Chapter Text
-| SEPTEMBER 10TH, 1940 |-
-| 6:34 AM |-
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The morning air is heavy with the sound and smell of the rushing masses that's squabbling past the small, cramped rows of houses to the train station. The sirens from last night which signalled bombings happening in the next town over making mother's much more frantic to send their children off to safer places in the countryside.
Soon, Oliver will be another small body in that ever moving crowd as today is the day for the great evacuation. Almost every kid he knows is being corralled onto the waiting trains at the local station to take them far away from the home that is this dim city.
The radios and telly's in the electronics shop near his school all talk of the cause for this sudden moving. The well dressed and clean cut man, with plastic hair so know you can trust him, called it, The Blitz.
Without a proper window, no glass is held in the warped window frame anymore, just a couple of wood boards that Oliver's mum got from the back of the local pub, it still stinking of beer and bile, and nailed them the best she could to cover the small opening to the outside. The thin blanket helped keep some of the cold out but not the sounds of people.
His sisters already have their trunks packed, evident by them packing even more dresses and cardigans then their already stuffed full and protesting trunks can fit. The hinges creak in discontempt as Edna forces in another baby blue cotton dress right next to the three others that are exactly the same.
They didn't bother waking Oliver when their mother called them all awake, they never did whenever they got busy in the mornings, as they sort out the little name cards that were handed out at last week's church sermon around their necks, Sophie tying a powder blue ribbon over the twine string.
When Oliver got his tag from the old paster with the salt and pepper hair that recedes up high above his forehead, not the other one that always liked touching the other young boy's hair when he passed them at the pews, Edna and Sophie had snickered behind dirty handkerchiefs at the location printed in small letters near the bottom underneath the name of who's going to house him, although they gave sweet smiles and were kind about it in front of him, saying it was a lovely place with knowing smiles at each other. Like there was a joke that Oliver wasn't privy too.
Thompton was printed in simple small letters right under the name of who he would be staying with. A Miss Vernonia, she sounded nice. The boys from class said it was a nice place to visit with lots of sheep and cattle, all the while with wide toothy grins on their faces as they told him, which chased away Oliver's fears of being alone since Edna and Sophie are going to a different place.
"Girls! Come on the trains gonna' leave without you at this rate!" Comes the shrill voice of Penny Weithermon, Oliver's mother and one impatient women. Her bristolian accent thick and heavy in the morning air, making Oliver wince at the volume as he slowly draws his thin blanket off his cold body and rose into the chaotic day.
-|Oliver's POV|-
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My legs ache as I hoist them out from under my small blanket with great effort, each one feeling as heavy as the thickest books from the school library. I'm still sore from when me and my sisters were playing last night, before the sirens sounded and we scrambled under our blankets in fear. It's not a fun game that we played, but my sisters always like it a lot so I play with them to not upset them. The games called Hide and Hit. One person hides, and the other players have to try to find the person hiding, when the seekers do find the hiding person, the hiding person gets beat up.
Mum says it's to build up endurance and to practice if someone came into our home to seal things. I don't know what there is to steal other than dust, my church shoes and my mothers broaches, but mum is adamant it will happen one day. It makes sense, I know we don't live in the nicer side of town but there hasn't been a break in since last year.
However, I'm always the one hiding when we play Hide and Hit, and I'm not very good at hiding so I get found a lot. I complained about it to mum once, whining like I was a toddler, but she just smacked me over the head me like she always does when scolding us and said I had to play with Edna and Sophie because they are older than me and that I shouldn't ruin my sisters fun because I'm being too sensitive.
"Come on 'brother', we must go now. I heard on the radio the Germans are gonna drop more bombs on us and I for one don't wanna be here when that happens because you can't get out of bed" Edna chastised from where she's adjusting her lace collar and smoothing out her brown cotton dress. Her tweed jacket a few sizes too small.
Edna ties her fiery red hair back into a tight bun the best she can with some old ribbon from her school coat, fighting with her untameable curls as her freckled cheeks flush in frustration as another curl bounds out of place. I pretend to not hear the sneer in her voice when she hisses out 'brother', I just work on rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
"Oh please, you actually listen to all that codswallop sister? Everyone knows the radio is unreliable now that the Germans listen in on it" Sophie scoffs in her pretend posh accent, her lisp not helping her at all. Lately, Sophie has been trying to come off as posh like the people across from us ever since she took a fancy in Tracy McCoy, a boy from her class in school who is a lawyer's son.
"Oh, can it Sophie! You know that Nathan just says that stuff to scare everyone at school" Comes Edna's quick, snide reply as she packs a small box of biscuits into her trunk. Its metal tin wrapped in some brown paper she got from her home economics class and tied it tight with some of the twine we use to hang our laundry from. I wisely keep quiet to their bickering, a nice old lady at the library says that it's best to stay quiet around my sisters. I don't know why, I already stay quiet anyways because Mum says my voice is very harsh on the ears. And so, I keep quiet not only at home but around town too.
I don't generally like talking to people much anyway. My head always start to hurt, then my tummy gets all weird and starts to hurt and then I start to sweat, and meeting new people always scares me, no matter how many times mum invites a new stranger to our home. I get so nervous of messing up or doing something wrong that I start to stutter and fumble over my words. There's been one too many times I've been laughed at for my stumbling, so eventually I just slowly stopped talking unless its for small things.
My back creaks as I pull on my favourite thick, dark green jumper. Its knitted pattern of thick lines sagging over my body and pooling around my mid thigh. I slide off my mattress and crouch down to slide out the medium sized leather trunk that I packed myself the night the sirens started. Its old and very worn down by me constantly carrying it too and from the library. The leather around the trunks corners have been rubbed down all the way to the metal frame.
Mum didn't tell me to pack up, but she was quick to pack Edna's and Sophie's trunks the second the alarms cut into the night, so I followed her lead and packed my few clothes into my trunk myself so that she didn't have to worry about if I was packed or not.
The next town over got bombed by the German planes at midnight. The sirens cut into the night, warning us to get into the shelters and hide till morning, just in case the Germans turned around and bombed us since we are so near to the town that got bombed. I packed my trunk once I saw mum frantically packing Edna's and Sophie's trunks as soon as we got back home around four in the morning.
I'm sure Mum was just panicking, and forgot to pack my trunk as well, and I'm a big boy now, so I could pack my own trunk! I turned eight last month, and the old lady at the library said I was very mature for my age, so I know what to bring with me. I made sure to pack my warmest trousers, with the blouses that don't have any holes in them. I packed up my thickest jumpers since its coming high winter, and I don't want to be caught off guard and worry whoever I'm going to stay with.
