Chapter 11: All the Strange Tracks Lead Here
Beryl's first impression of the train was that it wasn't built for anyone who liked things ordinary. For one, the windows seemed to ignore geography as a concept.
Somewhere between the English coast and the Atlantic, the sea had gone from its pure blues and sunlit waters to a shimmering tapestry of silver scales, then to a world of deep green and darting shadows, schools of fish moving like they'd been choreographed by an ancient god with a very bad but strangely and very colorful sense of humor.
She pressed her forehead to the glass, eyes wide, watching as the train dipped beneath the water's surface with barely a bump. Jellyfish as big as garden sheds floated by in gentle clusters. Eels that glowed blue-green zipped past, and once a shadow, almost whale-shaped, but not quite, drifted overhead, close enough to make Beryl's heart skip.
And then, just as she was getting used to the underwater show, the train angled downward, diving even further into a darkness that made her stomach flutter. For a moment, everything went black, save for the golden glow of the lamps within the carriage and the flicker of strange lights in the depths. Just as quickly, the world outside snapped back to impossible: they emerged high above the clouds, the ocean far below, Gotham's neon haze flickering on the horizon. Beryl had been on magic trains before, well, if she was honest, one other, and that was with the Knight and a very chatty ghost . . .
but nothing quite like this.
She forced herself to look away from the window, twisting in her seat to face Madame Xanadu. The private car was all velvet and polished wood, way too fancy for an honest girl like herself, with tons of little details that made Beryl think of old stories: symbols and figures carved into the armrests, a clock with hands that ticked backward, and a bouquet of lilies and sage that smelled like early, wet, spring mornings and old paper books.
The Madame or Just Madame . .
Beryl couldn't call her anything else, but even calling her anything near Madame sounded strange to Beryl. The woman looked like she was in her mid-30s, at most late 30s, Mature and extremely beautiful, but Beryl knew that something, obviously, was up with her; not with that air of timelessness, even as she was enjoying a breakfast that looked like it had been conjured from a cookbook lost to a history from another world.
There were tiny, jewel-bright fruits, a pastry shaped like a crescent moon, and a cup of tea so fragrant that even Beryl, who'd never been one for fancy blends, felt her mouth water. The food was served by the same type? maybe race? of yellow demon staff, this one with a green streak in her hair and a Caribbean lilt in her voice, who set the silverware with the precision of a ballet dancer.
Xanadu glanced up, noticed Beryl's gaze, and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. "Oh, forgive me, darling. I should have asked if you wanted anything to eat. The staff is quite obliging, they can fetch you almost anything, from anywhere, any time. It's terribly rude of me not to offer."
Beryl waved her off with an easy smile, shaking her head. "Honestly, Madame, I'm fine. I had toast this morning, and I'm still recovering. Mum burned it as usual, bless her. Besides, I'd probably end up with something that bites back, knowing my luck. .
. . But, well, since we're here and I've got you cornered in a train car…" She leaned forward, hands folded, blue eyes sharp beneath her cap. "I've got questions. Quite a few, actually."
Xanadu smiled, that mysterious, ageless curve of her lips. "Of course you do. That's what I like about you, Beryl. Ask what you wish, but be warned, some of my answers may be terribly simple, and others… well, you may need to think about them for a while."
Beryl nodded, gathering her thoughts. "All right, first one: what exactly is this train? And, yes, I know It's not or might never be in any book I've read, and I've read plenty, and I've read about half a dozen magic ones, even the ones that bite back if you turn the pages too hard or quickly."
Xanadu's eyes sparkled, and she set her cup down. "The train is… a passage. It belongs to no one and everyone. Sometimes it's a refuge, sometimes a bridge. It travels where it's needed, and occasionally, where it isn't. Think of it as a crossroads, a way to deliver people to the places they're meant to be, whether they know it or not."
Beryl raised an eyebrow. "So, it's sentient? Or enchanted?"
"Both, in a sense. It's old magic, and old magic is rarely just one thing." Xanadu's gaze drifted to the window, her voice softening. "It's been here longer than Gotham, longer than Britain has had a name, longer than even I can remember. It has carried heroes, villains, and those who are a bit of both. But only those who would respect its rules."
Beryl tried to process that, nodding slowly. "All right. Next question: why are you helping me? Are you helping me?"
Madame's gaze turned thoughtful. "I don't believe in accidents, Beryl. The universe has a way of nudging certain people into each other's paths. I help when I must, and I watch when I can. In your case, I am… facilitating. You have a part to play in what's to come, and it's important you arrive on time. And, perhaps, in the right state of mind."
