It was someone she had never seen before.

It was a young man, or a boy really, her age or a little younger. He was wearing fine clothes, although they seemed to be a little out of fashion. There was a slouchy newsboy hat on his head and absolutely nothing on his feet. They were as bare as the feet of a newborn baby. She could count every one of his toes.

He had a sweet, sleepy expression. He was one of the least threatening people Demi had ever seen in her life, and so she was not alarmed even though he had come into her compartment unannounced.

“I've misplaced something,” he said in mild distress. “But I can’t seem to remember what it is that I'm looking for.”

She looked pointedly at his feet and suggested, “Maybe your shoes? Or socks?”

He looked down at his feet as if unaware there was anything amiss with them.

“Ah,” he said as he stared at his bare toes. “That could be it.”

The loudspeaker sounded again: the same electric chime.

“Attention. We are now entering the abyssal layer. Travel between cars is now restricted for the safety of all travelers. Thank you for your understanding.”

Demi had had all the requisite warnings about not talking to strangers when she had been but a lass.

However.

She was a girl with a taste for adventure and an interest in practically everything.

And at the moment she was interested in the boy with no shoes.

“Would you like to sit down?” she asked.

The private compartment that had been booked for her pleasure had space for six to sit comfortably, and a folding table besides. The table was currently unfolded in front of Demi, with a pack of playing cards and two of her favorite books within easy reach of her hands.

“I don't know if that would be polite,” the boy said bashfully, apparently suddenly overcome with a case of manners, despite the fact that he'd entered a strange compartment without knocking.

She laughed. “You may as well,” she said. “If your seat isn't on this car then you’ll have quite a wait until you get back to it. You can't just spend all that time hanging around in the hallway.”

The boy smiled and nodded.

“You’re right,” he said, and moved to sit across the table from her.

She stood up and poked her head out into the hall, but it was otherwise empty. It seemed that despite his best intentions, Robert Grave had been detained elsewhere. She slid the compartment door closed.

Then she looked down at her new companion’s feet again.

“Would you like some socks?” she asked. “Aren't your feet cold?”

The heating units under the seats had immediately kicked on when they had crossed into the abyssal layer, but it was still a little chilly. Frost had begun to paint faint lines along the windows of the car where condensation had misted earlier.

“Well, I couldn't take your socks,” the boy protested, blinking owlishly.

Demi laughed at that, throwing her head back and showing the slender line of her neck. She enjoyed laughing, and laughed with every ounce of her body.

“They're not my socks,” she said, still giggling, “Or, wait, I suppose they are, but they're not the socks I’m wearing right now,” she assured him, digging into her bag. “A Forest Girl is always prepared!” she quoted, and pulled out a very fluffy pair of pink socks. They had sweet rabbit faces on them, and little bobtails above the heels. “I hope you won't mind them. They’re very warm and comfortable,” she promised.

He smiled as he accepted them.

“I like them very much,” he said, and promptly put them on his feet.

Once the bunny socks were on his feet, Demi had to admit to herself that they strangely suited him. He looked positively angelic. He wriggled his toes inside the socks briefly and then said, “Ah, they're really nice. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, feeling very good inside. It was nice to give someone something they needed. It was nice to see them pleased and happy. She was glad she had crammed the extra pair of fluffy socks into her already bulging bag. She had matching bunny slippers in there too, but she wasn't quite ready to give those away, not unless he really needed them. They were her favorites.

Although to be fair, she had a collection of bunny slippers, and more than one favorite pair. But these were especial favorites. That's why she had packed them in her shoulder bag as opposed to in her regular luggage.

Fortunately, he didn't seem to be in immediate need of slippers.

“What’s your name?” he inquired mildly. “I'm incognito.”

“Hello incognito! I’m also incognito,” Demi said with a self-deprecating smile. “Let’s use nicknames then! You can call me Evie!”

He smiled peacefully and said, “Flash.”