I follow Edna and Sophie out from our shared room, which is only separated from the living room and kitchen by a moth-eaten curtain on squeaky rings that scrape across the wooden pole, the pole is balanced precariously between the rafters, it often times needs to have one of us to climb up and.
Our home is a small, shabby thing, only three rooms in total that is a far cry from the roomy, 8 roomed brick homes just across the road. I hear they even have enough bedrooms for one person each! Their pristine white window and door frames always seem to preen against the warm red of the bricks. Their whole visage seem to mock me whenever I stare wistfully out at the perfectly equal homes during cold nights, where the thin blanket and three jackets are not enough in the midnight hours.
The living room and kitchen are joined together in one small room with a grey, gaudy and lumpy couch that takes up most of the space and faces the only window, along with a counter top and a stove which above it, is a lone cupboard that tilts to the right after years of a door being slammed against the wall next door.
Mum has her own room which holds only a lone bed and a dresser that doubles as a vanity after putting in a shoddy mirror she found at the charity shop. Her room doesn't have a window, but she makes up for it with countless candles lit about to both warm up and bring light to the room.
Mum is dressed in her thickest navy blue Hollywood style wool coat, which comes just bellow her knees to stave off the nipping cold outside. She wears a simple black, A line dress that puffs out her coats sides. The fabric belt around her waist pulls the fabric right and pushes her rippling fat into all the wrong places and makes her seem much larger than she actually is. Her favourite cream blouse peaks from below her lapels, the plaid pattern at the front drawing your eye to the simple black broach on her collar. She never said where she got it from, and has even told of a curious shop keep for inspecting it as she was checking out her shopping.
Penny has always been a short, stocky woman ever since I could remember. Coming around 5'3 with a mean glare and the brightest red, frizzy hair you could ever imagine, its hue rivalling the flames from the bombings in the distance and on the telly.
I used to grip her hair when I was smaller, which got me many scolding's when I inevitably yanked it down and I'm still teased about to this day. Edna got mum's bright red hair, and its un-tameability only grew tenth fold, my point proven when thick curls spring out of her carefully crafted bun. Sophie however, got mum's stocky build and a face that never seems to stop scowling even when she's at her happiest and a compulsive streak that rivals' mothers.
I always felt a little out of place amongst my family. Edna and Sophie have something they got from mom, but I look nothing like them. I was always told I looked like my father, not that I know what or have any clue he looks like. Mum said she didn't even know him, that he was just a one-night stand that lead to me, or whatever one-night stand means.
Unlike my sisters, My hair is a dark brown, with soft curls that are on the cusp of wild that is a far cry from the fiery red and bright blond. My limbs are lanky for my body, arms resting just a smidge longer than they should be and pale skin that looks sickly when compared to my sisters' tan complexities from them actually going outside in the sun. At least I know I got my crooked nose from somewhere, and I don't help my pale complexion by staying inside all day everyday... not my fault my eyes are sensitive to the sun.
Compared to my sisters and mums stocky build, I'm a bit on the thinner side though I constantly get told I'm on the larger side like them, though I'm not told as kindly as Sophie or Edna gets told it. They are told it so sweetly with compliments and sweet smiles. Those same sweet smiles turn to sneers when they say I should lay off a meal or two. I'm am quite large I suppose... the old paster said that I was quite chubby especially around my tummy... maybe I'll listen to mom and cut down on the biscuits.
"Finally! Come on, we must leave now or there won't be any spots on the trains." Mum wastes no time in rushing us out the door, gripping my wrist tightly as she guides us out our small home and into the pushing crowd beyond. I'm sure I will have bruising once again. Behind us, Sophie closes the front door and hands mother the keys which she quickly pockets it into her coat pocket. We wait for a moment as Edna hands Sophie her trunk back, having held it for her so she could properly close the front door as it needs you to shimmy it into place with both hands. Once everyone is ready, we push through the crowd, heading straight for the train station.
My shoulders are tense as I'm jostled about by people pushing and bumping into my sides, other kids also pulled forward by their mum's and sharply dressed men on their way to work or to enlist in the nearby army recruiters. I bite back a yelp as someone's trunk hit me in the side and I shuffle closer to mother, fighting back the grimace and various curses that dance at the tip of my tongue at the loud sounds.
-| ~~ |-
Eventually, after some much needed pushing, we make our way to the train station and we get in the shoddy line at the front gates. There's five fenced out lines for people to go through and mum pushes me to the middle lane as she tries the same for Edna and Sophie in the next lanes over.
At the entrance to my line there's a gruff elderly man. Wiry grey hairs stick out from below the man's cloth cap, a cigar balancing precariously between yellowed teeth and its ash flicks onto the tags around the passing kids necks or lapels that he checks with a swint and a grunt.
After a long wait and a teary-eyed girl is pushed on through to her wating mother, the man is now looming in front of me even with his hunch and checks my tag. His grip is clumsy, wrinkled fingers trembling with old age and long nights at the pub, crinkle the paper of my tag. When he lets go after a grunt, the cream paper that now sports a few black smudges falls limp once more. He glosses over my printed name and location, grunting and squinting his already squinted eyes when he sees the tiny print of Thompton and then his wrinkled hand hand pats my upper back with sympathy as he pushes me into the crowd after a twitch of his bushy moustache.
As I get through the line and out onto the other side, I cant see mother. I cant find Edna, where's Sophie? They- I was sure they were right behind me, right?
I'm alone. I don't know anyone. I-I'm scared.
No.. no, wait I can do this. I- I'm a big boy now, the nice lady from the library said I was brave, I can be brave now! I can do this by myself! I-I can.... can't I?
I shake my head from side to side, hoping that its enough to shake the lingering fear and anxiety from my thoughts. My eyes scan the forever moving crowd and I close my eyes to brace myself, taking a deep breath and griping my trunk tightly, the leather handle's creaking barely audible above the drum of people rushing into trains and over other peoples feet. When I open my eyes, I start to walk.
I push forward through brown coats and blue, red, gold, navy dresses, looking at the different signs that point to where what goes and where the trains will go tell.
I read off each sign in my head as I walk under them, mentally checking off areas where my train isn't.
Christian town, Cumberland, London... No, not that way. Western super-mare, Clevedon, Burnham, no, the train to Thompton not on the right then.
I carry on in my march through the large, maze-like station, pushing through the crowd and looking up at the creamy white signs where tired, frazzled workers standing by gates and trains, helping people with luggage or pointing them in the proper directions.
