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spell.”
    “About my trunks,” said Kellen.
    “Oh, my grandsons will help you with those.” Mr. Collins reached for a brass bell that had been pushed out of the way by the mailbag. He gave it a hearty shake, grinning widely enough to show a gold eyetooth when his visitor winced. “Once your ears stop ringing, you’ll realize it was all for the best.”
    It took Kellen a moment to understand, but when he did, he had to agree with Mr. Collins. The bell’s harsh resonance had the effect of quieting the clamor in the restaurant. The silence did not last long, but neither did the noise return to the level of a cacophony.
    “It’s worse when the passengers are in there. Next train’s not due…” He consulted his timepiece. “Not due for another three hours. Mostly freight and the immigrant cars.” He looked Kellen over again. “A man like you, well, you probably never rode with the immigrant cars.”
    Kellen had. Not merely
with
them, but
in
them. He’d done it to satisfy his need to know firsthand. And once done, it was not something he would forget or, given a choice, repeat. “A man like me, Mr. Collins?”
    “Two trunks and a bag. There are entire families in those cars that make do with less than you stowed under your seat. They wear most of what they own on their backs and smell like they never been properly introduced to lye soap.”
    “Then you’re correct. I have better than a passing acquaintance with soap.” And one sharp memory of having his mouth washed out with it. Kellen let that memory slip away as his attention was drawn to the door by swift, multiple footsteps approaching. The door shuddered in response to the runners’ barreling into it. There was a brief scuffle, an angry exchange of words, and then the brass bell brought it all to a halt.
    Kellen was still grimacing and tugging on his right earlobe when the door finally opened, and Mr. Collins’s errant grandsons simultaneously squeezed past the threshold. They all butspilled into the room and, far from making an apology for it, continued to jab each other with pointed elbows, each nudge a little harder than the last. The boys, both of them towheads with matching cowlicks, were far younger than Kellen had supposed them to be when the agent informed him they would be taking care of his baggage. The boys didn’t appear to be twins, but that was only because one of them was half a head taller than the other. Except for the disparity in their stature, there was little enough difference to distinguish them.
    “These are my grandsons,” Collins said. It was almost a sigh. “Stand up straight, boys. Mind your manners. Stop jabbing.”
    Kellen watched the boys come to attention as if they’d heard a whip crack, but Collins hadn’t raised his voice in the least. Kellen cast a glance back to see if the agent was threatening his grandsons with the brass bell, but no, he had already returned to the stool, his long expression more indicative of martyrdom than menace.
    “Introduce yourselves, boys,” Collins told them.
    The taller of the pair, and in Kellen’s estimation the elder by a year, maybe two, stepped forward first. “Cabot Theodore Collins. Folks call me Rabbit on account of me being fast as one.”
    Before Kellen could respond to this overture, the boy who was not Rabbit inched forward until he was sharp elbow to sharp elbow with his brother. “I’m Carpenter Addison Collins, but everyone but my granny calls me Finn on account of I like it better than Carpenter.”
    “Well, yes,” Kellen said carefully, and wondered why he hadn’t thought to choose a better name for himself when he was eight. “Finn. Of course.”
    Finn said, “
Carp
-enter. Fish have fins. See?”
    “Yes, I do. Clever.”
    Jefferson Collins eyed his grandsons. “This gentleman wants to go to the Pennyroyal. You two think you can manage?”
    The boys began to dance in place before Collins finished. “Is all that yours, mister?” Rabbit asked, jerking his