#IINYE

[best-left-hook-jones]

It Is Not Yet Evening (7/?)

Summary: Historical AU. It is 1917, and with the Russian empire on the verge of collapse, Emma - a former maid for the Imperial family - means to escape the imminent revolution and start a new life in London. Desperately fleeing the Bolsheviks and armed with fake documents and a new identity, she sets out to find the mysterious man with the power to grant her her freedom. But the road to Moscow is a treacherous one, and a chance encounter with a wealthy British businessman may change her life forever.

Words: 30,189

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7

23 km South of Vyshny Volochyok; March 14th, 1917. 12:45am.

Emma had feigned sleep when Killian had entered the cabin twenty minutes later.

Twenty minutes after absolutely and resolutely nothing had happened.

Perhaps it had been childish, but she hadn’t been able to bear facing him after the near kiss in the hallway, and by the sounds of his footsteps wearing holes in the flooring outside, neither could he. So she had sat, wringing her hands in her lap and trying to muster the courage to say or do anything. Leaving was not an option; she was still in need of the money that came with her task and there was clearly no reason to fear him making any sort of unwelcome advances against her. He had been the one to back off first, after all.

But the question was why.

While she chastised herself now for her stupidity, it wasn’t as though the evening had gone poorly. In fact, she had to admit that she had been rather enjoying herself until the night had taken an unexpected turn. He had wanted to kiss her, she had been sure of it. The heat in his eyes, the small parting of his lips as his gaze had flickered down to her own. She had only been kissed a handful of times - and most of those were stolen kisses from her youth, when a celebratory atmosphere and the gentle words of the kitchen boy had been enough to sweep her off of her feet. But as out of practice as she might have been, Emma was sure she knew the signs, and in that moment Killian Jones had wanted her.

For a cruel moment she allowed herself to think that he had been intentionally playing with her, a sort of payback for her teasing at the table, but she quickly shook it off. Whatever had happened, it hadn’t been because of that. He had been a good listener and she was sure that he hadn’t feigned his interest in her tales about happier times at the palace, even if most of the details had had to be tweaked. It had been difficult to find topics that were entirely safe to discuss without compromising her identity, but as the evening had wore on she had found a sort of rhythm. Her words had flowed naturally off of her tongue and she had allowed herself to be immersed in the memories of hot summer days in the palace gardens, evening strolls through the hallways with Granny and morning breakfasts with Ruby. Despite the homesickness she had felt at points, their conversation had been cathartic and she had been glad to share her tales with someone.

He had not revealed much about himself - he had mostly asked questions about herself - but she had learned one thing of importance; he had loved and lost someone dear to him. Milah . Seeing the tattoo on his wrist had admittedly shocked her; she had never seen anyone of his wealth and rank bear one and certainly not one of personal significance. Though she had been eager to know more, she hadn’t asked; just because he literally wore his heart on his sleeve did not mean it was a story he wished to share with her. As someone who kept more than her share of cards held close to her chest, she understood that, and she had kept that knowledge at the back of her mind throughout the rest of their dinner together.

If she was honest, her thoughts had flickered to the scrawled ink name moments before their near kiss. Part of her had wanted to test - to know - what role this woman still played in his life, if any. She liked to think that the Killian Jones that she had come to know over the past few hours would not have kissed her if there was a woman waiting at home for him. If his reaction were any proof, she couldn’t rule it out.

But something in her gut told her that that wasn’t the entire story. This was not a man who was struggling with the temptation of an affair. Whoever this 'Milah' woman was, Killian truly loved her and longed for her. It was not a move made out of lust, but one made out of longing for another. It was the only truth that made sense.

He had said that the tattoo was a remembrance for someone in his past, but Emma was not so naive as to think that that meant that the past was still in the past. She had seen the same haunted look before in Victor, the court physician. Dr. Whale had always been kind to her and the royals, a faithful servant to the empire and one of the cornerstones in the battle for the tsarevich's health. But he had ghosts of his own, and his often came in the form of his two eldest sons who had died in the last war. He had never spoken to her about them, but word had made its way through the palace as it often did and she knew how much the loss tormented him, even now. No one ever doubted the doctor’s dedication to his work or to the family, but Emma sometimes wondered if there was another reason for Victor's long hours of study, constantly attempting to find a way to heal without end. Emma had thought the pursuit extreme, but it had seemed to settle his mind. And whatever helped ease the loneliness and sorrow for even the slightest moment had to be good, did it not?

Perhaps that had been all that the moment had been to Killian; not a heated urge to scratch an itch caused by close quarters on a long train ride, but a momentary longing to soothe an ache in his heart.

The thoughts swirled in her mind as she considered everything anew. When they finally settled again, she came to a decision; it mattered very little why Killian had backed off. It only mattered that he had and that they had stumbled upon another boundary that would now need to be respected. There was no reason to discuss it; the 'nothing' that had happened could remain just that.      

And so she had closed her eyes and evened her breathing when the sound of the door sliding open had filled the otherwise silent cabin. She had heard him step into the room, his footfalls cautious and uncertain as he made his way to stand just in front of her.