I glance back at the front gates, hoping just for the smallest glimpse of red hair or blue ribbon. No, no no I can do this myself. I'll show Sophie I can do this on my own! She's always going on and on about how I always follow her and Edna around, never doing anything for myself. I can do things for myself! I can find my train without their help! Though... I do wish I could say goodbye for the last time.
Blinking back the gathering tears that's been slowly forming with my shortening breaths ever since Mum let go of my wrist. I know its silly to panic, but I've never been good alone in public places, it always feels like everyone's eyes are on me. Watching. Waiting for me to mess up or trip over so that they can laugh and mock. I-its... never actually happened outside of school but... I still worry about it.
I force my breathing to slow and I tighten my hold on my trunk handle, its warn leather creaking barely audible over the chatter of people and the whistling of train horns. I often used to play with the handle when I was bored, its soft creaking always soothing to me.
Just as I go to walk forward and brave the station platform once again, my free hand that was rising to hold my tag is taken hostage by a much larger, and much more calloused hand. I feel long, strong fingers holding my hand in a gentle grip. Its gentleness is deceiving as its firm hold starts guiding me in the opposite direction I started walking in.
My eyes are wide as I look down at the large, pale hand engulfing my own. I don't feel fear, I feel.... I feel warmth, comfort. My eyes slowly trail up the arm the hands attached too as the hand guides into a muscled side.
My vision is filled with warm green and flicks of silver in the threads of this strangers clothes. the strangers hand roams up my arm and wraps around my shoulder as I'm greeted with the scent of smoke and old parchment, like the ones from the library.
Long fingers grip my shoulder, well manicured fingernails that are a far cry difference from the usual dirty fingers that I'm used to, pressing into my woollen jumper as they steered me through the crowds. I didn't even notice the pang of disappointment in my chest when his warm hand leaves mine to hold my shoulder.
"Hello there little one, lets play a little pretend hmm? You look like a good sport, from now on lets play the role of Father and Son, I know you can do that for me," a low, rumbly voice speaks above me, it’s baritones making each word clear and precise as it cuts through the cries of heartfelt goodbyes and good lucks surrounding us, even above the din of the crowd. I nod to his words without realising it, my feet moving without my knowing as they follow without resistance.
After being pulled past a ticket booth and over the walkway to the other side of the station, I gain the strength to look up. Soft eyes that shimmer with something I can't place are already looking down at me, glinting a soft red from the rising sun that peaks through the frosted glass of a passing window before fading to a calm, lagoon green. One of my favourite colours.
The mans jaw is angular, looking everything like a nobleman and a gentleman, like someone who would live in those pretty red brick houses across from my home, like that boy Tracy McCoy with the lawyer father that Sophie tries so hard to impress. His face is long and narrow with smooth lines that smooth out high, sharp cheekbones and a faint, almost playful smile that soften out the cresses in the corners of the mans eyes.
Smooth, silky brownish black hair with a peppering of wise silver streaks around his temples sits neatly atop his head. Whatever isn't slicked back into a neatly groomed ponytail falls in small strands near his temples and forehead, framing the mans poised face beautifully. Everything from his tailored suit to the glint in his eyes suggested order and power. An all-rounded polite bloke it seems.
Huh, I don't feel afraid.
"Ello' there sir. Its ah, n-nice to meet you, my names Oliver... Oliver Weithermon-" I don't realise I was speaking until I see that smile of his soften into an inquisitive smirk. My tongue moving before any sound even came to mind. With feeling returning to my free hand I grip my trousers, fiddling with a loose thread as my eyes look around at anywhere but the man guiding me forward.
His hand, larger than my head the back of my brain unhelpfully supplies, tightens its hold around my shoulder. His fingers digging further into the wool of my jumper as he leads me to a rather handsome looking train. I read about this from one of the books the librarian gave me once I got interested into trains. I loved its design at first glance, and getting on it now makes me feel a little giddy. Its the Coronation Scot, I read that it even held Queen Elizabeth since it was integrated for her and King George VI's coronation!
Trains always have been a fascination of mine, that and baking. When I could, I would hide away in train schematics and how they worked in the dark corners of the town's library with open books on how to temper chocolate to make it smoother. Edna and Sophie never liked the library, said they were better than old books and dusty shelves when they could be out with their friends and impressing the boys of the football team.
In my distraction at aweing at the train, the man, who I've yet to find out his name, steps up onto the little steps up in the train, letting go of me for a moment so he could hold onto the railing and hoist himself inside. I try to go next, but a boy elbows me out the way, and then a lady pushes a young kid in front of me before I could get on until finally, finally I manage to get on the train, needing to hold onto the frame since I cant reach the handle bars properly.
Once I'm inside the train cartridge, I take a glance around to try and find the stranger. I know its probably wrong to search for the guy who I think just kidnapped me, but as I hold my trunk tighter, I cant help but want something familiar and right now the stranger is familiar-ish.
Just as I get pushed out the way again by some more people getting on, the warm hand that I know belongs to the stranger holds my shoulder again, and I lean into the mighty wall that is the strangers side. Unconsciously I let the scent of old books and cologne fill my nostrils and calm down my fast-paced breathing. This man seems to have a habit of finding me when I'm panicking.
"Careful now, if I would have known you were this easy to lose, I'll have to attach a lil' bell to your collar." The soft and carefully measured voice cuts through the whistles of and chatter of people still choking the station platforms, his low chuckling vibrating all the way into my spine. "I'm- I-I'm sorry sir... people were pushing in front of me when I tried to get on"
I know my voice doesn't cut through the chatter like the stranger's voice does, but he surprisingly managed to hear me none the less if the smirk dimpling one side of his face is anything to go by. He effortlessly guides me through people that bully their way into any available seats, passing cabins already hogged by children leaning out windows to wave at teary eyed mothers who waves white handkerchiefs back.
Eventually, near one of the front train carts, there's a small empty cabin that sits at the very back of the cart. The compartment is long and narrow, enclosed rather than open-plan. Along each side are padded bench seats, upholstered in dark musty fabric that's seen better days, facing one another so passengers sit knee-to-knee.
The cushions are firm but worn, the kind that have carried many quiet journeys. Beneath the seats are small racks for bags and small items that you don't want to lose, and above them run luggage nets that are stretched tight with cord to keep whatever luggage you can put up there with confidence.
The walls are panelled in a dark, polished wood, practical rather than decorative. A single window sits beside each bench, slightly grimy from coal smoke and hands pressing against the glass, showing the crowded station beyond. Heavy curtains are tied back on either side of the window, tied back with a simple leather cord that match the curtain you can draw down to cover the window of the cabin door.
