Re: The Conductor/The Pilot
The engine car was off-limits to the passengers of the line. It was a dangerous place. Full of hungry, open maws and sweating men. It was no place for most, let alone a lady. The woman coming toward the door was a lady. For all the disguise attempted by a fitted waistcoat and an aviator's brown bomber, she was obviously well beyond her bounds. Carmine, taker of tickets all and sundry, stopped himself before the door and, therefore, before the woman.
He pulled his pocket watch from its enclave. Its shell settled into the curve of his palm, and his dark eyes fell to its tick, tick, ticking face. His fingers overlaid twitching hands as seconds slid into minutes. His gaze snapped up and to the interloper. "You can't be here," he informed the wayward passenger. If one expected the guard to warm, one would be disappointed. Carmine was a man of business. His clipped diction said it as much as the precise knot of his cravat. "Shall I show you back to a more appropriate car?"