With a shrill whistle, the train jerked forward. Shelly let out a huff of relief.
"This is a sign, Zohra. We're gonna die," she said, her voice muffled by the mask.
Zohra clicked her tongue exasperatedly at her sister. "You know, Shelly, with your proclivity for noticing signs from the universe, I'm surprised that you didn't notice the time on your watch. If you did, we wouldn't have been late in the first place."
Shelly made a face at her. "Do you always have to talk pretentiously? 'Proclivity'? Who are you, Professor McGonagall?"
"You know you get me in the mood when you say stupid stuff."
Few people milled about in the first-class carriage, and thankfully all of them wore masks. The pair climbed into their booth, pulling along suitcases nearly bursting with their attire and jewellery for the wedding back home. The naive one clutched her jewellery box close to her chest. The gold necklace inside had been in the family for years and was worth a fortune, she didn't want to risk losing it.
Her hand was midair - she was about to take off her mask and express her relief at having the cabin to themselves - when the door slid open. Two men shuffled in.
Shelly's heart began to pound. The man sitting in front of her appeared respectable in his sharp suit, the faint scent of his expensive cologne invading her nose. Next to him, however, was a wild tangle of dishevelled hair, eyes buried in blackened holes and a frayed shawl shrouding an imposing figure.
And no mask.
He plagued Shelly's insecure mind and made Shelly's grip on her box tighten. But while he dozed off almost immediately without sparing her or her box a second glance, the gentleman opposite her was staring.
As soon as their eyes met, the man, taken aback, apologized with a shy smile. "Apologies, I didn't mean to stare. I couldn't help but notice that your expression was rather curious, that's all."
Shelly blushed- was she really so transparent? Before she could reply, her sceptical sister intervened cautiously, "You seem to notice an awful lot."
"The job demands it, ma'am. I'm playing at writer."
That did it. "Really? Have you published anything?" one of the bookworms asked eagerly.
"Sure, a couple of things here and there. And a weekly deal going on in The Daily Sun, one short story every week."
"Are you," Zohra's mouth slacked just a little, "Adil Hossain?"
The man offered them half a grin. "Pleased to meet you."
The girls exchanged an awed look. "A couple of things here and there? Playing at writer? Sir, you are the most successful author of the decade! And our favourite writer!" Shelly beamed.
He gave an embarrassed shrug. They launched into an animated conversation as the view from the window shifted from the cityscape to green fields.
Mr Hossain laughed at one point. "For a young lady so well-informed, you sure are presumptuous," he said.
"And superstitious," Zohra added without missing a beat.
"How so?" Shelly asked timidly.
"You don't think of our fellow passenger kindly, do you, ma'am?"
She blushed. The other man, whom she'd taken for a miscreant or something, was still sound asleep and hadn't uttered a peep. The train had stopped, and as if on cue, he woke up from his slumber and sauntered out. Finally relaxing, Zohra put down her jewellery box on the floor between her and Mr Adil, against the wall.
They barely registered an hour and a half by fly past. They reached their station too soon, and Shelly picked up her box almost ruefully. "May I ask you one last question?"
The man nodded in response. "So, um, how do you write from your character's point of view so realistically?"
"Ah. You may not believe me, but I often dress up as my characters for a day. Visit public places, do things they would do," he said, a strange mirth swimming in his eyes. Exchanging an impressed look, the sisters bid him goodbye.
Later that evening, when dressing up for the wedding, Zohra saw a perplexed expression gracing Shelly's features. She was holding her box as if weighing it. "It- it seems so light..."
When they opened the jewellery box, they could not believe what was in it.
The necklace was gone.
There was only a scrap of paper, a few words scribbled on in rushed writing - Be sure to read my next novel - The Artful Conman.
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