He blew out a long sigh, the scent of rum strong on his breath. It seemed he had decided to dip back into his stash while out in the hallway. She couldn’t really blame a man for turning to his second vice when the first failed miserably. Emma had known many alcoholics in her time at the palace, and their stories all seemed to sound the same; it was far easier to forgive oneself when you no longer remembered your own name.    

The sound of a heavy coat being slung over a hook near the door followed next, and she heard him kick off his shoes before the creak of the leather seats let her know that he had moved to the bench across from her. Even with her eyes closed, Emma could tell the moment that Killian dimmed the oil lamp between them, the last bit of light that she had been able to make out through her eyelids snuffed out. There was silence again, and Emma worried that he was on to her little deception. Worse, she worried that he would call her out on it, forcing her into a conversation she dearly wished not to have.

But no such comment came, and before long, the man’s breaths began to relax and deepen into a light snore. Emma waited another few moments to be sure before cracking open an eye. The oil lamp hadn't been entirely extinguished as she had thought, the small flame left burning giving off just enough warmth and light to make out the features of her companion. Sure enough, he was passed out in the seat across from her, his lips slightly parted and his body relaxed.

Even though Killian’s suggestion to rest was well advised, she wouldn’t. Her mind was too full, the leather seat covering too unfamiliar beneath her. Instead, she watched the man sleep, his head pillowed on a jacket that he had tucked between himself and the window. It was amazing that he was able to sleep with the heavy rocking of the train. She had never been one to sleep, even on the few excursions she had made by train with the imperial family. She was always keenly aware of every knot and rivet in the tracks, jostled awake by even the smallest of tremors.

Her companion, on the other hand, seemed quite capable of finding himself comfortable no matter how cramped the conditions. It could not have helped matters that he had fallen asleep with his leather satchel wedged between his right side and the window, the bulky item no doubt digging painfully into his side. He would awaken sore if he remained like that, she was sure.

With a sigh she scooted forward and with one hand, slowly inched the satchel out from under him, careful not to disturb him. With the other hand, she stuffed her own wool shawl in the space where the bag had been, feeling victorious and satisfied when the man immediately snuggled in closer to the soft bundle.    

She sat back again in her seat, the bag resting heavy in her lap as she watched him settle back into a deeper sleep. The bag was heavier than it looked. It appeared well-loved too, with the likely once fine leather now covered in light scuff marks. She could tell where someone had attempted to clean it in spots, where the colour seemed slightly more rubbed and faded, but it was the large, metal insignia adorning one of the flaps. It was round, about the size of her palm, with three stars arranged in a vertical line down the middle.  Though it might not have been as lavishly intricate as some of the designs she was used to seeing decorating the imperial officers, it was clearly a symbol that held power and it was clearly military. On the backside of the flap was a single name, engraved in gold letters of looping scrawl; JONES. Well, at least there were no surprises there.

It was strange to think of the man in front of her having any association with war. That was not to say that he did not have the physique for war - he did. He appeared tall and strong and, despite the borderline alcoholism, perfectly healthy. But his face wasn’t covered in half healed scars and his hair was longer than was suitable for uniform. There was a kindness and a tenderness about him that didn’t fit her vision of the bloodstained and battle-hardened soldier.

Of course, there was a way to find out more; the answer was sitting in her lap. All she had to do was open it. He was asleep, after all, and it might be the only chance that she would be given to learn more about her travelling companion.

She waved and clicked her fingers in the air between them to ensure that he was well and truly asleep. When there was nothing, she opened the bag and began her search.

The inside of the bag was neat - extraordinarily neat. Whoever Killian Jones was, he was clearly a man of discipline and orderliness, someone who took great care of his possessions. It fit, given the evidence of his military past. Everything in the bag seemed to have its own assigned place, right down to the small blue ink pen poking up from one of the inside pockets.

Most of the items in the bag were fairly standard, she discovered. A book about navigation, a bottle of pain medicine, some papers with the date and times of cargo shipments, a change of clothes, a toothbrush, a small jar of toothpaste and a comb. She was only relieved that Killian hadn’t been awake to witness her blush furiously at her delicate handling of his undergarments. The shipment ledgers did not reveal anything of interest either, though she did note that most of the payments seemed to be made in ports in Petrograd and London. She had to scoot closer to the lamp to read the mix of bold printed letters and delicate scrawl. Many of the cargo shipments from the Admiralty Shipyard bore Killian’s signature, and those that remained unsigned had small notes scribed in the margins.

Emma was by no means an expert in espionage, but from the looks of it, everything at least appeared to be in order.

“I never took you for a thief.”

Emma jumped so high in her seat that she was lucky not to have dislocated something. Her head snapped up to find piercing blue eyes staring at her from the bench across from her. He hadn’t moved from his spot, his head still tucked into his makeshift pillow, but there was no sign of sleep in his features now. He had clearly been watching her for a while now. Emma’s heart nearly stopped in her chest.

“I am not a thief,” she breathed out, the nerves in her voice evident.  