The air feels close and warm, smelling faintly of wool coats, leather cases, and steam. Sounds beyond are constant but subdued: the rhythmic clatter of wheels on rails as the train rocks from side to side with each new person boarding or moving about, the low rumble beneath the floor, the occasional whistle cutting through the noise. All serve to add to the soft atmosphere that permeates the air inside the cabin.
The man guides me in first, his hand on my upper back as he takes my trunk from my lax grip, it allowing him to easily slip it from my fingers and put it up onto the overhang rack. His own larger black trunk soon settling right next to mine.
Slowly I sit down on the velvet seat, looking out at the crowd still squabbling on the cobbled station platforms as I pick at the threads of my jumper. In the corner of my eye I watch as the man sits down opposite me, watching me carefully as he tilts his head curiously, a strand of hair falling over his eye. He puts his back straight against the padded bench, hands folding one atop the other in his lap. There is nothing careless about how he sits, poised and comfortable in the small space. His large, broad shoulders curl in to take up as little room as possible, the way a man does when he wants to appear gentle, nonthreatening.
"You know, normally a child will be more.... resistant when they find they are being taken away. You are quite calm, hmm? You haven't even screamed, you have some moxie" His voice rocks the train itself... or maybe its just the shivers running down my spine as I turn to look at him.
"Oh? I... guess that makes sense. But, I don't like screaming. It hurts my throat..." I don't recognise my voice. Its soft and scratchy, clawing at the lump that clings to the back of my throat. "A reasonable reason yes. And yet, wouldn't a sore throat be better than being taken by a stranger? I'm surprised you came so willingly" The man smiled when their eyes met. It wasn’t a big smile, just a small one, polite and careful. The kind teachers made when they wanted you to feel safe. Still, I looked down at my own shoes after that, pretending to be interested in the scuffed toes and wrinkles from use and age.
The strangers words are true, unbearably so. Yet I just blink ever so slowly at him, like I'm just coming to the realisation now instead of when I first felt his hand. "I suppose... but, I don't see why I would wanna scream. Maybe... maybe tell me your name then sir? So that then you're not a stranger. You already know mine, I've told you mine." I don't even know where my words come from, I've never been this confident or bold around a stranger before.
Usually I give short answers and make sounds of confirmation if needed, yet here I am, asking for the mans name and sitting in a train cabin with no clue where I'm even going now that I'm not going to Thompson anymore. I wonder if miss Vernonia would be upset I don't show up.
My words draw a soft, breathy chuckle from the stranger. Its light as he shifts in his seat and crosses one long leg over the other with deliberate care. His movements are neat and unhurried. Pale, thin fingers lace together atop his knee, knuckles pressed lightly as if to keep them still. When he leans back, his head tilts just enough for him to look down at me along the bridge of his nose, a faint smile pulling at his lips — gentle, courteous, and far too intent.
"Oh,” he says quietly, as if genuinely embarrassed, the smile lingering. “Where are my manners?”
He inclines his head, just a touch, something between a bow and a confession. “My name is Silas Brimstone,” he continues, his voice warm and carefully measured, each word chosen with care. “But… please. Just Silas will do.” His eyes remain fixed on mine as he speaks, bright with a pleased sort of attention. “There now,” he adds softly, fingers tightening together for just a moment. “We’re not strangers anymore. Just like you said.”
The man, Silas, tilts his head to the side, a soft glint in his eye that makes my shoulders droop, unconsciously relaxing as he draws the heavy red curtain down the cabin door window to either block out the passing of people or block people looking inside. The material is thick enough to din the rambunctious chatter of people settling and still climbing aboard.
I take a look around our small cabin, bringing out the foldable table from under the large doming window. If I'm going to be on the Coronation Scot, I might as well make the most of it and find this cabins secrets.
"Oh hey, there's a table! Oh, and you can make this fold out to make a bed. Neat'o! I-I read up about this train a few days ago... I remembered this was a feature in the cabins" I giggle as I fiddle with different compartments in the cabin, almost forgetting about Silas's presence in my excitement about having a chance to fiddle with the different gimmicks.
Silas shifts at once, clearly pleased to be of use. He scoots closer to the aisle with an almost boyish eagerness, careful not to jostle the seat or brush against me as he moves. “Oh—of course,” he says softly, already tucking himself neatly out of the way. “Take all the room you need.” His smile lingers, warm and encouraging, as though the small act of cooperation means more to him than it should.
He watches closely as I pull the extra cushions free, his pale eyes following every movement with polite fascination. When I frown and adjust the pieces, trying to puzzle out how they’re meant to fit, he leans forward just a fraction, hands folded together between his knees. He doesn’t interrupt, just simply observes, intent and patient, like someone savouring the moment.
Eventually, I manage it — sliding the table into place, resting the spare cushion over it so it won’t slip. The setup holds, surprisingly sturdy. Ingenious, really.
“Oh,” Silas breathes, a quiet sound of genuine delight. “How clever.” His fingers lace together more tightly, knuckles whitening as he nods in approval. “You’ve got a good mind for these things.” There’s something almost proud in his tone, as if we have accomplished it together. His gaze lingers on the makeshift bed, then drifts back to me, bright and pleased. “That looks quite comfortable,” he adds gently. “I’m glad you’ll be able to rest on our journey.”
The train rattles on, the compartment warm and close, and Silas settles back into his seat — still watching, still smiling — content in the small intimacy of having helped, of having been included.
I crawl up onto the somewhat hard cushions to look out at family's kissing cheeks or foreheads, and hugging each other in tender goodbyes. I toe my shoes off before drawing my legs up tight to my chest. My feet are drawn together for warmth, the holes that expose my heel and pinkie toe in my thread bare socks doing nothing for the chill that haunts the train.
My brain is only briefly aware of Silas's curious eyes on me as I curl in on myself, resting my chin in the small hollow between my knees. I don’t look at him, but I can feel the attention all the same — steady, patient, like he’s decided I’m something worth observing.
Beyond the glass, a mother clutches her young son tightly to her chest, as though the world itself is trying to take him from her. Her coat is buttoned wrong in her haste, her hands trembling as she cups the back of his head. She presses a kiss to his forehead — once, twice, again — whispering things meant only for him. The boy squirms, cheeks red with embarrassment, tugging weakly at her sleeves, but he doesn’t pull away. He lets her hold him. He lets her cry into his hair.
I watch the way her fingers dig in, memorizing the feel of him, the way her face crumples when she finally pulls back just enough to look at him properly. Around us, other goodbyes are unfolding in quiet fragments — murmured reassurances, forced smiles, the scrape of shoes against the floor as parents step back before they lose the nerve to let go.
