Men being men, however, it seemed that most dispensed with the chamber pot altogether and opted for the more direct and inaccurate route.
Using the room’s tiny cracked shaving mirror, Emily freshened her costume, brushing at the dirt on her suit and hastily smoothing her hair back up under her brown hat. Then she scrutinized herself. It was the first time she’d gotten a good look at herself in her masculine disguise. The hard traveling and meager accommodations had conspired to make her look more like a young man than she would have thought: grimy, angular, and … yes, ruthless. Her hand went up to her throat. The collar of her shirt was torn where Caul had grabbed her, the top two buttons missing from where they had been wrenched off. She clutched her collar, holding it closed. The last thing she needed was someone getting a look down her front.
On the way back to the seats she paused at the water spigot, where there was a dented tin cup for common use. She filled it and went back to where Stanton was sitting. She tried to force the water through his dried lips. Most of it ran out of the corner of his mouth.
Emily’s hands trembled as she returned the cup to the spigot, balancing herself against seats to keep her footing on the rocking train.
Why wouldn’t he wake up?
The train stopped in Mill City for lunch. Those who hoped to hit the lunch counters left at a flat run, for the train stopped only briefly for meals and sometimes pulled away without so much as a warning whistle. But Emily couldn’t even think about eating, and wanted to take advantage of the empty car to employ more desperate means in her attempt to wake Stanton. Unfortunately, the blond girl stayed behind, too. She was using the coal stove at the end of the car to boil water for tea.
Emily swore under her breath as she laid a hand on Stanton’s damp, pallid forehead. He was hot as a flatiron, and his face seemed thinner. His closed eyes seemed to be sinking backward into his skull. It was as if he were made of wax, and melting from the inside.
When the water boiled, the girl shook dried tea into a little china pot, and brought it back to the seats. Then the girl opened her basket and took out paper-wrapped items.
“Would you like a sandwich?” She offered one of the little bundles to Emily. “I made lots.”
Emily didn’t want it. Her heart was beating anxiously against her stomach, making her feel lightheaded and vaguely queasy. But the girl’s face was kind, her look vaguely imploring. Emily took the sandwich, unwrapped it. The thick-sliced homemade bread was spread with farm butter and strawberry jam. It was very good. Emily found herself wolfing it down in three bites and wishing for more.
“I haven’t seen you eat today.” The girl produced a tin cup from her basket and offered Emily a cup of tea. Emily shook her head. “I guess you’re down on your luck.”
“Nah,” Emily said. Having already become aware of her limitations in the field of masculine mimicry, Emily resolved to keep her utterances as syllabically limited as possible.
“My name’s Rose,” the girl said. “Rose Hibble.”
“Elmer.”
“Is your friend drunk?” Rose asked, nodding at Stanton.
“Uh-huh,” Emily said. “Thanks for the sandwich.”
“My uncle Sal was a drunk,” Rose said thoughtfully. “You know how they say about people, ‘drunk every night but Sunday’? Well, he was drunk on Sundays, too. Used to go into church to argue with God. Blamed if he didn’t win nine times out of ten!”
“Hmmm,” Emily murmured, hoping that the sound would indicate her lack of desire to hear more about Uncle Sal.
“I’m going to Chicago.” Rose cocked her head. “Where are you going?”
“New York,” Emily said, then immediately wished she hadn’t. She shouldn’t be talking at all. Why wouldn’t Stanton wake up? She was no good at being cagey and secretive and sly. He was the credomancer, he was the one trained to manipulate the minds of men …
“New York!” The excitement in Rose’s voice scattered Emily’s thoughts. “How exciting. Me, I’m going to Chicago because my Aunt Kindy owns a hat shop. She employs a dozen girls, and she needs a clerk, and I’ve studied two years at the Nevada Women’s College—mathematics and accounting and penmanship and bookkeeping—and so Mam said, ‘Rose, you go on out to Chicago and put some of that education to good use.’ Aunt