“Really?” He raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the satchel still grasped in her hands.

She couldn’t think of a single word to bring to her defence. “I was just…”

“Just trying to see what kind of man I really am?” His voice was harsher now, his anger no doubt building from the look of guilt on her face. “Try something new, love. It is called ‘trust’.”

“I am sorry.”

“That you were caught red handed? I am certain you are.”

“For betraying your trust,” she continued, ignoring his quip. “You took a chance by allowing me to share your cabin and I abused it. It will not happen again. I am so very sorry.”

Emma rushed to replace everything in the satchel as it was before, but it was made more difficult by the slight shaking of her hands. She did blush as she replaced the clothes, and though she racked her brain to remember the exact location that each item had been in when she had removed them, she was sure that at least some were inevitably going to be misplaced. It only helped fuel her shame as she wondered how much angrier he would be at the disorganization.

When everything was at least back in the bag, she fastened the flaps shut and handed the bag back to its owner. Killian accepted it with a harsh tug, shoving the bag into the seat next to him. Instead of tucking the bag away, he opened it again, his eyes flickering to hers as he checked and rechecked the contents. He had moved out of the range of the light, and Emma could no longer make out the flurry of emotions on his face. Emma sat back, avoiding his gaze as she chewed on her bottom lip. It was a moment later that she heard Killian let out a resigned huff and toss the bag back on the seat.

He had turned back towards the light and Emma quickly looked up to examine his face. Although he seemed relieved to find his possessions relatively untouched, there were still obvious traces of annoyance in his face.

It made her flinch. She had made a terrible mistake. She had spied on him and learned only that he seemed to be as truthful and honest as he appeared. How many times had she blasted him for making their arrangement personal? Chastised him for asking for answers to questions that he had no business knowing? She was a hypocrite, plain and simple. He would make her leave now, she was sure of it. Why would he not? She had betrayed the abundance of trust he had shown her by inviting her into his cabin, sharing his meals, and offering her pay for a job that she wasn’t entirely convinced he needed done. Leave it to her to treat an act of kindness with suspicion and distrust. She deserved to be kicked out, left to spend the rest of the journey in her third class carriage with the rest of the thieves and vagabonds.

Emma sat, eyes shut tight as she waited, resigned, for the words to come. She only hoped that he would be kind and that he would not ask her to pay for her half of the meal they had enjoyed together. She would not fault him if he did, but she wasn't sure she would be afford it. Even a quarter of the meal would have set her finances back a ways, and she hadn't meant to be so careless with her money so early on. She was barely hours away from home and she was already struggling to pay her debts.

But when the words of eviction never came, she opened her eyes. Killian had shifted back into his previous pose, his coat once again tucked against the window to keep the cold at bay, but he wasn’t asleep. He was reading, the novel that she had found in his bag now clutched in one hand, his eyes focus determinedly on the words in front of him. She was sure that he was having trouble making out the words in such dim light, but he made no move to illuminate the flame further and she did not mention it. Other than the slight tightness in his brow, there was no trace in his posture that an argument had just taken place.

Even though his gaze was pointedly elsewhere, Emma squirmed in her seat. What was she meant to do now? The prospect of sitting in awkward silence for the next dozen hours was infinitely worse than sitting alone, she thought. She needed to say something. She needed to fix things. So she asked the first question that came to her mind.

“You are not going to sleep?”

“Are you hoping to catch me unawares again?” He snapped back without looking up, though his tone held much less fire than it had before.

“That was not what I meant.”

This time he did look up, disappointment and resignation clear in the blue pools of his eyes.

“Perhaps instead of worrying about my own sleeping habits, you should return your attention to your own,” he advised, with a sigh. “You cannot expect to accompany me the entire journey to Moscow without resting.”  

“So I can - er - that is to say that you are not going to…” She was stuttering, she knew that, but she couldn't help her surprise. Was he truly letting her stay?

He looked at her curiously, his head tilting to the side and he took in her confusion. “Did you think I was going to ask you to leave?”

She blushed at how easily he had read her. “I was not sure,” she admitted. Her confession seemed to startle him, as though the thought that he would dismiss her so easily was somehow offensive to him. Given what she had learned about his character, perhaps it was. Emma watched his eyes flicker between her own as he looked at her anew. She wasn't sure what he was looking for exactly, but when he spoke again a moment later - his voice soft - she thought he hadn't found it.

“Perhaps, then, we are in more trouble than I had realized.”

There was a pregnant pause where no one spoke, the weight of the confessed distrust and wariness hanging between them. It was a far cry from the laughter and joking that had taken place only a few hours before, and Emma hated that she had been the one to sully that. He was still staring at her intently, but now there were hints of sorrow mixed in with the lingering anger in his eyes. She had disappointed him, and in more ways than just her snooping, it seemed. The knowledge that she had given him a reason to distrust her - that she had brought him any discomfort at all, really - sat heavy in her stomach. Granny would have been disappointed in her.

Her parents would have been disappointed in her.

