Calliope had always loved train stations. There was something inherently soothing about them, especially this early in the morning, when they were inhabited by a strange, almost subdued silence. Vacuum-bots moved across the floor in stately isolation. Warm muffins began to emerge from bakeshops, the scent of them wafting out into the corridors. Calliope headed to a coffee dispenser and placed her order for an iced hazelnut latte, her footsteps echoing in the vast space.
As in the original Grand Central, the floors were laid with a creamy, distinguished-looking Italian travertine. Doric columns soared up at the corners of every intersection. Directional holograms flickered throughout, helping travelers find their way to the countless lift lines, monorails, helipads, Hyperloop subsea trains that all met here, in a ruthlessly efficient tangle. This was the center of the spiderweb knitting the city, the entire world, together.
Calliope realized that she was just in time for the sunrise. She took a seat in the Metro-North corridor, turning expectantly toward the massive windows along the eastern wall.
It had been a long time since she saw the sun rise, even longer since she’d actually woken up for it. Usually when Calliope witnessed the dawn of a new day, it was because the previous day hadn’t actually ended.
She leaned back in her chair, watching the sunrise as if it were a private performance intended just for her. And for a moment it felt that way: as if the sun, or perhaps the city, was showing off for her benefit, reminding her how wonderful it was to be young and alive and in New York. There was something delicious about being awake while most of the city was still asleep. It was as if Calliope alone presided over the sacred mysteries of the city.
The station began to stir to life around her. The first trains were arriving from the European seaboard, the early morning commuter trains for people who’d wanted to squeeze the last few hours out of their weekends in Paris or London. Announcements began booming louder and more frequently over the speakers, creating a sense of continually cresting excitement. An indefinable magic seemed to cling about it all—but then, transportation was the only real magic left on earth, wasn’t it? The ability to go anywhere, become anyone, simply by purchasing a ticket.
Maybe Calliope loved train stations because for most of her life, they had been her escape mechanism.
She was startled by the sight of a familiar figure in the crowd. It was Avery Fuller, walking hand in hand with that lanky German boyfriend of hers. They seemed to be returning from a weekend away, just in time for school. Calliope watched as Avery hugged her boyfriend; then they turned in opposite directions, each of them apparently going to a different lift line.
Calliope realized with a start that Avery was headed right toward her. She quickly arranged herself just so, as if she was on display—the iced coffee held casually in one hand, one leg folded over the other—and directed her profile toward the sunrise. She expected Avery to glide on past without speaking, or maybe even to say something snide.
What she didn’t anticipate was that Avery would pause. “May I?” she asked, gesturing to the neighboring seat.
Calliope gave an unconcerned shrug. She’d never been one to back down from a confrontation, or whatever this was. But behind her steely facade, her heart was hammering. She and Avery hadn’t exactly talked since last year, when Calliope had confronted her after the Dubai party, and told Avery that she knew about her and Atlas.
“Are you headed somewhere?” Avery asked, her printed faux-leather suitcase hovering uncertainly behind her. Her hair, which fell loose around her shoulders like in a shampoo advert, gave off a lively light. She looked expensive and cool in her simple white shirt and jeans, not at all creased or disordered, the way Calliope always appeared post-travel. Calliope resented her for it, a little.
“I just came here to think.” Perhaps it was the early hour, or the strangeness of Avery Fuller deciding to sit and chat with her for no apparent reason, but Calliope was feeling honest. “I actually like train stations. All these people going different places, hurrying toward destinations I’ll never know . . .” She trailed off. “It makes me feel calm when I’m agitated.”
Avery stared at her with naked curiosity. “It’s your Tiffany’s.”
“My what?”
“The place you go to feel calm,” Avery explained. “Haven’t you read Breakfast at Tiffany’s? Or seen the holo?”
“Never heard of it,” Calliope said dismissively.
To her surprise, Avery laughed. It was a clear, self-assured laugh, the kind of laugh that made you want to sit up straighter and join in.
Calliope cast a puzzled glance in Avery’s direction. “Where are you coming back from?” she ventured.
“I was in Oxford for my college interview. My boyfriend went with me. But I had to get back for this week. . . .”
Oh, right. Calliope remembered that the inauguration ball was this weekend.
As the train station filled up, more and more people seemed to be noticing Avery’s presence. Calliope watched as the whispers gathered and spread, spiraling out like a hurricane with Avery at its epicenter. She saw the hard, impassive look that settled on Avery’s face, and came to a startling realization.
Avery Fuller didn’t enjoy being the center of attention.
“It must be liberating,” Avery said softly, as if reading her thoughts.
“What?”
“Getting to do what you want, be who you want.” Avery shifted abruptly toward Calliope, her cheeks a soft pink. “What’s it like, traveling the world that way?”