I swallow hard and stare at the scene until it blurs, until I can’t tell if the tightness in my chest is envy or fear or something else entirely. Somewhere in the corner of my vision, Silas is still watching — not the mother, not the boy, but me — his gaze gentle, intent, as though he’s studying my reaction, as though this moment means something to him too.
And that, more than the crying, makes me feel strangely exposed.
"Where were you heading off too before I... let's say whisked you away." Silas's voice rumbles the very cushions below me and I glance back at him before looking out at the tender goodbyes outside the window. "Thompton, my sister Edna said it was a nice place with lots of green." My head tilts as I watch a father ruffle his daughters hair before helping her into the opposite train and handing up her luggage with a little struggle due to the crutch he has.
"Thompton…" His voice was soft, low, and soothing, the kind that made your shoulders unclench without thinking. "I’m very glad I took you. That place… its no place for a child." He leaned closer, but it was slow and gentle, careful not to crowd me as he adjusted in his seat and he adjusted one of his cuffs.
I looked back at Silas. His shadow loomed behind me, solid and protective. "W-what do you mean? E-even my mother said it was a nice place…" I didn't recognise my voice, the argument on my tongue dying before it even came to light under Silas's calm gaze.
Silas smiled, a warm, careful smile that made me want to trust him. "Ah… your mother. She probably meant well," he said softly, shaking his head in a mock sigh. "And your sister was... quiet wrong to say it has green. If memory serves me right, it has a small park but even so it wasn't used for... pleasant means."
Even as his words wrapped around me like a blanket, there was a shadow in the way he studied me, just beneath the surface, but for now… for now, I felt safe even though I know I should be feeling anything but safe around the man that's taken me so suddenly.
"Your family… doesn’t sound very kind," Silas said softly, tilting his head, eyes warm and focused on me. "I’m sorry, little Oliver… but Thompton is a horrible, shady place." He paused, letting the words settle, before leaning back slightly in the seat. His hands clasped tightly around one knee, fingers curling over it as though he were stopping himself from moving too much in his quiet attentiveness.
"It’s near London," he continued, his voice low, smooth, filling the cabin and making the air feel heavy with his calm demeanour. "Yes… but it’s full of people who… who won’t be very gentle, who won’t understand someone like you. Sweet, clever children… they don’t see what’s coming until it’s too late. Not in a shady place like Thompton."
I swallowed hard. There was a softness in his eyes, a careful attentiveness. My eyes look down to my feet, my big toe fiddling with a loose thread.
"You know," he said, leaning forward just a fraction, just enough to seem engaged, "sometimes families… they don’t always tell the truth. They say things to keep you in line, or to make you feel better about thing that are wrong… and not always what they say is kind."
I hesitated, unsure what to say. His hands remained still, clasped tightly around his knee, and the restraint made him feel… safe, in a way. Like he was holding back from some impulse I didn’t understand, just for me.
"But don’t worry," he added, leaning back again, relaxing slightly while keeping his gaze fixed on me, "not while I’m here. I’ll make sure you’re… looked after. You’re clever, Oliver… far too clever to be misunderstood or mistreated." His lips curved into a soft, reassuring smile, but the intensity in his eyes lingered, just beneath the surface, like a shadow waiting behind the glow.
The cabin lulls into a gentle rolling quiet after that, save for the chatter outside that worms its way in through the window. My eyes follow an exhausted worker pushes a luggage laden cart through the crowd of people, his hat skewed slightly on his mop of brown hair in the chaos of this morning. I take my chin off my drawn up knees and instead I rest my cheek down on them, it squishing up and giving my lips a pouty look.
"Tell me Oliver, who were you at the station with? I did not see anyone accompanying you here today." Silas's question is simple but subtly probing, said with ease as he removes his coat and he starts to fold it neatly without looking up from his ministrations.
I watched him fold his coat like it mattered more than anything else in the room. He didn’t rush. He smoothed the fabric with his hands again and again, slow and careful, like he was afraid it might resist him if he wasn’t gentle enough. Every time the cloth wrinkled, his fingers stopped, fixing it immediately, pressing it flat until it obeyed.
He lined the sleeves up so they were exactly the same, tugging one, then the other, his eyes narrowing whenever they didn’t match. It felt less like folding and more like correcting something that had gone wrong. He touched the collar last, flattening it with his palm, lingering there longer than he needed to.
When he was done, the coat sat perfectly still, sharp-edged and neat, like it had been told not to move. Silas leaned back into the musty upholstery and looked at the neatly folded fabric draped over his lap with a small, satisfied smile.
He underneath the well made coat, Silas dressed with deliberate care, favouring a fitted vest buttoned neatly over a light shirt pressed smooth at the sleeves with black bands around his upper bicep. The fabric was simple but well kept, chosen for purpose rather than display, and worn with the quiet confidence of someone who understood the weight of the moment. There was no excess to his appearance, nothing out of place—only clean lines and a sense of intention.
His black waistcoat hugged his broad frame perfectly, tailored and adjusted with a care I’d never known in my own clothes. It sat clean against his shoulders and waist, not too tight, not loose anywhere, like it had been made for him and him alone.
You couldn’t help in noticing the difference, how deliberate it looked compared to the things I wore—shirts that hung wrong or pinched in the wrong places, hand-me-downs I’d learned to live with. Sitting across from him, it made me aware of how unfamiliar it was to see something fit so exactly, as if the person inside it had always belonged there.
I cant help but be reminded of the posh people that went in and out from the red brick houses I used to stare out at whenever they had those fancy party's they always held.
The birth underneath me creaks and groans as I shuffle in place, straightening out my legs before I find the courage to answer him. I wiggle my toes slightly as I rest my head against the warm wood, the train lurching forward to signal is ready to depart soon.
"I uh, well I came with my mum and two sisters... I lost them when we entered the station. I- didn't mean to lose them, but I got pushed into the crowd and they went in different lines to get in so I guess it was inevitable." My voice sounds strong even when it wavers and wants to stumble through my slight lisp. I can only hope Silas didn't notice and chalked it up to nerves.
"I...it doesn't really matter though; I wasn't going on the same train as them." I shrug lightly, making the collar of my jumper sag down before I tug it back into place, making my pendant that I usually keep hidden under my clothes sneak out and rest just bellow my collarbone.
My necklace hangs from a thin black cord, simple and unobtrusive, drawing Silas's eye to the pendant it carries. At its centre is a slender, pointed stone, polished smooth and dyed a deep, vivid red, veined faintly with darker marbling beneath the surface. The stone is capped in a small silver-toned setting that holds it securely, understated but deliberate.