Killian turned his attention away from her then and began reading his book. Emma had been a maid long enough to recognize a clear dismissal when presented with one. In any other circumstances she would have flushed at his rudeness, but given that she was largely at fault for his sour mood to begin with, she said nothing.

This was not how she had envisioned the trip going. It should have been a cut and dry job for her, something that provided her with the cash that she needed. Nothing more. But now she had complicated things by being nosy - the one thing that she had argued against from the beginning - and she only hoped that with the morning would come forgiveness. If not, she would need to prepare herself for hours of silence and solitude.

But there was no use in worrying over that now. She had made her bed, and it was time to lie in it, even if she knew that Killian’s advice to rest in the literal sense was likely futile. Still, she would try, even if just to appease him. He did not appear to be trying to sleep again any time soon, and perhaps if she pretended long enough he would get his wish and she would doze off for a while. So Emma sat back in her seat, tucking her legs up underneath her as she settled into a position that mirrored Killian's. She brought up her coat around her neck and tucked her head into the large folds, shielding her face from the man across from her lest he find out that she had also been feigning sleep. Emma wasn’t sure - or willing to find out - what his reaction to that would be. Peeking through her eyelashes, she looked out the window and prepared for the long night ahead.

There was nothing to see given the late hour, but every so often she could swear she saw flickers of lights from towns in the distance. It was impossible, of course, given the restrictions on fuel, but she felt the exhaustion of the day overtake her and her mind clung on to the thought that somewhere out there were houses where families with full, warm hearths lay cozied together in a large bed, blissfully uncaring of the storm that raged around them. She could almost see it in her mind’s eye. Perhaps the children were snuggled in between their parents, wool socks pulled up high to keep out any cold that the hot fire missed. She hoped the children had gone to bed with full bellies tonight, but even in her imagination she was doubtful. The husband would have kissed his wife goodnight hours ago, she thought, and though he would hear her complaints and teases about the prickliness of his beard, in the morning he would wake to a steaming cup of tea from the samovar.

Emma let the scene wash over her, her body relaxing as the face of the nameless wife flickered between a stranger’s and her own. Even the spark of envy in her gut towards the fictional lady was not enough to dull the visions, and soon her mind was deep into memories of her childhood and her secret dreams for her future. Every so often, the sound of a page being turned entered her awareness and, almost on cue, the scene would change again. The visions danced across the inside of her eyelids like scenes from a film, though they were vibrant in colour, sound and smell. Slowly, she felt the last of her tension give way and, for the first time ever, she let the rocking of a train lull her to a deep slumber.

Emma was already long asleep by the time the locomotive pulled in to the next station, the black puffs of smoke blending seamlessly into the night sky. Although the train would only be at rest for a few minutes, the dark figures that had been waiting on the platform for hours for its arrival were quick. They emerged out of the night like ghosts, nodding sharply at the train attendants as they boarded the sleeper train. The attendants only nodded back, stepping aside to allow one of the groups of the armed men to pass.

The first pair of boots clambered up the short steps at the front of the train to where the conductor was waiting, hat in hand.

“Good evening.” The conductor’s voice was firm, a clear attempt at establishing his authority of his visitors. It may have been regulation to allow the military men on board, but it was still his train and he wasn’t prepared to hand over control so easily. It a sentiment that was quickly brushed aside by the military officer before him.

“Your passenger and cargo lists, conductor.” When the conductor hesitated, gearing himself up to remind him just who it was that was in charge, he added, “Quickly now.”  

After another moment of indecision, the conductor relented, shuffling over to gather the requested papers. When they were handed over, the officer turned away without another word and marched back out into the small hallway and down the steps to the platform where the rest of the unit remained. The papers were divided up between the awaiting men, who quickly scanned the pages, their eyes squinting against the dark and snow. The papers blew and shook in their hands with the wind, but not a single man said a word. The leader of the group waited as they read, the flicker of a lighter briefly illuminating his dark features as he lit a fresh cigarette.

Another moment passed as the soldiers finished their pages one by one. When the last man had signaled their readiness, the leader threw down his cigarette butt, crushing it into the snow using the heel of his boot.

“Let’s us begin.”

[best-left-hook-jones]

It Is Not Yet Evening (5/?)

Summary: Historical AU. It is 1917, and with the Russian empire on the verge of collapse, Emma - a former maid for the Imperial family - means to escape the imminent revolution and start a new life in London. Desperately fleeing the Bolsheviks and armed with fake documents and a new identity, she sets out to find the mysterious man with the power to grant her her freedom. But the road to Moscow is a treacherous one, and a chance encounter with a wealthy British businessman may change her life forever.

Words: 21,000

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

0.8km East of Tosno; March 14th, 1917. 4:57pm.

They had had to sprint to his cabin when the locomotive finally came to a stop at the station in Tosno; the train would only be stalled a short while before they were due to depart again, and Emma had not been keen on weathering the same storm that her strange new companion had. In fact, as Killian had paused for the fourth time to help her across the platform between the train carriages, Emma had had to wonder how he had managed to cross the first time unaided and barreling down the slick track at full speed. She hoped he wasn't completely insane.

