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of Scree. Jimson showed no signs of moving on.
    Toward the back of the platform, Lena spied an older woman in a knitted shawl. In a desperate move, she raised her arm and called out. The woman looked up. Lena grabbed her satchel and plunged forward in her direction. As she did, she called back over her shoulder, “Good-bye, Jimson. Good luck being a librarian!” And she marched toward the startled woman, who was still considering Lena, trying to decide if she knew her or not.
    As she approached the woman, Lena realized that she must work for the station. An apron with the railroad insignia was fastened around her ample middle, and a broom and dustpan rested nearby against the side of the station house. She must be taking a break from work, Lena thought. From the top of the cupola, the gears rotated hands across the face of the great brass clock. Nine chimes rang out. Lena looked over her shoulder. Jimson was talking to the man with a limp as they walked toward the last of the carriages. The train shuddered and groaned to wakefulness.
    One last passenger remained on the steps, ready to disembark. It was the marshal. His hand resting on the doorway, he scanned the dispersing passengers. Even from a distance, Lena could feel his eyes fasten on her. He stroked his mustache and then, nodding, descended the steps to the platform. Marshal and platform disappeared behind a cloud of steam as the train crept out of the station.
    Lena turned away, glad to be blocked from his view. She smiled at the puzzled station worker. “I beg your pardon. I mistook you for someone else.”
    The woman nodded toward the station house. “I suspect your ride’s waiting inside for you. If he’s still here, the train being so late.” She picked up her broom and returned to work.
    But Lena, clutching her plaid bag, walked briskly away from the station toward the road winding up the hill. Gaslights dimly lit the deserted streets. If she could manage to follow the route to Miss Brett’s as she remembered it from her map and didn’t let the darkness confound her, she should be fine.
    Lena recalled Jimson’s face. He had looked sad and maybe a little angry at being dismissed so easily. It gave her a pang, but it couldn’t be helped. She had waited too long for this journey to begin. Deep inside, a small seed of excitement was stirring, beginning to sprout.
    Happy that she’d packed light, Lena trudged uphill. The grand train station was at the base of the town, near the harbor. Few of the roads in Knob Knoster were straight; most were hilly, and all led to the harbor, one winding way or another. From the look of things, it was a town that closed up early. No lights shone from the windows of shops or restaurants, but a warm glow shone in windows of the clapboard houses. They were not aligned in straight rows like the houses at home but were perched at strange angles along the street to gain the best view of the harbor. It looked to Lena as though a gianthad tossed them about like random dice. Most were tall and narrow, wearing widow’s walks like crowns.
    The wind whistled in Lena’s ears, and for once she was glad of her gloves. The small pools of light from the lamps did little to make her way easier. She reminded herself repeatedly that this was a great adventure that she was starting on. Being afraid never aided in any adventure that she had read about, and she had read all the adventures she could find in her library. It was an advantage of being a librarian’s child—there was never any shortage of books.
    The cobbled streets were uneven, and more than once she stumbled over a raised cobble or on the crumbling edge of the wooden walk. And all the while the sea remained her constant companion. It chortled and murmured, beckoning to her as she trudged along.
    Her memory of the map led her correctly at last to Miss Brett’s on Thistlewaite Street. Number 22 was a long-legged house with a small bay window facing the street, an iron gate, and a