As she passed through the high iron gates into bustling Queen’s Cross station, Charlie smiled. The popular press still insisted Paddington was the best looking station in London, but Charlie wasn’t convinced. She’d always found it rather pompous, much like its designer. She’d met Isambard at a party once and, charming as he was, he wasn’t content being the smartest person in the room. He needed everyone else to know it too.
Queen’s Cross was newer, connecting London to the north and, via the newly-opened tunnel, to continental Europe too. Cubitt’s station was more compact and severe, but it felt more welcoming and less imposing. Full of porters, passengers and – at this time of year – Christmas carol singers. It felt warmer and more welcoming too. To Charlie, it was perfect.
“Usual pattern, sir?” Sergeant Jack Colville asked from beside her.
“Let’s change it up today, sergeant.” She replied. “Concourse first then suburban lines. We’ll then loop back and take up position under the departure board.”
The sergeant nodded. At forty-five, sergeant Jack Colville was almost twenty years her senior. At first, Charlie worried he’d resent taking orders from a much younger lieutenant, but they’d quickly come to recognise each other’s value.
It didn’t really matter what route they took through the station, of course. Officially the Royal Railway Constabulary were there to protect and police Albion’s railways, but serious crime on the network was rare. They were really there to be seen. To remind people that it was Parliament who controlled the railways, not the nobility. “The Rails”, as the regiment were known, were a quirk of the original Railway Act, the only element of Parliament’s small, standing army not bound by the Warwick Accords. They were better trained and armed than almost any of the nobility's county regiments. Even those of the five great houses. The balance of power between parliament and nobility was always delicate. The Rails were a critical part of its preservation.
They moved through the concourse, where commuters mingled with travelers off to visit family and friends for the Christmas season, and continued on through to the suburban platforms. It was a cold day, and the frequent movements of smaller engines in and out of the station left a veil of smoke lying low in the air, creating strange shadows in the gaslight. Normally Charlie would have lingered there for a while, enjoying the scene, but she’d spotted something that had piqued her interest when they'd first arrived. It was what had made her vary their patrol route.
The international arrivals platform was open, but empty.
Charlie wondered if Jack had spotted it too, but she doubted it. Jack was a soldier first and a railwayman second. For Charlie, the railways had been her first love. As a small girl, she dreamed of being a driver, but her father would never have allowed it. Instead, he’d tried desperately to channel her passion into something more fitting and when she’d shown an interest in a military career as a teenager he’d jumped on it. She’d been packed off to the finest military academy in the land, where she’d soon risen to the top of her class.
Too late her father realised her true plan. He’d been horrified when she’d transferred into the Royal Railway Constabulary. The row between them had been long and vicious. He'd even threatened to disown her. When she refused to back down he stopped just short of that, but he had taken away her name. For this and… other reasons, it was now two years since she’d seen her family.
On days like this, though, Charlie didn’t regret her choice. As they took up position in the arches beneath the departure board, with a coincidentally clear view of the international arrivals platform, she wondered what could be coming through Brunel’s new tunnel today. Last month it had been the Austro-Hungarian ambassador, one of the junior Habsburgs all frills and feathers. The train had befitted the man, a single-engine, single carriage train that made the Orient Express look like a glorified tank engine.
Two weeks ago, she’d seen something very different. She’d watched as an enormous Prussian artillery train had drawn into the platform, part of a ceremonial visit from Albion’s newest continental ally. Pulled by two boxy, armoured locomotives, the four eleven-inch guns on its back would have put a battleship to shame. Charlie excitedly described the complexities of dispersing their weight over standard bogies to Corporal Burns, who had been her patrol partner that day. She’d appreciated the effort he’d put in to pretending he was interested.
Today, they heard it before they saw it. A low, throbbing sound coming up the rails. They felt it in the air, too, which was suddenly more charged, making the hairs on Charlie’s arm stand on end. Her pulse quickened. Whatever was coming was no normal train. There was magic involved too. A few seconds later they finally saw it, and Charlie’s breath caught in her throat. Even Jack was impressed.
“Is that..?” He began, but trailed off.
The train drifted into the platform with a low growl. They weren’t the only ones watching it now, which was hardly surprising. The carriages, though elegant, were nothing particularly special. It was the engine that really drew the eye. Its long body was clad in a sleek covering that gave it a streamlined shape, punctured only occasionally by polished brass pipework. The funnel was recessed into the top, adding to the effect. At the front, the extended covering swept downwards at a slight angle, obscuring the front two sets of wheels almost entirely and stopping barely short of the rails. A single, bright light adorned the front, cutting through the darkness and lighting up the platform. In comparison to the standard tenders sitting in the other platforms at Queen’s Cross, it seemed otherworldly.
“Yes. It is.” Charlie said, answering the sergeant’s unfinished question. “It’s the Duke of Normandy.”
The locomotive bore no nameplate. It didn’t need to. There weren’t many engines like this, and only one of them was blood red and gold - the colours of the Duke’s coat of arms since the days of William the Bastard.
