Excerpt from The Amber Shadows by Lucy Ribchester, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Excerpt
The Amber Shadows

"Damned engines. The way they shudder when they're pulling to a halt. Sets one's teeth on edge." The man in the navy blue suit moves his hands down the serge on his thighs, pulling at the rouser creases. Though it is cold in the carriage, and they are the only two in this compartment, it is also airless. Horsehair stuffing pokes through cracks in the leather seats, making his legs itch. When his trousers are straight he fluffs the collar of his shirt.

Outside the train window the light is starting to fade. A tiny slash of fire signals the end of the sun; the rest of the sky is uniform navy. Where are they? Kent? Have they been rerouted? Have they left Buckinghamshire yet? They must be hours still from London, the fields are too pretty, the air is still too full of pollen.

Opposite him, the other man in the carriage stirs. His suit is cream linen, his hair blond; his voice when he speaks comes out slow and lazy. "You know Stravinsky spent months, perhaps years of his childhood on trains. They say it influenced his music. The rhythms."

There is a pause of seconds. The man in navy pouts his lips; he wants to think of something to say to this, he wants to reply, but he doesn't know if the other wants a reply. Then fate presents him with a new outlet.

"You've dropped your book." He reaches to the floor.

"How clumsy of me." The blond sticks out his hand. "Thank you."

"Figley's Book of Ciphers. Ha. Not planning on fighting Fritz with that, are you?"

"Gracious, no." The blond man laughs. "Gift from my father when I was a boy. I always take it on train journeys. Flick through it every now and then. Passes the time."

"I see. Family bringing you to these parts?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Relative of mine working at some godawful Foreign Office outpost in the middle of nowhere. A manor house full of bored typists. I can't imagine anything more torturous. You?"

"I…work in Bletchley village. It's small, sort of…"

"Yes, I know the one. That's where she works. Funny. Small world, isn't it? Are you from there?"

"No. London."

"Same."

Silence folds back in. the blond man closes his eyes. When he opens them again, just a peep, the man in navy looks sharply down and fidgets with the things in his pockets. "Suppose," he says, still fidgeting, "suppose we're going…to be here all night. Night in the sidings. Mother's roast'll go to ruin. If there was only some way of telegramming while on the train. Suppose…at this rate… Do you know this happened last time I took the train? Got re-railed and ended up in Maidstone. What do you suppose causes these wretched delays?"

The blond shrugs. "War." He wishes this navy-suited woolen agitator would shut up. He is putting him off his daydreams and they are good daydreams. They are dance drams. In his head, he is not in linen but silk stockings—thick, defiant, bully-for-you rationing—and a taupe velvet doublet with slashes of tawny silk. He is doing fouettés, foot cocked nice and tight on thigh, spin, one, two…seven, he is Basil from Don Quixote—no, he is Stravinsky's Prince Ivan—and the orchestra is blisteringly loud.

But the man in navy must talk. Strangers must talk to other strangers, when they meet like this, on trains in the middle of a war. "Stravinsky, you say…" the navy man gabbles. "Now there's a funny thing. I haven't heard his music in a long time, but you know, you remind me of someone I once knew. I'd only have been a boy myself. But he liked Stravinsky too. He was a ballet boy."

Now the blond looks up, takes in the other's face: the gristly cheeks, the eyes blue, sunken back and a little darting. Does he know this man? He tries to remember who got in the carriage first. Had he been there already? But no, perhaps they got on at the same time. "I don't think so, old chap. Don't recognize you."

Excerpted from The Amber Shadows by Lucy Ribchester, published by Pegasus Books. Reprinted with permission. All other rights reserved.