It was such a funny name for the sleepy, mild young man that she could not help but giggle. “It really suits you!” she said with amusement.

“It's aspirational,” he agreed pleasantly.

“I suppose mine is too,” she admitted with a smile.

She tapped at the deck of cards on the table.

“Would you like to play a game?” she asked. “I love games, and it's a nice way to pass the time while we’re traveling.”

Now that she had a guest, she didn't think it would be polite to spend all of her time staring dreamily out the window.

“What did you have in mind?” he wondered.

Demi’s eyes brightened. “What sorts of card games do you like to play? Trick taking? Poker? Rummy?”

“I’ll leave that for you to decide,” he said. “I like surprises.”

“Then let’s play aphorism whist!” she suggested. “It's one of my favorites. Have you ever played?”

He shook his head, so she explained.

“It's like ordinary whist, you know, a trick collecting game, but whenever you play a card, you have to say something pithy, or clever, or at least vaguely wise,” she said. “If you can’t, you get penalty points and they count against your tricks! Since there’s only the two of us, we’re going to have to be very clever off the cuff. That means two positively epigrammatical sayings every trick! Shall we play? I'll let you pick the topic!”

The boy thought about it for a minute, then said, “I am interested. Let’s play.”

“What’s the topic for this game’s aphorisms?” she asked. “It can be anything you like, although some topics are more challenging than others.”

“Life,” he said simply. “That's the topic I choose.”

“That is one of my favorites!” Demi said in delight, beginning to smoothly shuffle the cards. “It's a good one too. It's hard to run out of things to say.”

“I had a feeling you might be keen on it,” he said amiably.

“We’ll use the rules for honeymoon whist since there are only two of us,” she said with a giggle. “If Mr. Grave somehow makes it back before we’re through the abyss, we’ll try something different. Is that all right with you?”

The boy nodded.

“You don't have to follow suit or to trump while there are still cards left in the stock,” she explained. “But once the stock is empty, you always have to follow suit or trump. We each add one card to our hand after every trick. The winner of the trick gets an exposed card, and the other player gets a hidden card. The winner of the previous trick always leads the next trick,” she tapped the cards lightly against the table. “When it comes to aphorisms, this game is played on the honor system,” she said, as she dealt the cards. “If I've said something that you don't think is very clever, you may certainly lodge a protest. But, if you yourself say something that you don't think is particularly stimulating, you have to own up to it. We are always our own harshest critics, after all. If you turn yourself in for being a dunce, I can still veto it and save you from your penalty, and vice versa. That's a safeguard against those of us who tend to be a little too self critical.”

“That's a thoughtful rule,” he said. “I approve of it.”

“I’m glad!” she said with warmth. “Shall I deal, or will you?” she asked. “It's thirteen cards apiece.”

“I'll let you handle it,” he said magnanimously.

“That means you’ll lead the first trick,” Demi said as she shuffled. “I wonder what miracle the cards will show us this time?” she asked as she fluidly spread the cards to deal them. They flowed like warm butter under her fingers. She turned over the top card of the stock.

“Hearts trump,” she said.

Flash was apparently ready. Perhaps his name was not altogether aspirational.

“There you are,” he said, “Sitting in front of me with your handful of aces, desperately hungry to begin. Have a little caution. Don't you know it’s dangerous to step outside your doorway? The road can carry you off, just like a river with a swift current. It might take you anywhere.” He played his first card and led the trick.