Beryl huffed a laugh, running her thumb over the edge of her scarf. "So you're not here to hold my hand through it, then."
"Not unless you'd like me to." Xanadu's smile reached her eyes. "But I suspect you'd find that dreadfully dull."
The train dipped again, and outside the window, the world shifted. Gotham City sprawled beneath them, skyscrapers jutting up like jagged teeth, the river winding through like a silver snake.
But the train moved past it all at high speed . .
Then came the forest
deep, thick, ancient, and creepy in a way that made Beryl's skin prickle
and at last, the mountains, sharp and blue against the morning sky. The tracks curved, and the train slowed as it passed through Cranston Estates, rooftops peeking through the trees like new born grass at the edges of late winter.
Beryl leaned closer to the glass, her breath fogging the pane. "So, last big one for now: how do you know about my job? I haven't even got it yet. And why me? There must be a hundred people better suited . . ."
Xanadu's voice was soft but certain. "There are many who are more experienced. There are few who are more right. You see things others miss. You ask the questions that need asking, even when the answers hurt. And most important, you care. That's rarer than you think, and harder to fake. You'll find, in this line of work, that's what matters most."
For a moment, Beryl just sat, letting the words settle. She remembered all the times she'd caught things other heroes hadn't, all the ways she'd helped Cyril back on his feet, all the puzzles she'd solved because she couldn't let them go.
She felt a little less like an imposter.
The train's brakes hissed, and the carriage slowed to a gentle stop. Outside the window, sunlight crept through the trees, painting gold on stone and glass. The mansion was just visible beyond the gate, sprawling and mysterious.
Xanadu stood, smoothing her coat, and offered Beryl her hand. "Ready?"
Beryl grinned, heart pounding with that giddy, nervous excitement she always felt at the start of a new adventure. "Let's get on with it, then. Wouldn't want to keep destiny waiting."
--- moving into the mansion --
By the time Dr. Elias Wakati made it to the private sitting room he had chosen for the interview, he was already tired of interviews.
Not tired in the normal way, though he certainly was that too. His knees had opinions. His back had opinions. Even his glasses seemed tired. No, this was a deeper sort of exhaustion, the kind that came from trying to find the right person for something too important to get wrong.
The room itself was one of the quieter chambers in the mansion, tucked away from the main halls and the soft daily traffic of the staff. It had dark wood shelves, two armchairs facing one another, a low table between them, and tall windows with heavy curtains half-drawn against the morning light. Elias liked it because people tended to relax in here. Or at least they tried to. The room had a way of making most visitors feel as though they were in the presence of something older than furniture and more private than conversation.
At the moment, however, the room was empty.
Elias paused in the doorway, glanced once to the left, once to the right, then looked toward the hall as if the missing applicant might materialize if he gave reality a chance to correct itself.
Nothing.
He stepped inside anyway.
It did not bother him much. If the girl needed the lavatory, or had gotten turned around in the halls, or was simply late, then she was late. Time had a way of getting on with itself regardless of human preference. No one knew that better than he did. In truth, after the week he'd had, he almost respected lateness on principle. It meant the person had not yet become a slave to clocks.
He sat slowly in one of the chairs and looked down at the paper in his hands.
Beryl Hutchinson. Age fifteen.
That alone had made him pause when he first saw the file. Fifteen was very young, even if the recommendation attached to the page had insisted otherwise. The rest of the summary was concise but impressive. British. Exceptionally bright. Accepted into one of Gotham's better colleges at an age when most children were still arguing with geometry and pretending they understood or even liked Shakespeare. Strong aptitude for languages. Stronger aptitude for pattern recognition, problem solving, and adapting under pressure. Experience in caretaking. Some experience with high-risk environments, though the wording there was strangely careful in a way Elias recognized immediately.
A file written by people who knew something and were trying very hard not to write it down.
Then there was the private note attached behind it.
That had interested him more.
He adjusted his glasses and read it again, this time aloud, low enough that only the room could hear him.
"Dr. Wakati," he read, his voice dry but not unkind, "your work has long stood among the most significant private scientific efforts of our age. Wayne Enterprises has always considered it an honor to support research that aims not merely to advance knowledge, but to improve the human condition. Your work in temporal stasis, in particular, has already changed more lives than most public institutions will ever know."
Elias's mouth twitched.
Bruce Wayne did know how to write when he wanted something.
