After Marigold and I finished the next round of deliveries, she checked the small watch on a chain at her waist.
"Almost time to eat," she said, dusting the newest layer of snow from her sleeves and skirts and looking up at me. "Did you remember your lunch?"
"Actually, I forgot." I shrugged. I'd been in such a hurry to leave on time this morning I didn't bring the bread and fruit Mr. Best had offered.
"Then you must come eat something with me," she said. "At home."
My eyebrows rose. Her father had no use for me; he'd indicated as much clearly during our earlier encounter. "Are you certain? I don't want to cause any trouble."
Her laughter was a soft, musical sound. "No trouble at all. You can meet the rest of my family."
"Does your father have lunch with the family?"
"No, Father never has lunch." We trudged through the snow and left our wheelbarrows outside the back entrance to the Stationmaster's house, which was situated right beside the station.
Their home was a long, narrow building. It appeared to have had three rooms added on to one end at some point, to accommodate, I imagined, the Stationmaster's growing family.
"How long has your father been the Stationmaster at Wishing Cross?"
"Near as I can tell, he started here sometime in the year just before I was born."
"Near as you can tell?" I pressed gently, not wanting to scare her off but needing more information for things to begin making sense about this place, if they were ever going to.
"We're not the kind of family to talk much about the past," Marigold confided, shifting uneasily as she led me up the steps. "Take your boots off and leave them out here. This door is the back entrance to the kitchen, and Helen will take a strap to us if we dirty the floor."
I'd like to see her try that in front of me, I thought, but I said nothing. I only nodded and did as she asked. "Are you sure this is going to be all right?"
"It'll be fine," she encouraged me, tugging on my sleeve slightly. "Come on."
"About time you got here," Helen barked. "I've already fed the boys, Sam is back at work, and Joseph and Jeremiah are nearly finished with their soup. I have to get back to the ticket booth, you're going to have to do the washing up now."
"I don't mind," Marigold replied brightly. She indicated me, as I stood several paces behind her in my socks, coat still buttoned in case I needed to make a hasty retreat. "Helen, I hope you don't mind but I've brought a guest for lunch. Surely we have an extra bowl of soup to spare for our new neighbor, Mr. Wainwright?"
Helen's eyes bored through me. "Your father mentioned you were working with him today, and all the while the chores around here fall behind." She shook her head, took two bowls from a shelf and began to ladle them full of what appeared to be chicken soup.
"I'll catch up on chores, I promise. It's just Mr. Wilson asked and—"
"I'm aware of the situation, Marigold. Wash your hands and sit down."
"This way." Marigold led me to a corner basin with a pitcher beside. She tilted it, then nodded toward a bar of soap. "Go ahead, I'll pour the water for you."
I wet my hands in the first drops and then lathered them up, jolting as the water spilling from the pitcher froze my already cold hands. The soap rinsed away, and she handed me a towel.
"Thank you. May I?" I took hold of the pitcher handle with the towel, and she smiled.
We repeated the hand washing procedure with me pouring this time, before she took another clean towel and dried her hands with it.
"Thank you, Mr. Wainwright."
"Keigan," I said softly. "That's my name."
"It wouldn't be proper," she demurred, lowering her eyes. "Thank you, just the same."
"My apologies, Miss Sutton."
"Hurry up, you two, before the soup gets cold!" Helen snapped.
She was handing slices of bread to the twin boys at the table, and I watched her set two on the top of our bowls of soup as well.
"Thank you, Mrs. Sutton. I appreciate your hospitality."
"Thank Marigold," she grumbled, turning away. "And don't think you'll be making a habit of this."
"I wouldn't dream of it," I said, wilting into a chair at the end of the table as far away from everyone else as I could get. I was unwanted here, by everyone except Marigold.
"Who are you, anyway?" one of the twins asked, his mouth full of half-chewed bread.
"Not with your mouth full, Jeremiah!" his mother directed.
He swallowed with a large gulp. "Where did you come from?"
"Far away," I answered. Words that may have seemed cryptic and avoidant to them, but words entirely true.
"Mr. Wainwright came in on the special," Marigold told her brother.
The second twin, Joseph, spoke up now. "Wow, you must have come a long way then. Where from, though, exactly?"
"It doesn't matter." I wished very much to change the subject. "I'm here for a little while, so I got myself a job straight away, and I intend to work very hard to contribute to the community while I'm here."
Helen harrumphed. "Out-of-towners tend to be trouble around these parts. That's why we don't take to them very kindly."
"I'll try not to be any trouble to anyone," I said, rising from the table. "In fact, I haven't touched this food. Perhaps it would be better for one of your children to eat it instead."
I wasn't going to stay where I wasn't welcome, no matter how hungry I was.
"Sit down, Mr. Wainwright," Helen insisted. "It's already dished out now, you may as well eat it."
