Chapter 9: A Ticket Already Bought
Beryl Hutchinson had her rucksack open and spilling out onto the bed —a riot of colored clothes and many fun tools for chaos, a superheroian very much like herself would need or want, among them were -
—lots of textbooks, some for fun, others for school, a few in different languages, all of them very expensive . . . and not fun to replace,
then she had her tools, a battered fencing mask . . . A Brand new Fencing mask!
slingshot ammo in the biggest mint tin you would ever see in your life,
and her favorite scarf (the one with tiny little Union Jacks).
She had one hand on her phone, balancing it between her shoulder and cheek as she zipped her yellow-and-black jacket, the Squire crest stitched proudly over her heart. On the screen, Barbara Gordon's face was all concern, blue light flickering on her glasses.
Barbara started, voice low and careful. "And you're sure you're fine with this? Seriously, Beryl, I know you can handle yourself, but this isn't a weekend job. You might be there for years. Years, Beryl—not just days, not just months."
Beryl grinned, rolling her eyes with British affection. "Oh, don't be daft, Barb. I've seen more super-nutters as the Squire than most blokes twice my age—the Metaleks, Old King Coal, even bleeding Springheeled Jack. This lot in Gotham think they've cornered the market on mad villains, but they've never tried to outfox a Welsh granny with a handbag." She grabbed a notebook from the table nearby, her pen quickly scribbling a reminder in the margin: "buy oatcakes." She then looked around and said, "Besides, I'm already packing my things. I've also cracked codes attoscopically—er, is submolecularly even better?—tiny's tiny, after all. If Dr. Wakati needs help taking care of his spoiled baby, I believe I can manage to lend a hand."
Barbara's lips quirked into a reluctant smile, but she pressed on. "I get it. I really do, but… you're only fifteen, Beryl. You don't have to prove anything—"
Beryl didn't even let her finish. "Same age you were when you started, and don't you dare give me that 'wasted youth' spiel. I know for a fact you'd do everything exactly the same if you had the chance, and you can't deny it. I've made my mind up, Barb. You all said you trusted me, so trust me. I've got this. Cross my heart, and all that."
There was a pause, Barbara raising her hands in surrender, eyebrows up, a little smirk playing at her lips. "Fine. You win. Just promise me, if anything changes, you'll call. I don't care if it's two in the morning here, you let me know."
"Scout's honor. Or, well, Squire's." Beryl's voice was light, but she meant it. She looked around her tiny, messy room, eyes lingering on the few postcards from around the world from Cyril she still had lying around, the stack of British Library returns, the half-finished crossword on her pillow. She was ready for something big
—even if it meant crossing an ocean and then some.
Barbara's tone shifted, sliding into business. "All right. Let's go over the details again, just so it's fresh. Dr. Elias Wakati a very reclusive, genius, basically the father of quantum temporal theory. He does private research from his mansion in Cranston Estates—big, old, and full of secrets. His main goal is using time disruption for good; he's been developing tech to help the terminally ill, putting them in stasis until treatment is possible. His pods are expensive, sure, but they work. Lots of people owe him their lives. But…"
Beryl finished the thought for her, "But his work's been pinched by all sorts. Temple Fugate, that Clock King nutter, got his hands on Wakati's tech, right? That's why he can do all those perfect-timing shenanigans and freeze himself mid-fight. Only in Gotham, eh?"
"Exactly. And three days ago, at four in the morning, a huge burst of time energy came from the mansion. Showed up on every scientific and magical radar in the world—and beyond. The Green Lanterns picked it up clear out to Oa. Even the magic types in the Justice League said it rattled every magical realm connected to this universe. Whatever happened, it was a real one-of-a-kind event. Reports say it lasted only a second, others say longer. But the mission is clear: you get hired as a carer—he's looking for help with his grandson—and while you're there, you figure out what happened. Dr. Wakati's a sweetheart, but he's absentminded, forgetful, and very good at hiding things. No one's ever cracked his secrets, not even the best."
