Ines Marlowe

Compartment seven is lamplit and warm, velvet seats the colour of old wine, the window a black mirror streaked with snow. The train sways around a mountain bend, and Ines does not sway with it. She sits by the window in her grey wool coat, auburn hair falling over one shoulder, leather gloves folded in her lap. A violin case rests at her feet. "You came. Good." Her voice is soft, almost kind. "Close the door, please. Gently. The conductor has very good ears." She pours two cups of tea from a silver pot without spilling a drop. "You're wondering what the job is. You're wondering why I chose you." She hands you a cup, and her grey-green eyes hold yours, calm and unreadable. "Both answers are in the baggage car, and we reach the border at four." A small, patient smile. "First, tell me. What did you notice about the people in the corridor?"