Charlotte brought out a tray with a two covered platters upon it. She set it down and removed the covers. Steam rose in two great shafts from the just-cooked food. On one platter, I saw once the steam had cleared a bit, was a gigantic mass of scrambled eggs. On the other was a heap of sausages, stacked like a cord of firewood.
Charlotte took the platter lids away and returned with another tray. Again two columns of steam rose as she revealed the contents of two more platters. This time it was a pile of French toast and a heap of regular toast.
The jam and syrup were already on the table.
I looked up from the morning feast and gave Councillor Greaves my best nonplussed look. "You're kidding me, right?"
Greaves chuckled. "Not at all. Dig in."
"I mean… There's enough food here to feed a dozen people."
He nodded. "It will not go to waste, believe me. Once you and I have finished, Charlotte will see that it falls into good hands."
He lifted his plate and scooped some scrambled eggs onto it. "Please help yourself," he said as he took four sausages and plunked them next to the eggs.
I shook my head in bewilderment and lifted my own plate towards the center of the table.
Conversation was limited during the meal, as both of our mouths were full most of the time. Charlotte's cooking was tremendous, and I couldn't remember enjoying breakfast so much in a very long time. The good folks at the hospital did their best, but their works were but a pale shadow to the marvellous commestibles I was currently consuming.
After a couple helpings of eggs, three sausages, two slices of French toast and a bit of toast and jam, I sat back, overstuffed and content.
"That was amazing," I said.
"Thank you, sir," Charlotte said as she entered the room again to clear the dishes. "I do try my best."
Greaves waved her away. "Stop being so impertinent," he muttered at her.
Charlotte made a face at him and left the room again.
Greaves pulled out a pocket watch and opened it. "Irene will be arriving shortly. Why don't you get yourself cleaned up? I'll have Charlotte put out some clothes for you. I doubt you want to be travelling in yesterday's attire."
"Traveling?" I asked. "Where are we going?"
He got up from the chair, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and set it down on the table. "You'll see soon enough," he said, patting me on the shoulder as he exited the room.
I finished my tea and started for the stairs. Before heading up, I poked my head in the kitchen to ask Charlotte if it would be okay to take a bath.
"Oh, that's perfectly fine, sir," she said. "That bathroom is yours. His Nibs has his own."
"I heard that," came Greaves' voice from the living room.
Charlotte winked at me and turned back to her cleaning activities.
Eagerly anticipating the feel of hot soapy water against my skin, I went upstairs and practically dove into the bathroom. The water from the taps was hot and plentiful, and the room had been amply supplied with both towels and soap. I even came across a bottle of bubble bath in the medicine cabinet.
Mere minutes later, I was stepping into a veritable oasis of suds. I lowered myself into the tub—a big old-fashioned affair with clawed feet and a back support at just the right angle—and sighed audibly.
I found myself musing about the peculiar nature of this world in which I found myself. I didn't know the ins and outs of it, but its anachronisms were at once charming and confusing. Despite the presence of cars, trucks, and the like, and despite the gangster-era appearance of the buildings, clothes, and furniture, I felt rather like I'd been taken back to the Victorian era. The gas lights and pocket watches completely confused my sense of era.
I had the strange feeling that these people were really living in the same year that my world was, but the lack of certain technologies had held them back. I couldn't be sure of that, of course, but I felt it to be the case.
I soaked and scrubbed for about twenty minutes or so, and then, reluctantly, hauled myself to my feet and pulled the stopper from the drain. As the water seeped out of the tub, I reached for a towel and began to dry myself off. Once I was no longer dripping, I wrapped the towel around my waist and grabbed my clothes.
I stepped down the hall towards my room just as Charlotte was coming out of it.
"Oh," she said, averting her eyes. "I beg your pardon, sir. I've just put out some fresh clothes for you."
I grabbed the edge of the towel to ensure it stayed where it was. "Thanks," I said. "Thanks very much."
The irony of the situation was not lost on me. I had just hours earlier imagined her catching me naked on the way to the bathroom. Now, here she was, catching me pretty damned close. She slipped past me, but not before I managed to catch a glimpse of the slight smile she was trying to hide.
The towel seemed tighter all of a sudden.
Once I'd managed to calm down all my various brain cells and body parts, I began to examine the clothes that had been laid out for me. I raised my eyebrows in appreciation as I picked up the shirt, pants, and suit jacket. All were exceedingly well made, and all were of a style that I thought would suit me pretty well.
Again, the style was vintage, at least for me, and I was once again beset with an image from Star Trek, as I recalled Kirk and Spock in their 1930s gangster attire in the episode "A Piece of the Action".
As with Jell-o, there was always room for Star Trek.
I raised my eyebrows again as I tried on the garments and found that they fit. Why Councillor Greaves would have clothing of my size in his home was beyond me. He was much shorter than I was, and his girth was somewhat thicker than mine. I couldn't imagine what these clothes were doing here. Unless he'd had Charlotte run to the haberdashers late in the night. But that seemed equally unlikely.