The contrast is striking: the dark cord against my bare skin, the sharp line of red resting just below the collarbone. It feels both delicate and intentional, the pendant shaped almost like a charm or talisman rather than mere decoration. There’s a quiet weight to it that's always been there for me, I cant remember a time I didn't have it on and I'm even more grateful Silas didn't say anything about it even though his gaze tells me he wants to speak about it. Its always a pain to explain where I got it from.
I adjust my collar again, tucking the pendant back under my green jumper, scratching my neck as I roll my sleaves up to my elbows. A nervous habit that I picked up from the tailor that lets me sit with him whilst he makes new clothing items.
“Ah,” he says thoughtfully, “I thought siblings always boarded the same train during an evacuation.” There’s a lightness to his voice, almost amused, though I catch the brief flicker of surprise in the way he leans back, head tilting upward as if replaying the detail in his mind. “Where are your sisters headed, then? Hopefully not somewhere like Thompton, I’m sure.”
I shuffle to sit on the edge of the birth, swinging my feet back and forth beneath me, watching the movement as I answer him. “No,” I say quickly. “They’re going to some small town. I—I can’t remember the name of it, but I know it’s in the countryside, south of here.” My hands won’t stay still. I pick at my fingernails, worrying at a hangnail, then switch to rubbing my knuckles with my thumb, anything to keep them busy while I talk.
“That sounds rather cosy,” he replies. “Do you wish you were going with them?” His tone is gentle, almost sympathetic. “It must be frightening, being separated from your family.” I must fight the urge to let out a small, nervous laugh at that, because it feels strange hearing concern from the man who is, right now, taking me farther away from them.
“Well… no, not really,” I say after a moment. “I—I’m a big boy. I can manage on my own.” I hesitate, then add, as if it matters, “And besides, it’s not near the shore, or anywhere with forests. I heard its just farms. Fields as far as you can see.”
That seems to please him. His expression shifts—not much, just enough for me to notice. “I see,” he says quietly. “And what places do you like, then?”
The question opens something in me. I tell him about the coast, about cliffs that drop straight into the sea, about forests that feel endless and wild. I talk faster than I mean to, words spilling out as I describe them. He listens without interrupting, his attention fixed on me, the faintest smile at the corner of his mouth—as if he’s learning something important.
I eagerly explain my love for the ocean and anything water, excitedly talking about how much I adore the forever moving waters that have a whole new world underneath with such beautiful creatures that seem so alien to what you see above on land. I used to escape from the smog of the nearby factory's and the grime of the familiar cobbled streets with tales of vibrant corals and vast blue spaces, where life thrived no matter where you looked. Each creature, from the smallest sea snails to the largest basking sharks, are unique and wonderful to me with each one having such extravagant colours and lives.
Silas must have caught on that this is probably the most I'll ever talk so animatedly, so he probes and encourages with gentle hums that serve only to keep spurring me on in my sudden explosion of excitement as I explain my interests. His eyes glinting with amusement with each small fact and he hums at ones I give more emphasize on like they are the greatest thing he's heard all day.
I move on from marvelling about my favourite sharks like the bramble and thrasher sharks that likes to lurk near the rocky shores, to talking about how awesome and stunning forests are with how vast they can be with all the different types of fauna. I excitedly explain to him how every tree is connected with a mushroom network, which ultimately leads me to giggling over mushrooms and how cool they are with how they can actually communicate and "talk" to each other using spores.
Once my excitement dulls and I take a moment to actually breathe, having taken only short quick breaths during my impromptu ranting so that I could explain more about a random story I read a few days ago from a news paper, where a deer was caught eating human bones from a local cemetery. It was a very fun read... well, it was fun to me any way.
I don't quiet remember how that topic came about. Nevertheless, Silas just takes this opportunity to sneak in a low, throaty chuckle that brings a flush to my cheeks. I forgot most people don't gush about such random and - admittedly, morbid, things to strangers... or even know about those topics in the first place. I blame the library and my unrestricted access to every book and paper inside it.
"How fascinating, I do hope you'll keep humouring me with your facts you little whippersnapper. I have a feeling you'll like this train ride, it goes over a few lakes and through some very large forests. I'm sure you'll be quite chuffed with the sights." I barely feel my growing smile in my dimming excitement, growing more and more aware of how it dimples my cheeks and creases my eyes with how wide it is growing as I smile brightly back at his confident grin which shows off his perfect teeth.
The cabin lulls into a comfortable silence as I look back out the window again, now with a faint, content smile on my face and a more relaxed posture as I slowly swing my legs back and forth under the birth.
Another lurch of the train and a loud whistle of its horn signals the train's approaching departure. I watch as two more groups of people frantically rush into our train just as a worker comes to secure the doors closed. Their mad dash rewarded with smiles and helping hands as they are hoisted into the train car and handed back their luggage before the latches close for good.
Rattling, bangs and chatter sound around us as people settle down properly, whatever free cabins or seats left taken up as strangers sit next to strangers for the long ride we are all going on.
There's a thump behind my back as someone in the next cabin over slumps back in exhaustion, them too taking respite from the speed walking and pushing they had to endure to get here.
After a few moments of me listening to the sounds around us, a knock tapped at the cabin door and a shambling old man whose crooked glasses that threatened to fall off his nose at a moments notice, if it wasn't for the intent worn into the bridge of his nose from years of wearing it, slides open our cabin door with a ticket punch holstered like a brandished weapon held in his left hand.
Spindly, wrinkled fingers reach out for the tickets Silas already extended, my tag also nestled between his fingers has he holds them out for the old man to take.
My hand reaches up to try and feel for where my tag had dangled around my neck, but I am met with nothing there but my pendant. I didn't even realise Silas had swiped it from my neck. He must have taken it from when we entered the cabin. Or maybe when he had his hand on my shoulder when we were walking through the station.
The ticket inspector, a clippie Edna always used to call them, leans on the doorframe as he punches Silas's ticket and a pang of panic flairs up inside me when the inspector pauses at my tag and brings it closer to his cracked glasses. Does he know I'm not supposed to be here? I can see him already preparing to yell at me, my hand are already reaching for my shoes in preparation for him to yank me out and throw me off the train.
However I'm met with no such thing when he just punches my tag like normal, mistaking it for just another ticket. Not a surprise with how much he’s squinting behind the thick, bushy eyebrows that remind me of the fuzzy caterpillars you find on cracked pavements, and cracked glasses that you cant help but wonder how he manages to see at all.