Then again, perhaps she was completely insane for agreeing to this madness to begin with.

Admittedly, she had been taken off guard by his offer. When the train had begun to decelerate into the station, she had attributed his initial look of disappointment and frustration to his wavering regard for her. The wealthy man was probably missing his luxurious, first-class cabin now, she had thought wryly. Though he had been facing away from her, she had easily imagined the look of disdain on his face. Emma had met more than enough dignitaries to know the look; it was the torn expression of someone who was used to gossiping about the vagabonds but, on the rare occasion that they were forced into the same breathing space, had the good sense to at least hold their tongues. Well, at least until they had passed out of their presence.

So when he had instead expressed his wish for her to accompany him, she had - quite understandably, she thought - mistaken his proposition as something less than gracious. The quick clarification had not been enough to dispel the rather inappropriate visions that had immediately filled her mind and she had not been able to stave her blush.

He was handsome - there was no denying it - but that was not reason enough to follow a stranger into their cabin on a fairly fantastical promise. A lump sum of rubles to act as a temporary translator and to stay in first class accommodations? The deal sounded too good to be true and her walls had immediately been thrown up.

But the businessman had been correct; she did, in fact, need the money. The trip to London was going to be long and she was going to need to keep a tight hold on her funds as it was. Besides, she was exhausted from the earlier trip and she was already dearly missing her bed. She had been cramped and uncomfortable curled up on the wooden floor, and the idea of a soft bench nearly made her groan in anticipation.

As the circulation began returning to her limbs, her mind began compiling boundaries and rules concerning her new position. He had only asked for her to accompany him to Moscow, and there was no reason for that to be an issue for her. He hadn’t asked for any papers or documents from her, and he did not seem to either know or care about the possibility of her being a fraud. As long as it remained that way, her cover would remain intact.

The walls she worked so hard to maintain were not going to be felled by a handsome face.

Still, Emma thought. Perhaps it would be easier to make her boundaries clear without his ridiculously blue eyes staring her down.

She piped up as they entered his cabin, turning to slide the lock on the door into place.

“I have some conditions, if I am to be your guide.”

“Already? Well, that was quite quick, wasn’t it?”

She rolled her eyes, even though he wouldn’t see it with her back to him. “Firstly, I am in charge of my own travels. Whatever tasks you demand of me cannot interfere with me getting to my destination.”

“Why, love? Do you have somewhere you need to be?” There was something halfway between curiosity and amusement in his tone. She ignored the comment, turning back to face him.

“Secondly, wha- what are you doing?”

The businessman was turned away from her, his head bowed as his hands worked away in front of him. He had already removed his vest, the wet garment crumpled in a heap on the bench, and was halfway through unbuttoning his shirt.

Years of etiquette training screamed at her to look away, but she couldn't seem to peel her eyes away from the smooth muscles of his back outlined by the clinging white shirt. Outside of the rather explicit descriptions of male anatomy from Ruby, Emma had never laid eyes on an adult, nude, male body before. He was sleek and toned like the marble statues she had often gazed upon at the palace, the muscles in his shoulders rolling as he moved to strip off his shirt. She turned quickly before he could notice her stare.

“As you said before,” he started, seeming unconcerned, “I must change my clothes. You may turn your back if you would like.”

“That was not an invitation to begin undressing in front of me!”

“Well, I would have asked your permission, but it is my cabin -”

“ Our cabin.”

“Yes, of course, our cabin, and I believe you were in the middle of listing out your demands.”

“Secondly, there will be no undressing in front of me!”

“Too right, love.”

“Do not call me ‘love’.”

“Is that another one of your rules?” He was smirking, she was sure of it.

Emma felt her cheeks flush with anger. Was he trying to provoke her, or was he simply an ass?

“Is this how you treat all of your personal staff, Killian Jones?” Emma shot back, unable to hide the venom in her tone. “With ridicule?”

He stiffened, the corners of his mouth turning down and his head turning to the side ever so slightly. “What makes you think I have any staff?”

“You do, do you not?”

“No.”

Emma went silent. There was a finality, an honesty, in his voice that she hadn’t missed. His face had hardened slightly and for a moment he almost appeared offended at her accusation. Surely he had to have someone at his beck and call back home, she thought, but the piercing look in the British man’s face said otherwise. Could a man as well dressed and wealthy as Killian Jones appeared to be really not have staff?

“Well,” Emma continued, a little more softly, “you must have business partners.”

“Aye, of course.”

“Then you should consider me as one of them. We may not have a legal contract, per say, but it is just as binding as one and you will act in the same manner that you do with all of your partners. Is that clear?”

Killian seemed to sober at that, the look of irritation fading from his face and slowly being replaced by hints of shame and embarrassment. He reminded her now of a naughty schoolboy who had been caught cursing in the halls. It was almost humorous to see a grown man react to her caregiver voice in the same way that the young Romanov children had.

“I apologize if I was rude. I only thought that…” He trailed off, seeming to reconsider his next words. “Well, anyhow, it was not my intention to offend you. Please, continue.”