Beryl nodded, fingers tapping her temple. "So, go in, play it cool, make sure the little one's safe, keep my eyes open for weird timey-wimey stuff, and be ready to bolt if anyone tries to speed up my molecules. Got it." She paused, then added, "What's the family like, then? Any other surprises I should know about? I've read his research . . . well, what's public, anyway, . . . but he's not exactly chatty about his private life."
Barbara checked her files, scanning a stream of data only she could read that fast. "His daughter Amara used to be involved in his work but disappeared a while ago under, well, odd circumstances. There's rumors of a falling out, but nothing concrete. The grandson—Kairo—is the child you'll be looking after. He's… not unusual for a baby, even for Gotham, so he should be the easy part. The rest of the staff is small—nannies, housekeepers, a couple of gardeners. They're loyal, and the mansion's a fortress. You'll have to be clever, and subtle. But if anyone can blend in and figure out what's really going on, it's you."
Beryl grinned, slinging her rucksack over one shoulder, her cap perched at a jaunty angle. "Right then, I'll brush up on my lullabies and time paradoxes. And don't worry, Barb. If anything gets weird, you'll be the first to know. I'll even send you a postcard."
A flicker of affection crossed Barbara's face. "Just stay safe, Beryl. And remember, you don't have to do it all alone. You've got friends on both sides of the Atlantic—call if you need backup."
Beryl gave a mock salute, a swirl of British, French, and a bit of Welsh slipping into her voice. "Oui, madame. Byddaf yn iawn. I'll check in soon, promise."
Barbara smiled and gave her a thumbs up, " . . . Um, ok, good luck, and we'll be in contact."
As the call ended, Beryl looked around her room one last time, grabbed her fencing sword and her slingshot, and tucked her favorite phrase into her pocket for luck: "We've got this, yeah?"
And with that, she set off for Gotham, a ticket already bought, ready to find out just what secrets waited in the halls of Cranston Estates—and maybe, if she was lucky, make a little history herself. But first she needed to make it past her mother
Beryl tiptoed out of her room, rucksack slung over one shoulder and fencing sword tucked under her arm, boots quiet on the old carpet. The house was still, that peculiar hush of early morning when the city's only just starting to stretch and fully wake up.
She could smell toast from the kitchen, a little burnt at the edges
—her mother's idea of breakfast, more ritual than sustenance, even after dad's death, that woman could not cook, not for lack of trying, she just wasn't a good cook, end of story.
She'd barely made it to the landing before her mum's voice floated up, wobbly and thick with emotion. "Beryl? Are you sure you've packed enough socks? You'll need proper socks, not those thin ones, it's America and they don't believe in central heating."
Beryl winced, glancing heavenward like she might find patience up there. She padded down the stairs, putting on her brightest smile. "Mum, I'll be fine. Honestly. I've got socks, thermals, and more biscuits than customs will know what to do with. Plus, Gotham's not Antarctica, though you'd hardly know it from the telly, what with all the gloom and caped blokes running about."
Her mother stood by the kettle, eyes red-rimmed, clutching a mug that said "Keep Calm and Carry On" in peeling letters. She sniffled, dabbing at her nose with a tea towel. "But it's so far, Beryl. And Gotham! You know what those papers say. Crime everywhere. Have you seen the news? There's people in clown makeup chasing police cars. It's not right, that."
Beryl softened, slipping into the kitchen and wrapping her arms around her mum's shoulders. "Mam, please don't cry. I'll be with proper grownups, and Dr. Wakati's mansion is safer than Parliament on voting day. Besides, you raised me on Batwoman comics and Poirot mysteries . . . what did you honestly expect? You know I can handle myself. And I'll call, I promise. Every Sunday. Or, well, whenever I'm not running from exploding things being thrown at me."
Her mum let out an uneven laugh, half a sob, and held Beryl tighter. "You always were a stubborn one. Can't believe you're off to America. Gotham, no less. I wanted you to go to Oxford, or at least somewhere with fewer supervillains."