What he does take notice of, what his attention seems to settle on with quiet certainty, is the stark difference between how Silas and I are dressed when the ticket inspector hands back Silas’s ticket and my tag. My clothes are thin and worn, stretched soft with age, my socks riddled with holes that leave my feet exposed to the cold air of the cabin. Standing beside Silas, with his tailored coat and careful polish, the contrast feels too sharp, like I’m something misplaced at his side.
I try to hide it without thinking, tugging my jumper down to cover my feet as I draw them up onto the seat, curling in on myself. I don’t get far. Silas moves at once, smooth and unhurried, drawing me firmly into his side.
His hand is careful—not gripping, not fully enclosing me, as though he’s measuring exactly how much of me he’s allowed to hold. He adjusts his grip just enough to remind me where I’m meant to stand. His coat comes around me next, being pulled from its folded neat form off his lap and gets draped over my shoulders and pulled close, shielding me from the cold and covering the obvious state of me, shielding me from the inspector’s lingering, weary stare.
The clippie clears his throat and asks where we’re headed. It sounds like small talk, the sort of question he’s asked a thousand times before, but there’s something searching beneath it, sharpened by age and habit. Silas answers easily, his voice smooth and unbothered, like he’s commenting on the weather or the headlines from that morning’s paper. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t glance at me for confirmation.
Whatever suspicion the man might have had seems to fade under Silas’s certainty. There’s something final in the way he speaks, something that suggests the matter is settled. Silas doesn’t loosen his hold right away. He keeps me close, his presence solid and enclosing, as if once claimed, there’s no reason to let go.
After all, why wouldn't a father hold his child?
“Ah,” Silas says easily, his voice warm with practiced fondness, “my son and I are headed off to Aberaeron. He adores the coastline, says there’s nothing quite like it. It’s stunning this time of year, really.” His hand rests at my side as he speaks, thumb brushing idly against my jumper's sleeve. “You know how boys are,” he adds with a soft, indulgent laugh. “Always chasing little adventures. I can’t tell you how often I must replace his socks—he’s forever wearing holes through them with all that energy.”
There’s a gentle amusement threaded through his explanation, the kind that sounds like a fond but tired father amused by his child. The ticket inspector seems to accept it without question, if the crooked grin tugging beneath his wiry moustache is anything to go by. He lets out a low chuckle, clearly charmed.
The clippie nods along as Silas speaks, offering small, sympathetic hums from his tired throat. He drifts into his own memories, talking about his sons when they were younger—how they’d come home with trousers torn wide at the knee, jackets split at the seams, never able to explain how it happened. Muddy boots scraped palms from climbing old fences they’d been warned to stay away from. He laughs softly as he recalls his wife scolding them by the fire, needle flashing as she mended the damage and mumbling under her breath while the boys sat red-faced and sheepish.
I feel distant from myself as it happens, like I’m watching my body play a role without asking me first. I can feel my face pulling into a small, embarrassed frown, my shoulders hunching just slightly, as if I really am a son caught out by a father’s teasing. It comes naturally, too naturally, and that realization makes my stomach flutter.
The ticket checker gives another thin, friendly smile before stepping back from the doorway. For a moment, it looks like he might close it behind him, then he seems to remember the rest of the train waiting on him, the long line of tickets and the job still to be done. He tips his hat once in farewell and moves on down the corridor.
The door clicks shut a moment later. I hear the latch slide into place, precise and final. Silas reaches up to draw the curtain closed again, shutting out the passing blur of the train. Even then, I don’t feel his or my own hold on each other loosen. If anything, it tightens subtly as he leans back into the firm cushions, keeping me close at his side, as though now that the world has looked away, there’s no longer any reason to pretend at distance.
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The whistle of the train next to ours cuts into the light air of our cabin and I watch as it starts to pull away with a whine. It wont be much longer till this train leaves and then I'll really be taken far away. That thought only brings an exited flutter in my chest, the one you get when your up past your bedtime with a flash light reading a book under your covers, your heart pounding as you expect your mother to burst into your room and ground you.
As the room slowly starts blurring around the edges, its then I realise just how heavy my limbs are and how hard it seems to keep my eyes open. The feeling only growing the longer I stay clutching onto Silas.
When my head drops onto his bicep before I could stop it, Silas takes notice of my growing tiredness and his hand moves up and down the expanse of my arm, soothing me deeper into my relaxed state.
The train jolts and shivers, and my tiredness goes in the blink of an eye as I scramble out Silas's hold, crawling from the seat onto the birth and I press my hands to the window. His coat still around my shoulders and draping behind me like the trains of a bride's veil.
The train is finally departing. This is it.
My breath fogs up the glass as I eagerly try to watch the wheels start to turn, the pole arms heaving with effort to get them to move. I lean my head back to glimpse at the worker who’s holding up two wooden sticks, waving them back and forth to signal for the train to start moving forward.
With a groan of effort whining around us, the train slowly crawls forward, its steel wheels rotating and clawing their way into a gentle roll.
Behind me I hear rumbling chuckling which I pointedly ignore as I keep my eyes rapt on how we slowly gain more and more speed with each minute that passes. In the corner of my eye, I can see children leaning dangerously out windows, arms out to reaching mothers or aunts, waving and hollering final goodbyes.
I sit back down with a content sigh, ears picking up the shuffling of fabric from behind me as Silas shuffles a bit closer to the birth, his piercing lagoon green eyes watching with a tilt of his head as I settle down. There's a smile I can't quite place that stretches his lips, like he really believes himself my father watching on in amusement.
“My how eager, you really do like trains hmm? Its best you settle down now, its gonna take a few until we leave the city, and another few till we get near our destination.” His words are calm, but I sense a hesitation radiating off him. His leg bounces and a pinkie twitch on the fabric of his trousers, wrinkling it slightly.
Before I can stop myself, my hands already patting besides me and I shuffle closer to the wall, eyes blinking slowly at him as I offer the space next to me. “Well... if- it's going to be a while; you can lay here too. I- don't mind Mr Silas.”
I preen internally at the widening shock in Silas's eyes, his shoulders jerking as he blinks a few times. He’s deathly still for a hot second, making my stomach twist with worry, but then in a second he goes from being sat, to led down in the space I patted, pulling me into his lap with a jerky, tight grip.
His nose is buried in my curls, and my cheek pressed against the chain of his pocket watch. My legs draw up to my chest, an arm wrapped loosely around my ankles and the other playing with a button.
Beyond the rattling glass of the cabin, grey macabre buildings rush by in the blink of an eye as the train picks up speed. The factory and dense patches of homes slowly grow more distant with actual back gardens and small parks dotted here and there. My eye is drawn to a raised building, an elegant townhouse I walk past when going to school.