“If I had a handful of aces, then I would gleefully take every trick,” Demi said with amusement as she considered her own cards. “Alas, I am not quite so well endowed at the moment. But a good lead.” She leaned forward. “Very fresh! Zesty even. You are an original thinker. But you’ll discover that I am not a dozy daisy.” She folded her hand in on itself and drew one card from it, holding it between slightly crossed fingers, so the patterned back faced forward. The rest of her hand she held folded under her other palm. It was very theatrical, but Demi enjoyed theatrics, most especially when it came to cards. Her fluid handling of decks had only come with years of practice, and she fell easily into the pleasure of handling the cards. She paused for a moment, then cleared her throat before saying, “I’m not afraid of the rolling road, or the rolling river. I can't wait to see what’s waiting for me where the gulls fly free,” she sang out, then returned to a more conversational tone. “I plan to swim in my fate like a fish. I will play every ace that’s dealt to me, and even some that are not. That is how luck is made.” She played her first card and took the trick.

“That sounds a little like cheating to me,” the boy said philosophically, as they played on, laying card after card. Demi took the second trick. They played on.

“I don't cheat,” Demi protested. “I do play inside the rules, if only just. I am admittedly very creative in my interpretation of the law, but I'm always ready to hear petitions regarding my bad behavior. I’m full of tricks, really, and not just the kind on the table. I bet on long odds and win every time. Some people would call that a miracle. I call it finding the way forward. I always can, you know, find the way forward, I mean. It’s a special talent of mine. Besides that, I'm not at all afraid of losing. After all, I can turn any defeat into a victory. It all depends on how you look at things.”

He laughed. “So that’s how you can bet on long odds and win every time,” he said. “No matter what the outcome is, you declare it a victory. Doesn't all that spinning leave you dizzy?”

“Not really,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll turn the world round and round until I find the reality that suits me best. Always look on the bright side — “

She played the ace of spades.

“Of death,” he finished with a smile. “Abandon all hope,” he said, as he played a card, tapping it lightly with a fore finger. “Ye who enter here.” It was the three of spades.

“Midway through life’s journey, is that it?” she asked with a laugh. “That doesn't bode very well for me, does it? I'm not even sixteen yet! Not until tomorrow, at least.” She took the trick.

“It may not be the quantity that’s important,” he advised wisely.

“Ah, not the hours themselves, but the richness of them,” she wondered with a smile. “Well, I do intend to gather loads and loads of rosebuds, both in season and out of season. My blood will be hot even in December.”

“I’m not surprised to hear it,” he said with a mild laugh. “But be careful you don't bloom out of season. That can be fatal.”

“Don't worry, I'm going to do absolutely everything at just the right time,” she answered pertly. “And by that I mean I’m going to do it at the time it suits me best, and then the world will turn to accommodate me. That is one of the perks of being the heroine of this picture.” She winked. “Don't worry,” she assured. “It's going to be a good one.”

“I look forward to it,” he said earnestly, and then his eyes seemed to unfocus, and it was as if he were looking at everything at once — not just the things in the little compartment, but all the things around them. It felt very peaceful. “Who are you, really?” he asked dreamily. She had just taken another trick.

“Goddess of the good green earth,” she answered immediately. “And lady of the cornfield. Who are you?”

“Just a passenger,” he said. “I like to watch the scenery go by.”

Demi looked out the window thoughtfully. The gloom pressed in against the glass, almost tangible.

“But it’s dark out,” she said, a little perplexed, forgetting that she had, until recently, also been in contemplation of the depths of the abyss herself.

“That’s the general state of the world,” he said with a rueful smile.

“Isn't it too lonely just to watch things go by?” she asked. “Aren't you ready to be off this train? Every minute that ticks by takes us closer to our inevitable end, after all.”

“Someone has to watch,” he advised. “Otherwise what’s the point of the performance?”

“We are our own audience?” she wondered.

“Now you're being too self-referential,” he scoffed. “It'll be the kind of show that academics will write pages and pages of analysis about. You’ll be the detective and the missing person she’s searching for at the same time, and the audience will groan and try to blot the experience from their memories. Every life needs a little popcorn eating.” He paused. “Maybe more than a little.”