Beryl grinned, squeezing back. "I'll send you a photo of the first Bat-Signal I spot, deal? And I'll bring you something nice from an American supermarket, a whole aisle of peanut butter, just like you always wanted."
Her mum shook her head, but the tears had mostly dried. "Just… be smart, Beryl. Look after yourself. And if you see any trouble, you run the other way, you hear me? No heroics."
Beryl gave her a cheeky salute, eyes bright. "No promises, Mam. You know me."
They lingered for a moment, Beryl quietly memorizing the feel of home: the chipped tile, the clock that always ran five minutes slow, the faint scent of lavender from her mum's soap. Finally, she grabbed her suitcase, fencing mask dangling from the handle, and nudged open the door.
Her mum followed her onto the stoop, wrapping her in another hug so fierce it nearly knocked the sword from her arm. "Text me when you land. And remember, don't talk to strangers . . . unless you're saving them, I suppose."
Beryl laughed, stepping into the dawn, heart thumping with nerves and excitement. "I love you, Mam. Don't worry. I'll be back before you know it. And I'll bring proper American socks."
She set off down the street, her mum waving from the doorway until she turned the corner for the train station.
Beryl Hutchinson arrived at the train station with three minutes to spare, which in her personal system of time management counted as both "early" and "an impressive display of discipline." The station itself sat just outside the heart of the city, old brick walls and tall iron beams holding up a ceiling that smelled faintly of oil, rain, and a century's worth of commuters who had passed through with places to be.
Except this morning, no one was passing through.
Beryl slowed as she stepped onto the platform, the familiar sounds she expected not quite lining up with reality. A station like this should have been noisy even at dawn. There should have been someone dragging luggage across the tiles, a bored worker wiping down the ticket counter, or at least one bleary commuter standing around with a newspaper and a bad attitude.
Instead, the whole place felt… paused.
Not frozen, exactly. The lights hummed. Somewhere in the distance she could hear pigeons arguing with each other. But the platform itself was empty. Completely empty.
Beryl shifted her rucksack on her shoulder and glanced around again, eyebrows slowly climbing her forehead.
"Well," she muttered under her breath, "that's comforting."
She walked further along the platform anyway, boots tapping against the stone floor as she scanned the ticket machines and benches. The boards above the tracks showed departures that made sense on paper, but there wasn't a single person waiting for any of them.
It was the sort of quiet that made the back of her neck prickle.
Beryl wasn't easily spooked. Growing up around British heroes and villains had trained that particular instinct right out of her. Still, she'd learned that when things got this strange, the best move was to stop, breathe, and look around properly.
She dropped her bag onto the nearest bench with a soft thud and rolled her shoulders, stretching out some of the travel nerves that had been sitting in her spine since she left the house. From there she took a slow look around the station again, really studying the place this time.
The empty ticket booth.
The silent departure board.
The tracks stretching into the mist like someone had drawn them straight into a foggy painting.
"Right," she said quietly. "This is either extremely normal and I'm overthinking it, or I've walked into the beginning of a ghost story."
"Ah, trains and ghosts do have a long history together."
The voice came from her right.
Beryl turned.
A woman sat on the bench beside her.
The very same bench that had been empty two seconds ago.
Beryl blinked once, slowly.
The woman was beautiful in a way that didn't feel ordinary. Long black hair spilled down her shoulders, perfectly smooth and shining in the pale morning light as if each strand had decided it had somewhere important to be. Her eyes were the brightest green Beryl had ever seen, not the sort of green you found in nature so much as the sort you saw in very old paintings of forests and magic.
Her clothing looked like something from a completely different century. A tailored traveling coat, elegant gloves, a hat that belonged in the sort of films where rich people drank champagne on trains while discussing philosophy.
The woman turned toward Beryl with an easy, amused smile.
"This is exciting," she said pleasantly. "I do not often get to ride trains anymore. A shame, really. I've always found them rather delightful."
Beryl stared at her for a moment, her brain rapidly flipping through possibilities.
Stage magician.
Actor.
Time traveler.
Actual witch.
Finally she cleared her throat.