I stepped to the mirror and checked myself out. I was pleasantly surprised. The suit fit like a glove, and I had to admit to myself that it helped me to cut a rather dashing figure. "Clothes make the man," I'd heard it said. I'd always thought it was just an old saying. Evidently, there was more to it than that.
I went back downstairs a few minutes later. Greaves was in the living room, and Irene had evidently arrived whilst I was bathing, as she sat across from him. She was wearing a tailored, cream-colored blouse and a beige skirt. They were well cut, but I thought the colors a bit drab for her, especially considering how dramatic she'd looked in her black-and-white houndtooth-check coat.
She looked up as I entered the room, and her green eyes lit up.
"Good morning, Jack," she said, standing and stepping towards me.
"Good morning," I replied.
She took my hands in hers and looked me up and down. "You look ever-so-dashing," she said, a wide smile spreading across her face.
I felt a slight flush rise into my face. "Thanks," I said.
Greaves stood and moved towards us. "Yes, indeed, Jack," he said. "That outfit suits you to a tee." He moved towards the door, but stopped and turned back. "Perhaps that's why they call it a 'suit'." He chuckled to himself as he turned back towards the door and headed into the entry hall.
Irene took my arm. "Shall we?" she asked.
I shrugged. "Whatever you say. I'm just a passenger here."
She patted me on the arm and led me towards the entry hall. Charlotte was waiting by the front door, coats in hand. She gave Irene hers first, another long dramatic coat, but a dark green one this time. She handed Greaves a long black woolen coat and a dark hat, and then she handed me a dark trench coat and a fedora.
I inspected both items before putting them on. They were the perfect completion to my ensemble, and the giddy child in me stepped out to play for a moment. I nearly scanned the area in search of a Tommy gun.
I looked up a Charlotte, shaking my head in amazement. "Awesome," I said.
She winked at me again. "Thank you," she said.
Irene gave me a dark look as we stepped outside the house. "I'd be careful if I were you," she said.
"Jealous?" I asked.
She snorted and stepped ahead of me.
A car was waiting for us at the curb. To me it looked like an old Rolls-Royce from about 1935, but in reality it bore no brand insignias that I recognized. The driver, who'd been standing patiently beside the rear end of the car, opened the back door. Greaves gestured for Irene to get in and then stood aside to allow me to climb in and sit beside her. He followed and took the seat facing us.
It was an extremely roomy vehicle.
The driver closed the door behind us and moved around to the front of the car. In a moment, we were off and running. To what destination, I knew not.
We travelled along the equivalent of my Gottingen Street, and before long, the immensity of Citadel Hill loomed up before us.
"This is supremely weird," I said.
"What, specifically?" Greaves asked, geniune curiosity in his tone.
"Well, I've known that hill all my life," I said. "It's been part of my day to day landscape. But now I'm seeing it in a completely different context, and it's messing up my head."
He chuckled. "That's a strange turn of phrase, but I think I know what you mean."
Irene had been silent since we'd left the house. I glanced at her, but she was paying no attention to my conversation with the councillor. She was looking out the window, lost in her own thoughts. I decided it would be best if I left her that way.
We turned left at the base of the Citadel and began to travel down towards the harbor. I had a good view of the water now, and the sight was remarkably like that of my own Halifax. The buildings were different, but the harbor was the same. I shook my head in wonderment.
"You're still not going to tell me where we're going?" I asked.
"In time," Greaves said.
We turned right a few streets before reaching the harbor. I looked around, getting a feel for the area. It felt a bit like what would have been Hollis Street in my own world, but I wasn't completely certain.
A few minutes later, we turned into the parking lot of a large hotel, but that, apparently was not our destination. The car continued past it, towards a smaller building that appeared to be attached.
"Here we are," Greaves said as the vehicle pulled up beside the front door.
The driver got out and stepped around to our side. He opened the door, and we all piled out, stretching our various limbs and surveying the landscape.
"Bring the bags, will you, Wilson?" Greaves said to the driver.
Wilson nodded and opened the trunk of the car.
Greaves led the way towards the entrance, and Irene and I followed. The building, and the hotel it adjoined, had an art-deco look about it. I looked up at the ornamentation as we approached the door, admiring the workmanship and the design. I felt suddenly a bit ashamed of the modern world I'd left the day before, with all its prefabricated homes and metal studs and quick-as-you-please construction. It just wasn't the same.
Inside was a polished marble floor, wooden benches, and a long row of counters. I suddenly clued in. This building served the same function as its counterpart in my world.
"This is the train station," I said.
Greaves turned back to me and nodded. "Yes. Yes it is. Wait here a moment, and I'll fetch our tickets."
As he stepped over to the first available counter, I turned to Irene.
"This is a beautiful building," I said.
