The train had taken her as far east as it was possible to go.
Beyond this point, impassable mountains rose, steep and dark, huge figures against the clear sky—giants, masters of the landscape. At the base, Novgorod stood; the town huddled together against the snow, lights flickering here and there, a fallen constellation scattered across the earth.
Astrid pulled her glove off, worn brown leather peeling away, to place her hand against the cold window. The ring tapped the glass, an audible tick as the two connected. She focused on the gold band, the promise that had brought her to this point.
Against the night, her hand was pale, slender, the nails buffed and shining. She had scrubbed the dirt mercilessly from beneath them, rubbing her skin raw, working to remove months of time spent in the garden without gloves. It had paid off. You would never know from looking that she spent more time outside than in, more time with books and plants than with embroidery or music lessons.
The reflection in the glass showed her the familiar lines of her face, a pale oval with sharp cheekbones and a slim nose, dark eyes fringed with long lashes and straight brows. The dark red color of her hair, braided and pinned, looked brown, almost black; the plain hat on the seat beside her waited to be carefully put back in place. Barely twenty-two and, on the surface, the kind of young woman any man might admire. A presentable young woman, pretty enough, something about the quirk of her lips hinting at laughter and cheek-aching grins.
But it had been a long time since she'd smiled, even longer since she'd laughed.
With a sigh, she leaned back, replacing the glove, ignoring the way the ring felt warmer and heavier on her hand. It was nerves, excitement and fear rolling together, bubbling beneath the careful calm she was cultivating.
The world went by on the other side of the window, the station lit with warm yellow light, the sounds muffled only slightly. The platform seethed with activity even this late at night. She had been surprised at how many people had ridden until the last stop, the end of the line here in this place. Surprise caught her again as groups went back and forth, passengers disembarking.
Uniformed porters with luggage and men with wooden crates moved back and forth, women wearing heavy winter coats trimmed in fur, less fashionable hats meant to keep them warm instead of add to their allure. A family in rougher clothes, sturdy boots and dark wool coats, crossed in front of the window, caught for a moment, framed. The husband smiling, putting his arm around his wife's waist as she laughed, an older boy making a face, irritated. A younger boy reaching for his sister's hand and pulling her along, the girl half asleep and clutching a doll.
Astrid watched them, the way the family kept turning to each other, a laugh rippling though them, the way they moved together, as one, down the platform and out of sight. She touched her cheek, remembering, then pushed the thought away. The place bustled, busy and loud, and out of all the noise and movement, none of it seemed to be for her.
He had said he would be here. Tyhr. A stranger.
Astrid would wait until the crowd thinned out, for the people in a rush to clear out, before she would leave the warmth of the cabin. There would be time enough for the two of them to come face-to-face.
If he wasn't in a hurry, neither was she.
She picked up the book she had been reading, a botanical history of the region, Tundra Flowers of Siberia. The letter he had sent her, the only one she had ever received, tucked in as a bookmark. Soon she was absorbed, reading by the weak electric light thrown by the wall scones, lost in the whisper of turning pages and the growth rates of lichen.