Four

TESS AWOKE WITH a start, then had a second one as she realized she was leaning on the shoulder of her seatmate.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she said, scrambling upright.

The man did not answer or even turn her way. He just continued talking to the woman seated across from her.

Woman seated across from her?

When Tess fell asleep, there had been no row facing hers.

She took another look at the woman. And at the child sitting directly in front of Tess, swinging his legs against the seat. The woman wore a fancy dress, like something for a garden party. The boy was about five, dressed in a little suit coat with a bow tie and shorts. Not an outfit a child would wear. Not these days.

Tess pressed her palms to her eyes. Go away. Just go away. When she opened them, the family was still there, the boy whining that the trip was taking so long.

“You can’t see me, can you?” she said.

“Mama!” he wailed. “Answer me!”

“I’m talking to your father, dear. Now hush.”

“I’ll answer you,” Tess said, but she knew he wouldn’t respond. They never did. Unlike the man in Toronto, these ones weren’t ghosts. She seemed like the phantom. In their world. In their time. Which wasn’t possible, but that was exactly what it was like, as if she’d passed through into another period and all she could do was watch until—

They disappeared. Just like that. Quite literally, in the blink of an eye. They vanished, and Tess was back in her regular seat, with no one beside her, her hands clutching the armrests so tightly her fingers ached.

What’s happening to me?

It was a question so old she didn’t know why she bothered to ask it anymore. It wasn’t as if the skies would part and a voice would boom the answer. And if it did…

You’re going crazy.

Tess jumped as if she’d actually heard the voice. She hadn’t. It wasn’t that kind of crazy. The voice was her own, deep inside her, giving the only plausible explanation.

Billy swore it was ghosts. The fact that she rarely saw ones like the man in Toronto—old-fashioned figures in her world—but mostly seemed to step into theirs didn’t matter to him.

“It can still be ghosts,” he said. “Not just ghost people, but ghost houses and ghost cars.” And now ghost trains.

Tess knew that wasn’t the answer. She could touch the people in other worlds, like the man whose shoulder she’d rested on. Yet she couldn’t communicate with them, and if they were really ghosts, wouldn’t that be the point of her seeing them? For them to speak to her? Convey an urgent message for the living?

She thought of the man she’d seen outside the train station. The man she’d known, by his clothing, was one of her visions. He’d made no attempt to speak to her. He hadn’t even noticed her. So why did she see him?

Tess and Billy had read every book they could find on ghosts, even a special one he’d ordered from Toronto. Nothing in them had supported his theory. That didn’t mean he’d give it up though. Tess wasn’t crazy. She was just special. Nothing would change his mind about that. And she loved him for it, even if she knew he was wrong.

Billy was the only one who knew her secret. When she was nine, she’d made the mistake of getting caught talking to someone who wasn’t there. She could tell they were visions if their clothing was different enough, but other times it wasn’t so obvious. She’d been downstairs in the Home and seen a young woman when they were expecting a new music teacher. Tess went over to introduce herself. Another girl had been there. Nancy. Two years older than Tess and as mean as a snake. It didn’t help that Tess had gone after Nancy a few weeks before, when she caught her bullying one of the little girls. They’d both been punished—violence was never the solution, the matron said—but Nancy had still wanted revenge, which she’d gotten when she caught Tess talking to a woman who wasn’t there.

It hadn’t been as bad as it could have been. Tess had denied that it happened, and most of the girls had believed her. She’d hated lying to save herself, but not as much as she hated the odd looks she got from some girls for months afterward. Even that, she supposed, wasn’t terrible. They were just looks. It wasn’t as if they called her crazy.

It still felt like crazy. That was the thing. For as long as she could remember, she’d seen the phantom people and slipped into their world, yet even as a little girl she’d never told anyone, because she knew it was wrong and she knew she must never tell anyone. She knew that as well as she knew her name. More, even, because her name wasn’t necessarily her own.

This was her secret. Her burden. Her crazy.

Tess had plans for when the train arrived in Montreal. She would shop. Briefly, of course, but the train would arrive close to dinnertime, and she had no idea how long it would take to get to Sainte-Suzanne, only that the map said it was about fifty miles north of Montreal. She couldn’t make it there that day.

