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It’s nearly two in the morning when I finally knock. I accomplish two hard raps before my confidence folds. I consider ducking back into my room.

No. Not now. Not anymore.

I add one final loud knock.

The hall is quiet, devoid of bustling passengers, although distant revelry filters from the bar car, competing with the drum of my heart. I touch the guard’s whistle looped around my neck, then dig my fingernails into my bare thigh. I glance down, register for the first time that I’m wearing a matching pale blue silk pajama set. That if anyone were to see me, waiting here, for him, they would form a distinct picture in their mind about what was about to go down.

Footsteps. I cough. The now-familiar scent wafting through the Orient Express—wood, leather—is wringing all the breath from my lungs.

Or maybe it’s just being on this enclosed train, after everything that’s happened. I almost opened my window before to guzzle in fresh air. But as I undid the catch, I stopped myself. Something about the train whizzing through the countryside, the wind gusting in my face—it harkened back to the Colosseum. Being on the edge. Pushing things too far. To their limit.

I watch the doorknob turn.

Things are already pushed to their limit. There’s no way around that anymore.

The door cracks open, revealing a face whose twitches and planes I know well. He smiles—a sad, strange smile.

“I figured it would be you.”