Chapter 2: Eleven Passengers, Eleven Wounds Still Open

The aperitif trolley emerged at seven forty-three.

Blackwell noted the time without looking at his watch — the steward's white jacket, the specific angle at which the ice bucket tilted as the wheels crossed the join between carriages, the small percussion of bottles settling. Seven forty-three was four minutes late, which told him the staff rotation had encountered a minor irregularity, which told him something had briefly required two stewards where one was expected, which told him the observatory car at the rear of the train had received a visit that did not appear on the printed service schedule.

He turned a page of his unread book.