Marigold's eyes implored me to stay, and so I slowly lowered myself back into the chair, aware suddenly of every muscle I had used that day, working so hard.
"I thank you."
She ignored my expression of gratitude and moved toward the coat rack. "I've got to get back to work, and you've got chores," Helen said to the twins. "Let's go."
"A piece of candy from the Store? Please?" Joseph begged. His mother looked at him affectionately, and I was surprised by the change in her demeanor.
"All right, take a little money from the jar. Not too much though, and only after you've finished your deliveries, mind."
"Yes ma'am!" the boys called in unison, as they scrambled to put on their coats and boots and vanished.
"I'll be just outside in the ticket booth," Helen said next. "Let me know when you've finished everything up. Don't be long about it, Marigold. You've got work ahead of you."
"Yes, ma'am," Marigold was eating as quickly as she could, and I followed suit, though the soup was so hot it burned my tongue.
After Helen and the boys had gone, Marigold moved toward the cupboard and pulled out a glass jar. Then she placed a cookie on a napkin beside my soup bowl.
"I couldn't," I said, shaking my head. "You've gotten into enough trouble on my behalf already."
"The cookie would be my dessert, anyway," she said, "Go on. Eat it."
I reached out and broke it in half. I popped a portion into my mouth and gestured toward the other. "Now you."
She laughed again, that sweet, gentle laugh. "Very well."
Before she'd even finished eating it, she moved toward the stove and took a pot of water simmering on it off, setting it aside. "To wash the dishes with. Too hot to use right now, it has to cool a little first."
"Can I help?" I asked, as I forgot my manners, tilting the soup bowl to my lips and draining the last few drops of broth.
"You'd better not. I thank you, but it's my job, and you have yours to do now, as well. I think you know the procedure for deliveries and have been seen around town enough today so you can continue on your own." She seemed reluctant to send me out alone, but something was pressing her to do it. "Unless you think you still need my help. I know I was supposed to assist you tomorrow as well, but Helen..."
She didn't need to say another word, I understood. "No, it's fine. I can manage now. Thank you."
She nodded as she rushed to gather the pots and pans, and I cleared the table as she worked, bringing her the empty dishes.
"You're going to be late for the next delivery run," she warned. "And I'll be in trouble if they find out you helped me."
"You helped me today, it's only right," I said. I was curious about the house, and mostly, about the small office adjacent to the kitchen.
I leaned far over and peered into the room, with its deep blue walls, wooden desk, and wall of bookshelves.
It was on the bookshelves that I discovered something that sent my head reeling.
There was an entire shelf of books with identical bindings to the one I was hiding in my room back at Mr. Best's apartment. I was drawn toward them, and without thinking I started to move.
"Oh, please! Don't!" Marigold saw I was about to set foot in the room and she hurried over. "Please. No one is allowed in Father's office. Not even Helen."
Not even his wife? I thought. What was he hiding in there?
"I'm sorry. I was just surprised by the sight of those books over there. They look like one I've seen before."
"That's impossible," Marigold replied, certain of what she was saying. "Those are Father's Stationmaster's Logs, and he has those books bound for him by Mr. Jamison, the shoemaker. The man can make anything out of leather, even sew books together."
I looked down at the desk again and saw a typewriter...the typewriter...I was certain it had been used to type the pages of the book in my room.
I had in my possession a missing volume of the Stationmaster's personal logs.
He must know it was missing, and he would have my head if he knew I had it.
I'd never be able to explain how I ended up with it, because I wasn't entirely sure, myself. I mean, I knew it came from Mr. Donahue's son, and according to Seymour J. Howard, Fox was supposed to have had it in his possession at one point and was supposed to have returned it to its rightful owner. But I couldn't verify any of that except the part where I got it from Donahue.
I looked at Marigold now, and I wondered. How did all this fit together?
It was a mystery that wouldn't be solved today, and reluctantly accepting this, I scowled. There was little I hated more in life than a puzzle with missing pieces.
"You'd better go," Marigold admonished, her tone conveying her regret. "Do something for me? Return the wheelbarrow I borrowed to the shed at the station, please? I'd be most grateful to you, Mr. Wainwright."
"That's the least I can do. Of course I will." I smiled at her, but she had turned back to her work and didn't see, adding as I laced my boots, "Thank you for your hospitality. I appreciate it more than you know."
Now she did glance over. She took note of my footwear and tilted her head in curiosity.
"I've never seen boots like those before." She blinked. "You really must have come from quite a distance. A big city, I'd imagine?"
"Compared to Wishing Cross," I answered, widening my eyes and lowering my voice. "Huge."
A moment of silence seemed eternal as neither of us spoke, only stared.
"When will I see you again?" I blurted, before I realized what I was saying.
A slow smile parted her flawless lips. "I'm all over town every day. I won't be hard to find."