Irene nodded absently. "Yes," she said.
I stepped closer to her. "Are you okay?" I asked.
She looked at me, but immediately turned away again. "I'm fine," she said.
I rolled my eyes. That was the standard answer on all worlds, apparently.
"I guess I was rude," I said. "I'm sorry."
She turned her head halfway back to me. "Yes," she said. "You were rude."
I let my shoulders sag. I tried to think of something to say in response to that, but before I had the chance to make myself look any more stupid, Greaves returned with our train tickets. Wilson also arrived at that moment, coming in the main entrance with three suitcases on a trolley.
"Follow me," Greaves said, immediately turning around again and heading for the opposite end of the cavernous room.
Irene and I followed him in silence, our footsteps interspersed with the squeak of the trolley's wheels behind us.
"Get that fixed, will you, Wilson?" Greaves said.
We stepped through the doors at the far end of the room and onto the platform. A train awaited us.
Again I felt as if I were in a 1940s movie, as we stepped into a veritable fogbank of steam. As we moved along the chain of old Pullman-style cars, I looked ahead, towards the front of the line, where I caught the occasional glimpse of a majestic black steam engine, veritably poised to leap into action.
I laughed aloud, unable to contain myself. "Where are we headed?" I asked. "Hogwarts?"
Irene gave me a sharp look, while Greaves just chuckled and shook his head. "I will never get accustomed to your odd words and phrases," he said.
I turned up one corner of my mouth. "Yeah, another lost reference," I said, suddenly disappointed that there was no one around from my world who could share my mirth. "It's from a well known story on my world. About a place where there's actually magic."
Irene and Greaves exchanged a telling look.
—————–
We found ourselves in a comfortably appointed compartment. A sliding wooden door separated us from the corridor, and two upholstered benches faced each other inside the cozy space. Out of the window, I could see the landscape passing us by.
I knew it was Nova Scotian landscape, but I was hard pressed to recognize anything I saw. There were no familiar landmarks, no signs, no nothing. Just lots and lots of land and the occasional building. It was, for all intents and purposes, a foreign land. Sure, if I had a good topographical map and some orienteering implements, I'd probably be able to find my way around, but beyond that, I might as well have been in Siberia. Or whatever the Eternal Grand Empire called that region of its domain.
I put my head back and sighed. Too much. Too much.
"Are you cold?" Greaves asked.
I raised my head again. "Hmmm?"
He gestured towards my torso. I looked down, realizing he was talking about my coat. I hadn't taken it off yet.
"It is a bit chilly in here," I said. "But mostly I just like the outfit."
Greaves smiled and nodded, returning his attention to his newspaper.
I felt suddenly restless. We hadn't been travelling long, but not knowing our final destination was making me antsy. I suddenly realized that I was holding my fedora in my lap and was fidgeting with it.
"Do they have bathrooms on these things?" I asked.
"Yes," Greaves answered, "There is usually one at the rear, just before the connection to the next car."
I got up and slid the door open. "I'll be right back, I said.
I closed the door behind me and moved towards what I assumed, based on the movement of the train, was the rear of the car. The corridor was deserted. I put my hand against the wall to steady my steps as the car rocked rhythmically back and forth.
As I neared the end of the car, one of the other compartment doors opened, and man in a black cloak stepped out. I figured he must have been a clergyman or monk of some sort or another, as he wore a hood and moved with his head down. He stepped along the remainder of the corridor, his steps much more sure than mine, and finally paused at the door to what appeared to be the washroom.
He turned suddenly and bowed to me. "I did not realize you were there," he said.
I still couldn't see his face. His hood was deep enough to keep his face in shadows.
"That's okay," I said. "Please go ahead."
"No, no," he said, stepping to the washroom door and holding it open for me. "My urgency is not so great. I insist you go first."
Not wanting to cause any possible offense to any possible spiritual or religious sensibilities this fellow might possess, I nodded and stepped towards the door.
"Thank you," I said.
If he replied, I didn't hear it, because what I stepped into was not a washroom at all, but open air. I fell a good five feet to the ground, twisting my right ankle and bruising my right arm in the process. Beneath me were railroad ties, but the train on which I'd been travelling was nowhere to be seen.
I sat up and looked around. There was no sound, nothing to indicate a train had passed mere seconds ago. It was as if the train had never existed.
I tried standing. My ankle was tender, but I didn't think I'd sprained or broken it. It would probably work itself out after a while.
I moved a few feet down the track, craning my neck to see where I was. There were houses in the distance, but I couldn't see much in the way of detail. I had no idea where I was.
I looked down at the track. A few feet ahead of me, a small dark shape was visible between two of the ties. I hobbled over to it and bent down.
"Oh, boy," I said, thinking of Scott Bakula as I did so.
I picked the object up. It was a flattened Tim Horton's coffee cup.
I wasn't in Kansas anymore.