“Thirdly, there will be no discussion of private matters.” When he nodded, albeit a bit reluctantly, she continued. She listed off her set of conditions, finding more and more terms coming to mind as she went along. There was a certain level of comfort that was gained as she laid out the terms of their arrangement - which included everything from sleeping arrangements to prohibited topics of discussion - though a small voice in her head noted that she was building her walls up so high it would be a wonder if she could even see the sky any longer. She shoved aside the intrusive thought and instead started on her rules regarding dressing and undressing in the cabin.

Killian scratched idly at his beard as he considered each of her terms. When she was finished, he reached out his hand to shake hers. He looked a bit ridiculous standing before her, half dressed in nothing but his trousers, black gloves and loosely buttoned shirt, but she grasped his hand in hers and sealed the deal with a firm shake.

“A business woman, through and through,” Killian noted. “I can respect that.”

“I should hope so, Killian Jones,” she warned. Emma turned and began laying her possessions on one of the benched seats. She was just removing her own coat when she heard him speak again.

“I have a condition of my own, if you will allow it.”

Emma turned to eye him. His face betrayed nothing of the nature of his request. ‘Alright,” she agreed, slowly.

“Please, call me Killian.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. The use of Mr. and Mrs. was not customary here, with Russians preferring to address others by their full name instead. Emma knew what British customs dictated, but she hadn't thought anything of it. Either way, it was such a simple request that it caught her off guard. “Is that all?”

“If you would, please,” he shrugged almost sheepishly. “I cannot say I am particularly fond of formalities.”

“Alright,” Emma agreed again. Surely there was no harm in that? It did not mean that they were friends by any means, and she had just given him a long list of demands that he had readily agreed to. It would be a sign of bad faith, she thought, to deny him this. “Killian.”

He grinned at her use of his name.

“Thank you, Miss Nolana. Now, if you please, I really would like to change into something warmer and I would not wish to break one of your terms already.”

“Oh, right. Yes, I - I will wait outside, then.”

Making doubly certain that her papers were tucked away in her bag, Emma stepped outside the cabin and shut the door to wait. It would be a nuisance to have to switch every time they needed to change, but it would have to do. She had set the boundaries firm for both of their sakes, and a few moments spent loitering in the narrow hallway was certainly worth the extra bit of privacy it provided. She only hoped Killian would not be too long.

Killian .

Even in her thoughts, the name had a nice ring to it.  

Emma Lebedeva was no fool; she had seen the look of want that had filled his eyes more than once already. It was nothing like the puppy eyed longing that August had shown back at the train station. It was surely something hungrier than that, and she did not doubt the sincerity that coloured his tone every time words of good grace left his mouth. For whatever reason, he truly did believe she was a marvel.

Despite the British man’s clean cut appearance, there was a distinctly roguish side to him that he seemed to find hard to keep under control. She felt it in every smirk, in every wise cracking comment. And the deal that he had made with her -  a vaguely large sum of money for an unspecified job - could only mean one thing; the man was nouveau riche.

Emma had been around enough of them in her lifetime to know the signs and the dangers that came with that title. The impulsivity always seemed to emerge first, as the person began testing the limits of their new wealth. Automobiles, clothes, and even new homes would be bought on a whim, and Emma often wondered if they had the chance to really appreciate them before they were shoved off to side to make way for the new plaything. Most of the time, she thought not. It was the revolving door of women that had always pained Emma the most, however. Bigger houses meant more rooms to fill and more spacious beds to keep warm. Emma had been relieved that her background role in the palace had meant she had never been tasked to recall the names of the many mistresses that had been ushered through back doors to the awaiting guest apartments. Never for the Tsar, of course; he had only ever had eyes for his Tsarina.

She couldn’t help but look towards the door and wonder how many young ladies were waiting at home for the man currently redressing in their shared room. What would they think if they saw him now, leading a new young thing by the hand without a second thought? Perhaps he would never admit to having been with her at all. She wouldn’t blame him; upholding one’s reputation was a serious matter, and he was clearly taking a risk as it was. Still, Emma’s stomach turned sour at the thought of being swept under the rug as someone’s dirty little secret.

Boundaries. Boundaries were going to be essential if she were going to make it through this trip in one piece.

Just then, another large rocking of the train had her reaching for the walls to steady herself. She managed to keep upright, but she thought she heard a muffled ‘thump’ followed by a faint ‘bloody hell’ from the other side of the door.

“Are you alright?” Emma called through the door. “May I come in now?”

She took the small grunt that followed as a yes, and slid the door open just enough to slip through. He had claimed the bench across from where she had left her belongings and was dressed again - well, mostly . He hadn’t replaced his vest, which remained in a heap with the rest of his damp clothes where he had abandoned it, but he had changed into a black button up shirt and similarly dark trousers. The chill of the cold winter air must have been bothering him more than he had let on, as he had pulled his gloves up tights to his wrists and had put on his coat.