“I do like popcorn,” she agreed. “And I like detectives.” She fluttered her hands. “Everybody likes detectives. I wouldn't mind being one. Mysteries are very popular. They're problems that can be understood, questions that have absolute answers. Those are often in very short supply.” She paused. “You know, writing a mystery story is like performing a magic show. People are always amazed at the end reveal, and they always wonder how it's done. Do you want to know the trick of it? My mother explained it to me.”

“Let’s see the man behind the curtain,” he prompted.

“You begin at the ending, and work backwards,” Demi said proudly. “You start off with the result you want, and then pace backwards, to the beginning. And it's important to weave in lots of interesting but extraneous information, so the reader doesn't necessarily know what’s important. Everything is there, all laid out, but the person reading it can't see the pattern until it's revealed. There’s one little bit of context that’s held back until right before the end, and it changes everything, it makes everything clear, and then the truth seems so obvious you could just laugh. That's what makes it feel like magic: one thing suddenly becomes another right before your eyes! That's genuine transmogrification. But I don't think seeing it from the other side makes it any less impressive.” She cupped her cheeks with her hands and sighed in contentment. “I love books,” she admitted, then she blanched slightly. “Ah, I’m sorry. I suppose none of that was particularly clever. I just get carried away talking about things I like. I’ll take a penalty.”

The boy waved her off. “You don't have to. I enjoyed finding out the secret. But aren't magicians supposed to avoid revealing their tricks?”

“I’ll start avoiding it if I ever become a magician,” she promised solemnly. “Right now, I’m rather far from being one.”

“Who are you?” the boy asked again, and his eyes seemed very deep, like wells at the bottom of the sea.

“That's a good question,” she answered with a wan smile. “I'm not really sure I know the answer to it.” Her brows drew together. “I wonder what a detective would say, if you asked her? I suppose you could say that I’m my mother’s daughter and my father’s heir. I grew up at the eaves of the Deep Wood, and I've been a Forest Girl for years and years and years. I know how to tie quite a lot of knots, and start a fire from nothing but twigs and kindling. Oh,” she said, as if a new thought had occurred to her. “And I love books. I very much love books. Did you know that the tricks in whist are also called books? That's one of the reasons I like playing it. Are you hungry?” she wondered spontaneously. “They packed a box of sandwiches for me, and I haven't even begun to finish them. It looks like Mrs. Stella intended to feed an army in the field. I suppose we ought to call it breakfast.”

“Well, we are breaking fast. I’ll have liverwurst,” he said placidly and she laughed.

“Then it's your lucky day!” she said, passing him a sandwich, “Because that’s my favorite and it seems like she packed two dozen.”

There was one more trick to take, and she led, laying out her last remaining card.

“Do you ever worry about the future?” he wondered. “The days stretch forward past the horizon, and none of us knows how things will end. It could be very gruesome,” he warned. “You might not like it.”

“I prefer it to the alternative,” she quipped.

“You don't always,” he said, and it was a shockingly perceptive statement.

She smiled painfully. “You’re right,” she admitted. “I don't always. It's not something I like about myself, that feeling.”

“But it's part of who you are. You can't throw it out, like bathwater or a baby,” he observed wisely. He played his final card.

“You’re right,” she said with a sigh, taking the trick. “I am who I am. I can't be anybody else.”

As she took the trick, she was surprised by his polite but enthusiastic applause.

“That was wonderful!” he said, apparently delighted that he had lost. “You took all twenty-seven tricks! I believe that’s called ‘shooting the moon.’”

“Sometimes,” she said with a weak smile. “In hearts in particular.” She frowned slightly. “Were you even trying?” she demanded. “You kept playing into my cards.”

“I'm always trying,” he said pleasantly. “Something or another.”

Demi could not shake the feeling that she had been allowed to win, which was a little off-putting for a girl who could put fear into the hearts of opponents much older than herself. She was a genuinely good player.

But the boy was not upset by the accusation that he had thrown the game.