He continued.
"As one man to another, and as someone who has learned, sometimes gracefully and sometimes not, that raising young people is an education all its own, I believe Miss Beryl Hutchinson would be uniquely suited to assist you. She is perceptive, disciplined, unusually intelligent, and possesses the kind of practical kindness that is difficult to teach and impossible to fake. Wayne Enterprises may be paying her way, but the opportunities she has earned are entirely her own. She has a sharp eye, a quick mind, and is accustomed to caring for others even when the circumstances are less than simple. I would not recommend her lightly."
Elias lowered the page, smiling despite himself.
"That Bruce Wayne," he murmured, shaking his head. "A charming man. Even in writing."
He leaned back a little, the paper still in hand, and let his thoughts drift as they so often did when old names and younger faces crossed paths in his mind. Bruce was very much his parents' son. Elias had only met Thomas and Martha Wayne a few times before their deaths, three in total if memory served, but he remembered enough. Thomas had been all clean confidence and easy warmth, the kind of man who could talk medicine, city planning, and baseball in the same hour and somehow make all three sound equally important. Martha had possessed a brightness that was gentler than charm and harder to resist, and she had understood rooms in a way few people ever did. In Bruce, somehow, both of them remained. The gravity, the manners, the dangerous ability to make people believe him when he wanted them to.
It was a strange thing, seeing the dead continue inside the living.
He folded the letter carefully and set it on the table.
For one foolish, passing moment, he thought about leaving the mansion.
Not forever. Just for an afternoon. Just to step into Gotham like an ordinary man and remember what it felt like to be somewhere that wasn't built around his work, his grief, and the endless private rhythms of the estate. Perhaps have tea somewhere anonymous. Perhaps buy a newspaper he did not need. Perhaps stand in a crowd and remember what other people sounded like when they were not employees, patients, or the ghosts of people he had failed.
Then he heard it.
A train.
At first the sound was faint, so faint he nearly mistook it for one of the older pipes in the walls groaning under pressure, but no, it was a train, and it was very close. Far too close. Close enough that the floor beneath his shoes began to tremble with the approach of it.
Elias frowned and stood.
There were no active tracks that near the mansion grounds.
The sound grew louder.
Metal against metal. A whistle that sounded half real and half remembered. The room gave a sudden, unmistakable shudder. A framed sketch on the wall rattled. Somewhere in the hall a servant yelped in surprise.
"What in the world," Elias muttered.
And then the doors burst open.
A red-haired girl came rushing in first, breathing hard, rucksack half-sliding off one shoulder, cap crooked, scarf loose, eyes bright with the sort of alarmed energy that suggested she had just escaped either disaster or transportation that should be illegal. She looked about fifteen, maybe a touch older in posture if not in face, all wiry quickness and athletic balance even in the middle of nearly falling through the door.
Behind her walked the most beautiful woman Elias had seen in a very long time.
Not in the simple way beauty is usually meant, but in the older, more dangerous way. The kind that made a room quietly rearrange itself around a person's presence. She moved with impossible calm, dark hair perfectly in place, green eyes bright and old, her expression amused in a way that suggested she had expected this exact entrance and found it acceptable.
The girl turned back toward her immediately.
"You said the train would get us here on time," she said, trying not to sound accusatory and failing only a little. "I just want that noted for the record."
The woman placed one gloved hand over her chest as if wounded.
"My apologies," she said with a serene smile. "It would appear destiny wanted us to be just a little late."
Elias stared at them both.
The girl exhaled, muttered something under her breath in what sounded like French, then straightened and looked as though she had suddenly remembered she was inside somebody else's house.
The older woman turned to Elias fully and inclined her head.
"Dr. Elias Wakati," she said. "Forgive the entrance. I am Madame Xanadu."
Her voice was smooth, rich, and strange in a way he could not place at first. There was old music in it, old shape, but laid over with the ease of someone who had lived too long among modern people not to adapt.
Elias, to his credit, took this better than most men would have.
He set down the file in his hand and looked from the girl to the woman to the still-shivering window behind them.
"A train," he said.
Madame Xanadu smiled slightly. "Yes."
"A train," he repeated, "appears to have stopped just outside my house."
"Yes," she said again. "Though not for long."
The red-haired girl raised one hand a little.
"In fairness," she said, still catching her breath, "I was under the impression it was metaphorical until the demons showed up."
Elias blinked once.
"Demons."