The businessman was riffling through his satchel, appearing to be searching for something. Unsure of what to do herself, she allowed her old habits to guide her and moved to pick up the mass of wet clothes next to him. The cabin was not entirely warm, but Emma hoped that by hanging the articles on the coat rack that they would dry in time. She lit the small mantle lamp affixed to the wall just in case, the scent of kerosene strong and immediate as it flickered to life.

“You did not need to do that.”

Emma turned and noticed the man’s blue eyes watching her intently. She wasn’t entirely sure what he was referring to, but he quickly clarified. “My clothes. It is not one of your duties as my translator.”

“Are you afraid that I will charge you for the service?”

“No, but I do not want you to feel obliged -”

“I assure you that I do not.” Emma frowned at the look of uncertainty on his face. “Are you unused to having favours done for you?”

“I am a businessman,” he pointed out. “Favours are my stock and trade.”

“But surely you expect some sort of payment from your business partners after you grant them a favour, do you not?”

“Naturally, yes.”

“Then they are not favours. They are deals. Trades.”

He eyed her curiously, his mouth set in a firm line, before turning up into a humourless smile. “Point taken.”  

With that he gestured for her to take the seat across from him, which she took.

“Where did you want me to start?” She asked, thinking it better to inquire about her role now rather than later.

He looked at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“As your guide. Would you like me to begin preparing an itinerary now? Or when we arrive?”

He hesitated before answering, looking a bit disappointed that the conversation had veered back toward the terms of their arrangement. “As you wish. We have more than enough time to prepare for that.”

Emma couldn’t help feeling a bit surprised. He had invited her to his cabin to be his assistant, had he not? What else was she meant to do for the next dozen hours or so? Emma Lebedeva was no one’s escort.

“You may sleep if you would like,” Killian continued, his focus back to rifling through his bag. “Travelling is always exerting, and you must be tired.”  

She was, but the stubborn voice in her head prevented her from acquiescing. “Perhaps in a little while.”

“In that case, perhaps we could do something to pass the time?” Killian held up a deck of cards, evidently the object he had been searching for in his bag. “Do you know how to play?”

“No.”

“I could teach you,” he offered with a slight shrug.

Emma blinked. Teach her how to play? She had watched the men at the palace play before, but no one had ever bothered to teach her how to play.

“Alright,” she agreed slowly, rubbing her palms along her skirt to smooth out the imaginary wrinkles there. He continued on, apparently unperturbed at her novice.

“Now, I thought we could start with something simple. Do you know how to play blackjack?”

She shook her head.

“Well, it’s quite easy. But tell me, Miss Emma; are you a gambler?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Then allow this to be the moment you succumb to your darker impulses.” He waggled his eyebrows dramatically, and she couldn’t help but roll her eyes in amusement.

“I would hardly call this a high risk endeavour. We do not even have anything to wager.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Pride?”

“Oh, then perhaps this is high risk for you indeed,” she teased back, earning her a playfully affronted look.

“Now, Miss Emma, the trick to this game is luck.”

Emma looked unimpressed. “How can luck be a trick?”

“Believe it or not,” he began, expertly shuffling the square cards in one hand, “luck is a skill that can be acquired. Much like your affinity for languages, I would wager.” He must have noticed the skeptical look on her face. “You do not believe me?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Alright, Miss Emma, then I will prove it to you.” He held the deck upright in his palm before her. “Choose a card, if you would, please.”

She picked up the top card and placed it face up as instructed. Despite the larger size of the first class cabin, there was little room to spare and the two were forced to use their laps as makeshift tables. Killian explained the game and Emma was surprised to find the objective relatively simple. He played the part of the dealer, admitting that the game was usually more enjoyable with more players but that they would have to make do.

Unsurprisingly, she lost her first hand badly, though Killian was quick to reassure her that he hadn't expected her to win on her first try. He was right of course, and Emma soon managed to to make calls that brought her hands nearer to twenty one. She had caught on quickly to the game, and she hoped he wasn’t imagining the impressed look on her travelling companion’s face as she turned up a perfect twenty one for the third time in a row.

They continued their game, Emma’s brow furrowing further and further as Killian suddenly began winning each round without fail. For every call she made, he was right there with a card that brought him one point closer to the target. Emma finally threw down her cards as Killian flipped over his second card to reveal an ace of spades, giving him another perfect blackjack.

“I am not sure I am all that fond of this game,” she muttered, as he collected her cards to shuffle.

“Would you like to know my secret?”

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “If it is ‘luck’, I must tell you that I am still unconvinced.”

“Not quite,” he hummed. Killian laughed as he watched her jaw drop comically as he pulled a Queen of Hearts from the edge of his sleeve.

“That is cheating!”

“Only if you get caught,” he shrugged, unconcerned.

“I believe it is cheating either way.”

“I did warn you. I make my own luck.”

“By cheating.”

“Only a little bit.” He was still smiling, clearly happy to have gotten away with his deception. “But you are right, I apologize. I was only trying to impress you.”

Impress her ? “Why on earth would you need to do that?”

His grin faltered a moment, something in her question having thrown him. Though, for the life of her, Emma could not place what it was.