“I'm very impressed,” he said as he amiably munched his sandwich. “I love watching you play,” he admitted, a blissful smile on his face as he reveled in the sensory delight of a tucker box sandwich. “You’re always so interesting. No matter the outcome, it's always worth watching.”

Demi blushed at all the praise. She was accustomed to winning games — card games in particular — but she was still a little shy about receiving effusive praise from such a mild and genuine source, particularly when she wasn't sure she had done anything to deserve it.

He had finished his sandwich while she flushed, looking at the cards spread across the table between them.

“Now,” the boy said, brushing the crumbs from his lap and standing, “As a thank you for the marvelous game, the socks,” he wriggled his toes, “And the sandwich,” he rubbed his tummy in appreciation, “I’m going to stake you to some valuable advice. This is a special service, so please pay attention.”

Demi blinked. The darkness passed by outside the windows, and huge unknown shapes moved slowly, hauntingly, through the midnight of the abyss. The compartment had become very quiet, and she could hear the steady thrum of the wheels against the rails, and the rapid quiver of her own heart beat.

Then the boy in the slouchy newsboy cap began to speak.

“You're about to begin a journey,” he said, his voice smooth and sweet and still. “At some point during the journey — not at the end, because this journey doesn't have any such thing — at some point during the journey you're going to look back to this moment and you're going to recognize that you have changed. Your thoughts will have changed. Your opinions will have changed. Your heart will be filled with all sorts of new and exciting and powerful ideas and emotions. You will have laughed many times, and cried many times. You will be a different person than the person who’s currently sitting in front of me. That is a startling truth, particularly as we like to consider that some part of ourselves is immutable and unique, a tiny grain of the eternal. But you will have changed, and if you have the courage to look at yourself, you will see this. That is good. That is the essence of a journey. So practice mindfulness, and no matter how the road goes ever onward, be capable of stopping to breathe, stopping to look back, stopping to appreciate how far you've come. You have a right to be proud of yourself. After you have reflected on things, turn yourself to the unknown and move forward. After all, the road does go ever onward.”

She swallowed hard and answered.

“I will,” she said.

“Will you swear that all that you do, you do by your own choice?” he asked. “Will you take responsibility for your own fate?”

It was a strange question, but somehow, she knew the answer. It had been in her heart from the time she had been born, perhaps.

“I will,” she insisted.

At that, he smiled again, strange and warm and quiet, and she thought it sounded like snow falling.

“Who are you?” he wondered again, and this time she answered almost without thinking.

“A traveler,” she said. “Just like you.”

And with that, the strange silence was broken, and the sounds of the train bloomed around them naturally. Far off down the hall, she thought she heard a door opening, then closing.

“I hope the path that you travel leads you to happiness,” said the boy.

“The path will lead me wherever it goes,” she answered with a tight smile. “And I’ll manufacture happiness there no matter the circumstances.”

“Thank you again for the game,” he said. “It was very instructive. Good luck, Demi.”

She smiled warmly and said, “Good luck to you too, Flash. I hope you find what you're looking for.”

And then he slid the door open a sliver and disappeared through it.

She was still looking at the partially open door when it slid open entirely, and Robert Grave filled it, carrying a silver tray with a green thermos and a dainty tea cup on it.

“I'm sorry my lady,” he said. “I was detained by unforeseen circumstances.”

She laughed. “Its all right, Mr. Grave,” she said. “Some complications are unavoidable. I’m amazed they let you change cars while we’re still in the abyssal layer.”

He cleared his throat and straightened his waistcoat.

“I did have to give the young doorman something of a talking to,” he said. Demi didn't envy the doorman. Robert Grave could be a terrifying person when he wanted to be. He hadn't been the chief butler at Forest Home for nearly forty years simply because he was good at laying tea spoons.

“Well, thanks for all the trouble,” Demi said, getting to her feet to push the sliding door open a little wider. “Did you pass Flash in the hallway?” she asked. “If there’s enough tea, I’d like to call him back to share it.”