"Very cheerful ones," she added quickly. "Honestly nicer than some ticket inspectors."
Madame Xanadu's smile deepened.
"I did tell you the route was uncommon."
"You said it was special," the girl replied. "That was not enough information."
That, for some reason, nearly made Elias laugh.
Instead he gestured to the chairs.
"Well," he said, "since the morning has already abandoned all pretense of normality, you may as well both sit down."
Madame Xanadu did. Gracefully. Of course she did.
The girl hesitated for just a second, then slipped into a chair a little farther back, clearly uncertain whether she was meant to be part of this interview or merely caught in its orbit.
Elias remained standing a moment longer.
"Madame Xanadu," he said, testing the name. "I assume that is not the one you were born with."
She folded her hands neatly in her lap.
"It is the truest name I use at present," she said. "The first draws attention I have no wish to invite today. If it pleases you, Madame Xanadu will do. Madame, Xanadu, or both. I have answered to worse."
Elias nodded.
"I appreciate being given a choice."
"That already puts you ahead of many kings," she replied.
The girl in the back made a small sound like she was trying not to laugh.
Elias sat.
"Very well, Madame Xanadu. Since you have arrived in a manner that suggests ordinary references may not cover your qualifications, perhaps you would explain why you are here."
Xanadu's expression softened, though not with weakness. More with intention.
"I am here because your grandson will need instruction beyond science, beyond caution, and beyond ordinary definitions of giftedness," she said. "He is touched by time in a manner that is neither fully magical nor fully scientific, which is precisely what makes him dangerous and worth protecting. The power in him has many roots. One of those roots touches magic. Not common sorcery. Not simple enchantment. Time. And true time magic is among the most difficult things in creation to understand."
Elias listened without interruption.
"Many seek mastery over time," she continued. "Most of them are fools. Some are monsters. A few are scholars. Nearly all fail. Titles such as Master of Time are worn by the arrogant and broken by the worthy. There are older beings, of course. Father Time, if one insists on names. Certain powers beyond mortal schools and systems. But among magicians? No. None hold it fully. None command it cleanly."
Her green eyes rested on him, then drifted briefly upward, toward the floor above them, toward the sleeping nursery.
"Your grandson does not command it either. Not yet. Perhaps never fully. But it listens to him. That is enough to change lives. Enough to ruin them too."
Elias's face gave away very little, but inside, his mind sharpened.
"You speak as if you know this already."
"I know enough."
"And you believe you are qualified to teach him."
Xanadu inclined her head once.
"I believe I am qualified to teach him what can be taught, and wise enough to admit what cannot. I have made mistakes across a very long life, Doctor. More than I care to recite before breakfast. I know what power does to the lonely, the frightened, the gifted, and the unloved. I know what happens when children with dangerous gifts are treated like tools, weapons, curiosities, or secrets. Magic is trickier than science because it lies even when it tells the truth. It tempts. It flatters. It gives shape to desire before judgment has a chance to catch up. A child touched by time will need discipline, yes, but also meaning, honesty, tenderness, and a teacher who does not confuse fear with wisdom."
The room fell still.
In the back, Beryl sat up straighter.
She had come prepared to watch a suspicious genius, maybe to ask careful questions, maybe to quietly figure out what sort of man Dr. Wakati really was. She had not expected to hear a woman in an antique train coat calmly explain that his baby grandson was some sort of magical time prodigy who might grow up into a cosmic catastrophe if left unsupervised.
This was, she had to admit, much more interesting than expected.
Elias leaned back slightly.
"If his gifts are not wholly magical," he said, "what precisely would you teach?"
"Boundaries," said Xanadu at once. "Interpretation. Spiritual hygiene. Shielding. Recognition. Silence. How to feel when eyes are on him. How to resist letting fear choose his first response. How to distinguish between power asking to be used and power simply asking to be acknowledged."
She lifted one hand, palm upward.
"And where possible, I would keep certain eyes off this house. Magical sight. Divination. ritual observation. Curious little psychics. Bored old sorcerers. Men and women who tell themselves they are only looking and never touching."
A faint shimmer of green-gold light unfolded over her palm. It was delicate, almost modest, a pattern of symbols spiraling into existence like frost tracing itself over glass. The room cooled by a degree or two. Elias's lamps dimmed, then steadied. For one brief second, the light curved around the walls, the windows, the ceiling, showing him the outline of wards she could lay if permitted.
Then it was gone.
"No thunder," she said. "No spectacle. Just less attention."
Elias considered this.