The crimson engine drew to a halt and almost immediately doors began to slam open along the length of the train, sending a ripple of noise echoing through the station.
“Only six cars.” Jack noted beside her. “So it can’t be carrying His Lordship.”
“His Grace.” Charlie corrected, absentmindedly. “Lords are Lordships. Dukes are Graces.”
“They can call themselves whatever they like.” The sergeant continued, dryly. “They still bleed the same colour blood as the rest of us and shit in the same pots.”
In the county regiments where the forms were much more rigorously observed, the comment would have been enough to land the sergeant on a charge. Or worse. But things were different in the Rails. Charlie ignored it.
“Mind you lieutenant,” he continued, “credit where it's due. His Grace certainly did his share of bleeding in the war.”
That much was true, as Charlie knew only too well. The last Franco-British war may have been short, but it had also been bloody. A lot of that blood had been spilled in Normandy, as the French army tried to take back land that they still regarded as rightfully theirs.
The war had made the current Duke of Normandy’s reputation as a fearless commander. Outnumbered and surrounded, he led the British to a shock victory at the Battle of Fontainebleu Forest. The French invasion was shattered almost before it had begun, bringing a swift end to the war. But the victory had cost the Duke a leg and a lot of mothers their children, on both sides. Less than a third of the soldiers who had fought in the battle left the forest alive, and it was said that those who did would carry a piece of it with them forever. Charlie found herself reflexively rubbing the long, dark scar on her thigh.
It was not just those on the front line who had suffered, of course. London had too. Charlie found herself gazing up at the roof of the station. It had been snowing all day, and it was getting heavier. The light flurry was a blizzard now and snow was now pouring through the empty frames that arched high over the platforms at Queen’s Cross, robbed of their glass during the French Zeppelin raids over London.
The snow was no longer just dancing and evaporating in the steam and the light. As the flakes got heavier and more frequent they began to pass through and reach the platforms below. Soon the snow would begin to settle. Not on the platforms or the rails, where the continuous passage of people and trains would keep things clear, but on everything else. Within a couple of hours, Charlie suspected, it would be a white Christmas inside Queen’s Cross, as well as outside.
A sharp intake of breath from Jack brought Charlie back to reality. Glancing back down she saw what had caused it. Among the minor nobles and provincial bureaucrats disembarking from the train one group of travellers stood out clearly.
There were about twenty of them, a mixture of men and women wearing long, grey greatcoats trimmed with wolf fur. They were soldiers, and their coats were open. Both Charlie and Jack could see what they wore beneath – crisp white uniforms, trimmed with silver and cut across with double red sashes. At their belts were clipped black shakoes and curved sabres. On their feet they wore polished black cavalry boots with steel heels and toe-caps.
“The White Wolves.” Said Jack, with what Charlie sensed was genuine respect. “The Duke of Normandy’s Own. Now that is something you don’t see in London every day.”
As the two troopers watched, the soldiers on the platform began to assemble into marching order. They did it with an enforced casualness that, to the experienced observer, betrayed both their confidence and ability. As it should, Charlie mused. There was no finer regiment in the county forces.
“We could take ‘em.” Jack said from beside her, as if reading her mind, but Charlie could sense that even he didn’t seem entirely sure.
Suddenly, the soldiers on the platform snapped to attention. At an unheard order from the train they moved as one and in a three-part motion reached under their coats, snapped their shakoes off their belts, and placed them on their heads.
A figure stepped out of the first coach. She was relatively young, around thirty at most, but carried herself with the kind of raw, confident authority that only came from experience. Her uniform was subtly different from the others. She wore no great coat. Instead a scarlet cape draped across one of her shoulders while the other bore a silver epaulet. This marked her out as a full colonel, but the clue to her true identity was the clasp that held the cape at her neck: a silver wolf’s head. Antoinette de Normandie. The Duke of Normandy's eldest daughter and heir.
Charlie was unable to take her eyes off her.
The colonel glanced side to side, as if taking stock of the station. The long, tightly woven black braid that ran right down her back moved as she did so. For the first time, this gave Charlie and Jack a clear view of her face. It was cold and calculating and one eye was covered by a patch. The other gave away who – or rather what – they were looking at. That eye was solid, blazing green.
“Bloody hell.” Said Jack, in awe. “Is she a Battle Mage?!”
Before Charlie could answer, the assembled White Wolves began marching in tight order towards the station exit, the colonel at the rear. Their path would take them straight past the departure board, so Charlie took a step backwards into the arches to avoid being seen. Jack moved behind her, automatically doing the same. Within moments, the White Wolf unit was passing their position. Charlie watched the colonel carefully the whole way.
“Don’t worry sir.” Quipped Jack quietly in her ear, mistaking her wariness for jealousy, “Maybe one day command will give you a cape too.”
