasy
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 10.2 MB
- Price: Free
THE LIAR
Beijing, 1899
There is a woman on the platform with a borrowed name. With steam in her
eyes and the taste of oil on her lips. The shrill, desperate whistle of the train
turns into the sobbing of a young girl nearby and the cries of the trinket
vendors, hawking their flimsy amulets as protection against Wastelands
sickness. She forces herself to look up, to stare at it face on, the train that
looms above her, hissing and humming; waiting, vibrating with pent-up
power. How huge it is, how implacably solid, three times the width of a
horse-drawn carriage. It makes the station buildings look as flimsy as a
child’s toys.
She concentrates on her breath, on emptying her mind of any other
thought. In and out, in and out. She has practiced this, day after long day
these past six months, sitting at home by the window, watching the
pickpockets and traders below, letting it all wash over her, letting her mind
run clear as water. She holds on to the image of a river, slow-moving and
gray. If she can just let it carry her to safety.
“Marya Petrovna?”
It is a moment before she realizes she is the one the porter is addressing,
and she turns to him with a start. “Yes! Yes.” Too loudly, to cover her
confusion. Too unused to the unfamiliar syllables of her new name.
“Your cabin is ready and your luggage has been taken on board.” Sweat
beads his forehead and leaves a damp, darkened line around his collar.
“Thank you.” She is gratified to hear that her voice does not tremble.
Marya Petrovna is unafraid. Newborn. She can only go forward, following
the porter as he disappears into the steam, broken by glimpses of green
paint and gold lettering in English, as well as Russian and Chinese. The
Trans-Siberian Express. Beijing–Moscow; Moscow–Beijing. They must
have spent the last months painting and polishing. Everything shines.
“Here we are.” The porter turns toward her, wiping his brow and
leaving behind a dark, oily smudge. She is uncomfortably aware of her own
clothes, chafing her skin in the heat, the black silk drinking up the sun. Her
blouse claws at her neck and her skirt is tight around her waist, but she has
no time to worry about her appearance because the porter is holding out his
arm, stiffly, and she is climbing the high steps up onto the train, her hand
taken by another bowing uniformed man, she is being swept along the
corridor, thick carpet beneath her feet. She is on the train and it is too late to
turn back now.
In front of her, a man with a beard and gold spectacles and the kind of
voice that elbows all other voices out of the way, leans out of the window
and shouts in English, “Where is the Station Master? Be careful with those
boxes! Oh, I do beg your pardon.” He squeezes himself against the window
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