Silas notices it too, and without lifting his head from my hair, he rumbles into my skull. “That, little Oliver, is my home. Well, the home I use for business. Bristol is a very active city with many people I wish to hire” Now it's my turn to blink in surprise, leaning my head back to look up at him with my mouth agape in shock.
“Really? That's... huh, small world. I- walk past it whenever I go to school... I helped with cleaning your yard a few times to make up for accidental wondering in once. Your servants are really kind.” My mumbled words earn me hearty chuckles that bounce me up and down on his chest, his hand tightening around my forearm.
“Oh child, I know. I watched from my study, no wonder why you felt familiar to me. It really is a small world as you say.” Silas’s laughter softens to low hums that vibrate my back, his cheek resting on the crown of my head.
“Did you at least enjoy cleaning my yard? It was always amusing watching you handle that rake" my cheeks flush in embarrassment at the memory and I can't help but pout, my cheeks puffing out which earns a poke from Silas.
I take a moment to respond, head tilting to the side both to escape his poking finger and to rest it against his side. “Yeah... it was kinda nice. And I think I handled that rake with ease! Not my fault you have a ten-foot rake...” I know I'm exaggerating, but I can't help but let the teasing slip in my comfortable state. The rake was only four foot tall anyways.
Talking comes easier after this small revelation, and we find ourselves talking about the few times we interacted before. It was mainly Silas teasing me about when he watched me trip and stumble and me complaining about how a front yard shouldn’t be that big in the first place.
Trying to be sneaky, I pretend to yawn and stretch out, snuggling closer into Silas's side with my knees resting over his lap, my hands fisting in his waist coat which he unbuttoned a while ago. The when escapes my mind as I slowly blink away the growing tiredness.
My finger pokes back at his hand as he rests it down on my thigh, his thumb rubbing up and down, it occasionally slipping under the hem of my woollen jumper to thumb at my shirt underneath.
“Hey... Mr Silas? Why are you leaving town... I-I though all the men had to stay and go into the army?” This thought has been nagging at the back of my mind for a little while. All the men I saw that stayed were old like the clippie or they were hurt and had some kind of defect a recruiter would frown at, like that father at the station with the cripple leg.
Silas was, by all appearances, perfectly healthy. There was no hitch in his step when he walked, no stiffness or favouring of one side, no obvious mark of injury that might have spared him from being sent away. He had both hands, both eyes, and the faint silver threaded and peppered through his hair made it clear he was well past boyhood, certainly not too young to be drafted. If anything, he looked exactly like the sort of man people would expect to be called upon.
He’s quiet for a moment when I bring it up, thoughtful in a way that feels measured rather than uncertain. His hand shifts from my thigh to my hip, fingers settling there with a gentle squeeze, grounding and deliberate. “Well…” he says slowly, “my business doesn’t allow me the luxury of leaving to serve.” There’s no regret in his tone, only fact. “I do have people who can manage things in my absence, but I can’t simply disappear. Not now.” His thumb presses once, absent-minded. “Besides, half my workforce has already been drafted. I’m still in the process of replacing what’s been lost.”
I hum softly in response, nodding even though I don’t fully understand. My mind drifts, trying to picture what kind of work could possibly hold a man like him in place. A lawyer, maybe. Some kind of government official. He certainly looks the part in his tailored suit and neatly kept hair—someone used to high-stakes decisions and comfortable outcomes.
“It’s why I was down there in the first place,” Silas continues. “There’s good labour in Bristol. Skilled people. Tradesmen and women worth hiring.” His gaze lifts toward the wooden ceiling of the carriage as he speaks, as though he’s already looking past this moment. His thumb traces slow, idle patterns along the curve of my hip. “Now I’m going home. To my real home.”
I don’t answer. I turn my head back toward the window, watching the city finally fall away behind us. The tracks cut through open land now—fields stretching out on either side, broken up by hedges and scattered trees, sheep clustered near fence lines like pale stones. The farther we go, the quieter it feels.
If he’s going to his real home… is he taking me there too? Or... would he leave me alone?
The thought feels childish as soon as it forms, but it won’t leave. Would he simply put me off somewhere else, at some small, unfamiliar stop? Would he tire of me, of how quiet or awkward I am, and decide I wasn’t worth the trouble after all? The image of being left alone in the middle of nowhere makes my chest tighten.
He wouldn’t do that.
…Would he?
I stare out at the passing fields, waiting for some reassurance I don’t quite know how to ask for, while Silas's hand remains steady at my side, as if my place has already been decided.
Deciding to bite the bullet, I finally ask him, keeping my eyes trained on the land sliding past the window, even though they ache to turn toward him, to search his face for something, anything, that might tell me if I’m right.
“Mr Silas I…”
“Just Silas is fine, my dear. No need for honorifics”
I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. “Silas… are you- am I- are you taking me to your home?”
There’s a pause. Long enough that my heart starts to race. For a moment there’s only the sound of the train. Then Silas bursts into rolling laughter. It’s sudden and full, the kind that bends him forward as his stomach tightens and he has to brace himself. His other hand comes to rest on my shoulder, the movement familiar, possessive. His chuckling shakes me gently as the cabin fills with his amusement.
“Oh, child,” he says fondly, wiping at the corner of his eye, “you do make me laugh. That takes some moxie, asking me something like that.” He straightens, his laughter tapering into a pleased smile. “Of course you’re coming home with me. That is—” He tilts his head, as if considering the idea for the first time. “If that’s what you want, of course. Though I suppose the moment for asking has already passed. You did come along without resistance.”
I stare at him, wide-eyed, before looking away, my body curling closer to his side. I press my face into his chest, hiding the small, traitorous smile that creeps across my lips.
I really shouldn’t feel this relieved.
“You’ll be with me,” Silas continues softly. His voice has changed—lower, steadier, like a conclusion already reached. His arm shifts around me, drawing me in until there’s no space left to consider.
“And I will take care of you. I didn’t choose you at random, Oliver.” His fingers flex once at my back, possessive, assured. “I noticed you long before today. The way you moved. The way you watched. I knew you were special the moment you passed my study.”
He exhales slowly, satisfied.
“I knew,” he adds quietly, “that eventually, you would be mine.”
The words don’t feel like a threat. They feel like a statement of fact. The train keeps moving, the countryside blurring past, and Silas holds me exactly where he wants me, as if this outcome had never been in question at all.
I don’t answer. I listen to the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath my ear, to the distant rattle of the tracks, and watch the world outside slip farther away. Silas adjusts his hold once more, deliberate and careful, as if making sure I’m exactly where he wants me, and the thought sends a strange, quiet shiver through me.
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