The remark caught Charlie off-guard and she let out a snorted laugh. The White Wolves continued forward without so much as a glance but the colonel, marching behind, was different. At the sound, her eye flew wide and she turned and looked in their direction.
The moment she caught sight of Charlie, she stopped and her entire body language seemed to shift. The coolness of command disappeared and she relaxed, a broad smile bursting across her face. Despite the solid colour of her visible eye, her gaze seemed to soften somehow. With faux-seriousness she clicked her heels together, bowed with an elaborate flourish and then quickly straightened. She blew a kiss at Charlie and winked.
Then, as if nothing had happened, the mask of formality descended once again. With three quick steps she caught up with her unit. Within another minute the White Wolves were out of the station entirely.
Charlie felt as if a weight she had been carrying for years had been lifted. One she hadn't even known she was carrying at all.
“I think you’ve got an admirer there.” Jack commented behind her.
A grin played across Charlie’s face.
“Hardly, sergeant.” She said, without turning round. “That’s my sister.”
The words were out of Charlie’s mouth before she could stop them and she immediately cursed herself, quietly. She’d made it this far without talking to her unit about her background. About her family. Always on guard, always careful. Yet lost in the smoke, sound and smell of the largest station in the world, and caught out by her sister Antoinette’s surprise arrival, she had let her mask slip.
She didn’t dare turn around so felt, rather than saw Jack tense.
“Huh.” He said, eventually and… that was it.
Finally, she dared to glance back at her sergeant. Jack’s expression was fixed, but his eyes were alive, as if she’d just confirmed something he had suspected for a while. He was far smarter than he ever let on. It was one of the reasons she'd liked him since the moment she’d met him.
“You knew?” She asked.
Jack smiled, wryly. Charlie knew that was all the answer she’d get for now.
“You won’t tell anyone?”
Jack shrugged. “Not my secret to tell. Besides,” he added, breaking into a grin, “I’m hoping you’ll introduce me to your sister.”
Charlie laughed with a freedom she realised she’d not felt for a while.
“Trust me.” She told him. “You are definitely not her type.”
“Shame.” Jack replied, pretending to be hurt.
Before he could say anything else, Their attention was drawn away by a small party of school children, neatly uniformed and all clutching cameras with their teacher in tow. The utilitarian green uniforms of the Royal Railway Constabulary may not have rivalled those of the White Wolves, but to a group of children up from the countryside they were still an impressive sight.
Their teacher approached Jack.
“Is it okay if..?” She began.
With a subtle flick of his wrist the sergeant double-checked his holster lock and the safety on his auto-pistol. He did it so discreetly that Charlie suspected she was the only one who noticed him do it at all. Once he was happy, he smiled broadly at the teacher.
“Of course,” He said, beckoning them forward, “But only one at a time.”
While Jack posed for photos and answered questions, Charlie took the opportunity to turn away and admire the Duke of Normandy again. One of only four Excalibur Class locomotives ever made, it was magnificent. All clean lines and brass, simmering in the platform as its crew busied themselves around it. It looked like a caged tiger, alert and waiting to pounce. And pounce it could. Lurking behind the sweeping curves of its tender was one of the most powerful double turbines ever made at the Derby Arcanomechanical Works. The perfect merger of steam and magic.
As she watched, the Normandy let off steam with a loud hiss, sending condensed water and smoke billowing upward. The snow flurried around it and the air crackled with lightning, giving a hint to the power that lurked within.
Charlie instinctively closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of sulphur and ozone that filled the air. She found herself letting the soundscape of the station wash over her – the hiss of the Normandy, the quiet, resting purr of its double turbines…
…and the whipcrack of a gunshot.
Charlie’s eyes snapped open.
Anyone else might have questioned whether they had heard the shot at all. The railways were full of loud bangs. London, where petro-Hackneys increasingly roamed the streets, even more so. But Charlie knew that sound too well.
Single shot. North.
She was already moving. Around her, time seemed to slow down. On the international platform, heads were starting to turn.
Second shot. Too quick. Auto-pistol.
Her own pistol was now in her hand. Someone screamed. The crowded platform started to flow as one away from the gunfire, towards her.
Third shot. Different gun.
She instinctively jinked sideways to the edge of the platform as she ran. It took her right up against the hissing bulk of the Normandy, but she now had a clear path up the inside of the crowd that was streaming towards the station exit. A burst of steam from the engine's lower pipework scolded her legs. She barely noticed. A problem for later.
Fourth shot. Third weapon. At least three active combatants.
As the crowd surged past she flipped the safety off of her own pistol and carried on moving towards it. Not just because she was trained to. Not just because she knew sergeant Jack Colville must be only a fraction of a second behind her now…
Fifth shot. The auto-pistol again. Another Scream.
…But because someone was firing guns in her station and people were getting hurt. And she intended to stop it.
As the crowds surged past her, lieutenant Charlotte Norman, 1st Battalion Royal Railway Constabulary focused on the sound of gunfire ahead and ran even faster.