The Transatlantic Conspiracy by G. D. Falksen

Alix.”
    â€œWhat?” Alix said.
    â€œOf course they were lying,” Cecily continued. “ ‘Sent by the head steward’ my foot. No, clearly they saw the three most beautiful girls on the whole train—”
    â€œLet’s just say the entire dining car,” Rosalind corrected, laughing now. “I wouldn’t want us to get ahead of ourselves.”
    â€œâ€”and decided that they simply had to dine with us,” Cecily finished. “So they concocted the whole story. And a good thing, too; otherwise, we might never have met them. I think it’s rather in their favor that they decided to meet us tonight, rather than leave a meeting to chance.”
    Agreed , Rosalind thought.
    â€¢â€¢â€¢
    Alone in her room, Rosalind found herself struck by a dreadful bout of insomnia. Part of it, she knew, was the excitement of the day: meeting new boys, meeting Alix, managing Cecily—and of course, a small amount of apprehension at being confined underwater for a whole week. But mostly, it was Charles.
    Perhaps Charles had a secret lover in Hamburg whom he had gone to meet, and the entire trip had been a pretense to make the visit possible. It was perfectly sensible, Rosalind thought, much more sensible than being called away for some crisis to “defend the realm,” or whatever lie Cecily had spun. Cecily was being evasive about the truth to spare her feelings, which was silly because she didn’t have any feelings on the matter . . .
    Rosalind caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and shook her head.
    â€œYou don’t really believe that, do you?” she asked aloud.
    Best not to answer. Whenever she couldn’t sleep, there was but one solution.
    Read a book before bedtime.
    Rosalind put her shoes on and left for the library car.
    Most of the train was deserted. She passed only two people in the corridor, both of whom reeked of spirits and looked like they were headed to bed. The library was empty save for the librarian on duty. He wore a plain suit, not any sort of official train uniform, and looked barely awake, scarcely paying her any mind as he read some German magazine. But Rosalind was in no mood for conversation, either. She went to the English language shelves and selected a volume of Dickens. That would be the thing.
    â€œMay I take this to my compartment?” she asked the librarian.
    He glanced up at her and didn’t even try to smile. His eyes were puffy. He stifled a yawn. “You will have to sign for it,” he said, pointing to a ledger on his desk. “Only I’m out of ink. I’ll have to fetch more.”
    Rosalind exhaled slowly, annoyed by his attitude. She was half tempted to tell him that she was Alexander Wallace’s daughter. She suspected that he wouldn’t treat her so dismissively if he knew that, or if she were older, or a man. But it was hardly worth arguing with the staff over such a small slight.
    â€œI’ll read it here, thank you,” she said.
    â€œVery good, Miss.” He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
    What sort of people was Father employing? Rosalind sincerely hoped that the daytime librarian had a better command of his manners. And his wardrobe. Perhaps they had put this fellow on at night assuming that no one would come looking for a book . . . As she stared at his suit, she realized that its drabness was familiar. Hadn’t he been the man with Inspector Bauer in the dining car? But no, that was a silly thought. Why would a librarian be chasing after the chief of security? Maybe nondescript dress was preferred, or even mandated, for those who weren’t porters or conductors or waitstaff.
    Shaking her head to herself, Rosalind settled into one of the armchairs to read a few chapters of Little Dorrit . But she couldn’t concentrate, and the words swam before her on the pages. She wasn’t drowsy in the least.
    Presently she felt that she was being watched. At