"Right," she said carefully. "Yes. Trains are… brilliant. Love trains. Big fan."
The woman nodded as if this were an entirely satisfactory answer.
"Good," she said warmly. "It would be rather awkward if you did not."
There was a small pause.
The woman extended a gloved hand.
"Madame Xanadu," she said.
Beryl nodded politely and shook it.
"Beryl Hutchinson."
"Ah," Xanadu said with quiet satisfaction, as if the name confirmed something she already knew. "Yes. I thought it might be you."
Beryl sat down slowly beside her.
"Madam it is, then," she said.
They sat together in the strange quiet of the empty station for several minutes, making the sort of small talk that polite strangers fall into when both of them know something unusual is happening but neither has decided to mention it yet.
Xanadu spoke about trains with surprising enthusiasm, describing journeys across Europe, across deserts, across landscapes that Beryl suspected might not have existed on modern maps anymore. Beryl listened, occasionally chiming in with the sort of cheerful commentary she'd perfected over years of talking with eccentric heroes.
Eventually curiosity got the better of her.
Beryl pulled out her phone and checked the train ticket again.
Departure time confirmed.
Platform confirmed.
Everything correct.
Except for one small detail.
"Right," she said slowly, glancing back toward the empty tracks. "Slight issue."
Xanadu tilted her head.
"Yes?"
Beryl held up her phone.
"My train's meant to be here."
Xanadu smiled.
"Trains to America often take longer than expected."
Beryl lowered the phone very slowly.
Her brain ran that sentence through several logical filters before deciding it had probably heard it correctly.
She looked up at Xanadu.
There was a long pause.
Finally Beryl said, in the most polite voice she could manage, "You do know trains cannot cross the Atlantic, yes?"
Xanadu's smile widened just slightly.
"Oh, do not worry," she said calmly. "I have arranged for a rather special route."
Beryl stared at her.
"Right."
"Yes."
"And this special route is…"
"I paid for the train to take us directly to the Wakati mansion in Cranston Estates."
Beryl opened her mouth to ask several extremely important questions.
She never got the chance.
Because suddenly she heard it.
The sound did not come from the tracks.
It came from everywhere.
A low rumble moved through the floor beneath her boots, through the iron beams above her head, through the very air of the station itself.
It sounded like a train.
But it also sounded like thunder.
And wind.
And something much older than either of those things.
Smoke rolled across the tracks like a living fog, thick and dark but glowing faintly from within. Lights appeared inside it, warm golden lights that swayed gently as if attached to carriages moving through a tunnel no one else could see.
The train slid out of the smoke like a dream deciding to become real.
It stopped directly in front of them.
Beryl's brain, normally very good at processing strange situations, briefly stopped cooperating.
"Oh," she said faintly.
A door opened with a cheerful clatter.
And out stepped a demon.
He was round and bright yellow, with a wide grin and a conductor's cap perched happily on his head. His belly bounced slightly as he landed on the platform, and when he spoke his voice carried a warm Jamaican accent thick enough to fill the station.
"Mornin', ladies!" he said brightly. "Tickets, please!"
Beryl stared.
Madame Xanadu calmly produced two tickets from her coat pocket and handed them over.
The demon inspected them with great seriousness.
Then he broke into an even bigger smile.
"Perfect!" he boomed. "Welcome aboard!"
He turned and clapped his hands.
"Boys! Help the nice ladies with their luggage!"
A small army of cheerful, round demons popped out of the train behind him, all laughing and chattering as they hurried toward Beryl's bags.
Beryl stood there, watching as one of them hoisted her rucksack like it weighed nothing.
She blinked slowly.
"I knew magic was real," she said quietly, mostly to herself. "But this is a bit much."
Madame Xanadu stepped beside her and gently took her arm.
"We mustn't be late," she said kindly.
Beryl allowed herself to be pulled toward the train, her brain still trying to catch up with reality as the demon crew bustled around them.
"For what?" she asked.
Xanadu smiled as the train doors opened.
"For your first day of work," she said.
Then she guided Beryl aboard.