“Where would we be if the master was beat out by the student on their first attempt?” He answered simply. Emma’s internal lie detector sensed it was not the whole truth, but she chose not to push it. His secrets could be his own, she supposed.

Killian placed the cards in front of her. “Would you like to play again? I promise to play fairly from this point forward.”

Perhaps she should have been angry at his earlier deceit, but something told her that it wouldn’t do any good. Instead she picked up the cards and began shuffling them in the way she he had seen the men at the palace do. By some miracle, she managed to keep the entire deck from spilling out onto the floor as she did so.  

It was strange to think that only hours earlier she had been sitting alone, facing an uncertain future on her own. Though these were not the circumstances she would have chosen, she was grateful for the company. It couldn’t last long, of course; she would be back to her solitude the moment he no longer had use for her, but by then she hoped to be finished with him as well. The moment her contract with him finished, her new life would begin. It was comforting to know that she would be a few steps ahead of her plan on that front; a purse full of rubles would be an asset if she was going to locate the man who held her exit papers.

Still, she relished the idea that she would be able to keep some sense of normalcy over the next few hours. The threat of discovery still loomed over her - there would be no changing that until she was safely outside of the empire’s borders- but she couldn’t deny that the sense of imminent danger seemed to fade somewhat in Killian’s presence. If she closed her eyes, Emma could almost imagine she was back at the palace, the seat cushion beneath her nearly passable as Ruby’s mattress on the many nights that the two maids spent gossiping together like schoolchildren. Emma nearly sighed. Even though her friend had had valid reasons to stay behind, Emma couldn’t help but wish that it was her wolf eyed friend seated on the bench across from her.  

It wasn’t all bad, she reasoned. As they continued round after round of their game, settling into their seats as the train rattled and swayed around them, she had to admit that out of all of the passengers that could have accosted her along her journey, she was grateful it had been Killian Jones.

‘Killian’ , she reminded herself. Just ‘Killian’ .

Only moments later, however, the comfortable silence that had fallen over the pair was broken as the sound of creaking wood began emanating from the other side of the wall behind where Killian was sitting. It started low, and for a moment Emma wondered if it was an occupant’s nervous pacing that was causing the rhythmic noises, but the addition of a distinctly female moan clarified the situation rather quickly.

Oh lord, why was this happening? She couldn’t help the deep blush that began to colour her cheeks as the unseemly activities escalated further.

If Killian noticed, he did not say as much, his attention focused solely on the cards in his hand. Perhaps he was used to it? The thought sent an unnerving chill down her spine. Was the man in front of her the type of man to take a woman against the wall of a train? There was certainly no reason to rule it out.

It was only when the noises reached their peak, a solid thump of a body against their shared wall that Emma lost her patience.

“Oh, how vile!”

Killian only chuckled, dealing himself another card from the deck. “They were gossiping earlier. Perhaps they ran out of topics of conversation.”

Emma made a face as she glared at the wall that separated the two parties.

“I would not wish to hear what they were discussing,” she muttered.  

“I could not understand them. Not that I would ask you to translate that anyways,” he quickly clarified.  

She gave an appreciative hum as she turned her attention back to her cards. Now that Killian had stopped his tricky sleight of hand, she was actually doing fairly well. Though she was still convinced that the game involved more luck than skill, she couldn’t deny that her judgement was becoming better as the game went on. Emma grinned at his fake annoyed sigh as she laid down another winning hand, his own falling just short.

“How did you manage this far without a translator?” She asked suddenly, the question long overdue.

“My partner speaks Russian. It appears I am much slower at picking it up.”

“Your partner?”

“My business partner. Will. He travelled with me the first time, but unfortunately for me he had to leave Petrograd early to go to Moscow. I am to meet him there.”

“Ah so I am only to babysit you until you reach your friend?” She teased. “That should not be too difficult then.”

Killian snorted. “I promise to be on my best behaviour until then.”

It was at that moment that Emma’s stomach began to protest against the late hour. She threw her arm across her stomach to silence the sound, but it was too late. Killian’s eyes flicked up to hers at the noise and he immediately reassembled the deck he was about to reshuffle into a neat square.

“Well, Miss Nolana,” he started, brushing his hand across his trousers as he rose to stand, “I am famished. What say we go for dinner, hm?”

“You may go ahead. I will stay here, I think. I have some food in my bag.” Granny had insisted that she take along a small parcel of food with her before she left the palace, and the boiled eggs and cheese would not keep.

Just as he looked ready to argue, the lurid noises started up again in the cabin next door. From what Ruby had told her - which had been admittedly more than Emma ever would have dared to ask - Emma was surprised at how quickly they had recovered from their last tryst. And if the mumbled “bloody hell” from her companion was anything to go by, Emma wasn’t the only one to be disappointed by that fact.

She quickly tucked her bag in the corner of the cabin where he had only moments ago stashed his own.

“Perhaps it would not be too horrible to dine with you tonight,” she admitted, checking that her change purse was on hand.

The grin on his face was nearly enough to distract her from the sounds next door.

“I am glad you have reconsidered.”

He opened the door and gestured for her to lead the way.

“Shall we?”