"And you would stake yourself on his future."
Xanadu met his gaze directly.
"I would."
He looked into her eyes for a long moment, and she looked back just as steadily. No performance. No flinch. No hurry. It had been years since anyone had looked at him as though they were not impressed by him, intimidated by him, or angling for something. Madame Xanadu looked at him like a woman taking the measure of another difficult adult and deciding whether he could be trusted with the truth.
At last she said, quietly and without ornament, "Your grandson's power may one day frighten him. It may frighten others sooner. My arts can be dangerous, and whatever is waking in him will be dangerous too. But if you place even part of his instruction in my hands, I will teach toward goodness, toward love, toward truth. I will not make him smaller to keep others comfortable, and I will not teach him cruelty in the name of control. On that, Doctor, I would stake my life."
Elias nodded once.
That, at least, he believed she meant.
He held out his hand.
She took it.
Their handshake was firm, quiet, and somehow more binding than some contracts he had signed with governments.
Then, almost at the same moment, they both turned toward Beryl.
She blinked.
"Oh," she said. "Right. Me."
Elias almost smiled.
"Yes," he said. "You."
Beryl stood and came forward with the air of someone who had decided very quickly that honesty was going to hurt less than strategy.
"All right," she said, adjusting her cap. "I should probably say this before I try to sound respectable and accidentally make it worse. I am, technically speaking, a superhero. Sidekick, really. Though I prefer not to undersell it. And I was, also technically, sent here to keep an eye on you after the whole time-stop thing."
She winced slightly.
"There. Awful already, but at least it's true."
Elias folded his hands.
"You are here to spy on me."
Beryl lifted one shoulder.
"Yes. But in a very polite way."
To his own surprise, Elias laughed. Not loudly, but enough.
"That may be the most honest answer I have received all week."
Beryl relaxed by half an inch.
"Good. Because there's more." She took a breath. "I was told to watch, report what I found, and help if needed. But after hearing all… this," she said, gesturing vaguely between Xanadu, Elias, and the concept of magical baby time disasters, "I'm being serious now. If you still want me here, I'll do my best. I'm good with kids. I'm good at noticing things. I can fight if I have to. I can keep a secret when it matters. And yes, I'd still report if something went dangerously wrong, but I'm not here to sell your life to anyone. I just want to help and keep the kid safe."
Elias studied her.
Fifteen, yes. But sharp. Open-faced in the honest way brave children often were. The kind that made decisions with their whole chest and only worried about consequences after the fact. Intelligent eyes. Fast hands. Quick posture. Not frightened enough to be useless, not reckless enough to be unbearable.
"Miss Hutchinson," he said, "my research is private. My life is private. My grandson's life is not merely private, it is sacred to me. If you are to remain here, I would expect discretion. Absolute discretion where his person is concerned. I will not have him turned into an incident report."
Beryl nodded immediately.
"That's fair."
"On the other hand," Elias continued, "I am not fool enough to believe isolation is wisdom in all things. If information must reach groups capable of helping in the event of genuine danger, then I would rather it travel through people I know than through strangers peering over my walls."
Beryl's brows rose slightly.
"So…?"
"So," Elias said, and now there was the faintest warmth in his expression, "if you still want the position, it is yours."
For a second she just stared.
Then she broke into a grin so sudden and bright it made her look her age again.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"Oh, brilliant," she said before she could stop herself. "Sorry. Sorry, I know this is meant to be professional, but that is genuinely brilliant."
From beside her, Xanadu smiled into the room as if she had known exactly how this would end, which of course she probably had.
Elias stood.
"Mrs. Patel will show you to your room," he said. "You will both have them prepared, I imagine. Miss Hutchinson, you may settle in first. Madame Xanadu… we will continue this discussion later. There are details to arrange."
Xanadu inclined her head.
"Of course."
Beryl adjusted the strap of her bag and then hesitated, suddenly looking toward the ceiling, toward the upper floors without knowing quite why.
"Can I ask one thing?" she said.
Elias looked at her.
"What does the boy's name mean?"
The room quieted.
For just a moment, Elias's face softened in a way he did not often allow in front of others.
"Kairo Victor Fugate Wakati," he said. "And if all goes well, Miss Hutchinson, you will have time enough to learn."
Beryl nodded slowly.
Then the three of them moved toward the door, strange new pieces taking their places in the same house, while above them, in the dim nursery, a sleeping baby held fast to the paw of a white tiger and dreamed inside the shape of safe.