Billy’s mother knew someone who had recommended a Montreal hotel near the train station—inexpensive but safe. That meant Tess would have time to shop. She would spend the princely sum of twenty dollars on new clothing. No more. No less either. This was her treat to herself.

She’d even written a list on the train. It included underthings. Grown-up ones. Perhaps even with lace. Mrs. Hazelton would be scandalized by that even more than her new boots. The old woman seemed to think that buying fancy underthings meant you planned to show them to someone. Which was ridiculous. It didn’t matter if no one else saw them. Tess would, and they’d make her feel grown-up and pretty.

Yes, there were better things to be than pretty, and Tess wanted all of them. Smart, talented, adventurous, witty…But adding pretty to the list was just fine as long as there was a list and it wasn’t at the top. And it wasn’t as if she aspired to be beautiful, which she knew was out of her reach—her nose and chin were too sharp, and her eyes too big. But pretty was a reasonable and attainable goal.

So she’d had a shopping list. After seeing the family on the train, though, fashion was the last thing on her mind. She wandered out of the station and along the surrounding roads. There were shops, but none enticed her, and finally she forced herself to peruse the goods on the carts along the roadway.

Still nothing caught her attention. It was mostly jewelry, and she was not particularly drawn to baubles. Then she saw some bright scarves fluttering in the breeze, and they were like butterflies on an overcast day, welcome flashes of color in the gloom. When she touched one, the young cart owner snapped at her, words coming like machine-gun bullets, too fast for Tess to decipher, but the meaning was clear enough. Don’t touch. Tess hesitated, feeling the gray cloud threaten again, but she pulled herself upright, murmured a polite “Excusez-moi” and settled for eyeing the scarves.

She found the one she wanted quickly enough. It was blue and yellow, the dyes entwining and mingling like watercolors in the fabric, which she was certain was silk. She reached out, not touching it, and said, “Puis-je?” May I? The woman took in the cut of Tess’s clothes, then her boots and suitcase. It was the latter two that seemed to satisfy her, and she nodded curtly.

It was indeed silk. Not cheap imitation goods for tourists, but a true dyed-silk scarf, the kind she’d dreamed of owning. The price? Seven dollars. Tess tried not to gasp. It was worth it—she knew that. Yet that had to be almost as much as Billy would have paid for her boots.

She could bargain. One of the girls in the Home had been to Toronto and explained that with street carts, one was expected to dicker, as if it was an Arabian market.

“Cinq dollars,” she said. Five dollars, which was perfectly reasonable as a starting point.

The woman peered at her as if she were speaking Swahili. “Je ne comprends pas.” I do not understand.

“Cinq dollars,” Tess repeated carefully.

“Je ne comprends pas.”

There was no way the woman could fail to understand two simple and easily pronounced words. It was a game, Tess realized, with a flash of annoyance.

“Cinq dollars, cinquante cents.”

“Je ne parle pas Anglais.” I do not speak English.

“Je parle Français,” Tess replied. I speak French.

The woman rolled her eyes in dispute and then launched into a volley of rapid-fire French, ending in a question that Tess couldn’t possibly answer, because she’d not understood a word the woman said. That, she realized, was the point. Mocking her. You do not really speak French, little girl.

“Six dollars.” While the pronunciation was slightly different, it meant the same in either language, which should have simplified matters, but the woman still feigned noncomprehension.

A hand reached over and snatched up the scarf. Tess staggered back a step to see a man there. He was old, at least sixty, with wild white hair and a cane. He didn’t even look her way, just said something in quick French to the woman. She nodded. Cash was exchanged. Six dollars cash.

The man took the scarf. Then he turned to Tess. “Six dollars, c’est bien ça?”

“Oui,” she said tentatively.

She reached into her wallet and pulled out a five and a one. They exchanged money for the scarf. The man gave her a twist of a smile. “Welcome to Montreal, mademoiselle.”

“Merci beaucoup.”

A slight bow. “Je vous en prie.” You’re welcome.

He nodded, then turned to the young woman and lit into her, his tone saying he was less than pleased with the welcome she’d given a young visitor to Montreal. Tess tucked the scarf deep into her cheap handbag and hurried off.