Mr. Grave’s eyebrow rose the barest fraction.

“My lady?” he asked. “Is this Flash another of your imaginary friends?”

“Mr. Grave, I haven't had an imaginary friend since before I was in double digits,” she protested with a laugh. “You know that, being as you know basically everything important about me, even the things I’d rather you forget. Flash is a boy who came to sit with me after we entered the abyssal layer. He’s very sweet,” she insisted, keenly aware of Robert Grave’s wariness of strangers. “I know you’ll like him.”

“My lady, there’s no one else in the hallway,” he said seriously. “And I passed no one as I changed cars.”

Both of her eyebrows shot up before she could stop them.

“Are you sure?” she asked in confusion, pushing past him so that she could look up and down the hallway.

There was no one. The hallway was empty, and the train car was silent except for the two of them.

She pressed her lips firmly together and moved down the hallway to look into the other compartments. One opened after a polite knock. There was a businessman engrossed in reports inside it. She apologized for disturbing him. There was no answer at the other compartment, and she slid the door open without a second thought. It was completely empty.

That left the bathroom.

It was also empty.

She returned to her own compartment, perplexed.

Robert Grave had already cleared the table and laid out her tea.

“Did you find your mysterious companion?” he asked.

She shook her head as she returned to her seat and pensively sipped her tea.

“I suppose he must have left through the other door,” she said. “I’m really surprised you didn't see him, though. You must have just missed one another.”

“Perhaps you were dozing,” the butler suggested diplomatically. “And you simply had an engrossing dream.”

“Well then, I played cards with my dream, and gave him a pair of socks,” she answered testily. “He must have really liked them, since he carried them back to dreamland.”

“Well,” the butler said philosophically, “Stranger things have happened.”

He seemed completely unperturbed by her phantom visitor. She thought it had the makings of the kind of ghost story that made a body’s hair stand on end, but Mr. Grave was unmoved. He was always telling her that the world was full of mysteries. He had witnessed no few of them in the employ of her family, or so he liked to say.

Demi sighed as she blew on her tea, watching the steam dissipate against the frosted window.

Outside the windows, the woods were dark and deep.

She drank her tea and thought about the question that the boy in bunny socks had asked her repeatedly.

“Who are you?”

The future lay open in front of her, but for all her bravado, Demi was still a little shy and a little frightened. Things were changing. They would never be the same again. Doors were closing behind her. Who knew if any others would open?

Even Robert Grave would leave her before the day was done.

She would be on her own in unknown territory. There would be new people to meet, and she would have to create herself again, wholecloth, every time she encountered a new face.

She wanted to be strong and lovely and passionate; graceful, wise, and sincere. She wanted to be loving and loved. She wanted to be beloved.

She could almost make out the silhouette of that future self, obscured by bright sunlight.

But it was still a phantasm, a shadow thrown by a low hanging sun, one that stretched long and tall, giving a false impression of majesty.

She was who she was.

That would have to be good enough.

I am not a lifeguard.

The sea is deep and stormy and treacherous.

I was born in that water. I can still feel its hands on me now. I knew nothing but that water, that desperate scrabbling struggle for life against everything. I could not conceive that there was any world apart from the waves, beating and beating against me. It is a miracle that I survived, that I clawed my way out of that water. It is a miracle of my own making, but that makes it no less miraculous.

I am safe from that sea, standing on the dry land, but I can see the sea before me, dark and churning.

If I go too deeply into that water, I will drown.

I am not a lifeguard.

I cannot swim out after others who I see floundering in the waves.

But I can wade out.

I can wade out, as far as I dare, and hold out my hands to help drag you out of the stormy sea.

Have courage.

You are good enough.

You are good enough, just as you are.

You are not alone.

I love you.

This book is my hands.

My words are my hands.

Hold fast to them.

There is a way out of the sea.

- From the Testament of Demeter Serraffield