Page 15 of Prometheus' Priestess

The train this time wasn’t as packed as it had been for her journey from Paris to London. The royal blue seats were plush to the eye, though not so much to the bum. She wriggled slightly, trying to adjust into a position that took maximum advantage of the limited padding in her seat. When she was comfortable, Amara looked around and saw that the carriage was occupied with three others and herself, though it had space for at least fifty. She’d chosen the carriage near the front of the train for its proximity to the toilet. According to the train guard that had just come over the intercom, she could expect a trolley service shortly too. Had she known that, she might not have ordered that patheticsandwich.

As the train began to pull away, Amara felt a tugging sensation within her snap. As if she’d just done something that could not be undone, or some twist of fate had painfully bound itself into place. Her spine locked, but as the train continued to roll out across the English capital and beyond into the countryside, she finally let the rhythm of the train soothe her senses.

It wasn’t until two hours into the journey that Amara’s eyes focused on the scenery in front of her, that she began to notice the man in the window staring at her. Examining the reflection, she could see that he had a round face, with ears that protruded slightly from underneath a mop of dirty blonde curls. His nose was curved and narrow, as if the smell in the carriage already offended him, and his eyes were as cat-like in shape as her own. Those eyes were definitely watchingher.

She couldn’t tell much else so she yawned, stretched her arms above her head, and resettled her gaze towards the carriage as if just making herself comfortable.

He was still staring.

Gaze lowered, Amara could still feel his eyes burrowing into her before she realised, as he came into her periphery, that he’d decided to be bold enough to stand up and come towardsher.

“I’m terribly sorry, lassie. Do you mind if I sithere?”

His accent sounded almost Gaelic, the words rolling around and out of his mouth in a rhythmic nature that Amara found warm and pleasant, even as his ice-blue eyes bored holes intoher.

“Not at all,” Amara replied, gesturing to the seat in front of her, the table providing some barrier of protection from this stranger who seemed far too interested in her. For what else could she do? Say no? With what God-given reason?

“You heading toEdinburgh?”

Given that was the only destination for the train, Amara thought it was a bit of a redundant question, but perhaps the man was just being polite in his small talk. She hated making people feel uncomfortable and so, while she would have preferred to stay in silence, she answered him.

“Yes, you?”

“Aye, back home to see the little sister and her weeones.”

“Oh, that’snice.”

“What aboutyou?”

“Excuseme?”

“Why are you heading to Edinburgh? If you don’t mind me asking ...” He smiled a lopsided grin that made him look charming and defenceless, and Amara silently berated herself again for being sodefensive.

She shrugged. “Felt like exploring thecountry.”

“Ah an explorer, aye. I could tell you weren’t from around theseparts.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, a curious smile on her lips, but already her stomach was free falling. What if she wasn’t wanted in Edinburgh? The thought, unwanted, crept into her mind.

“I don’t mean to be rude, mind, it’s just we don’t see many folks of your ...complexionback home. Most of us are pasty white redheads.” He laughed, like her skin colour was a matter of how many hours she spent in the sun. Suddenly, she didn’t feel quite so bad about making him feel uncomfortable and threw him a stony look.

He held his hands up. “I didn’t mean any offence. I’m just trying to be honest with ya. There’ll be some folk back home who will be lessaccommodating.”

Unlike you, an honest racist, she thought to herself, though it must have been written as clear across her face as newspaper ink.

“I’m sorry, I’ve offended ya. I can see that.”

When Amara continued to ignore him in favour of staring out the window, he slid a can of lager across the table between them. When Amara stared at it poisonously, he said, “It’s a peace offering. It won’t killya.”

Amara stared at the can. She didn’t want it, but the man across from her was still staring and she was becoming more uncomfortable with every passing second.

“Go on,” heencouraged.

The need to prove a point bowed to the need to stop the uncomfortable stare of this stranger. Amara slowly took the can, tapped on the top, and opened it to a hiss. Raising it to her lips she kept her eyes on the stranger across from her and took a small sip, ashamed of herself for caving. It tasted like cat piss, but she swallowed it anyway. It was better than the conversation.

“I’m Ralph,” the stranger said, reaching his hand across the table.

“Amara,” she answered, returning the gesture in kind because she felt she had to, now that she had accepted a gift from him, even as she tried to sink deeper back into her seat.

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