Blood smudged the rim of her violin case where the skull of her caretaker struck. Now he, in his soiled white service uniform, lay as an inert heap rather than a man. Precipitously alone in an enclosed compartment furnished only by a single straight-backed padded bench, Lisette seemed not to notice, and sat immobile, her face, a mask of near catatonia, inclined ever so slightly toward the adjacent window glass, bereft of the minor luxuries of blinds or curtains, whereon her ghostly reflection obscured the scenery. Occasionally, her lips parted and her throat gave life to an inaudible murmur, ostensibly part of some ill-constrained inner dialogue. [i]“Ma’am?”[/i] the first-class porter ventured around the just opened door of her private, albeit compact, compartment. At first she didn’t react. Her fingers were gracefully intertwined on her lap and her ankles were neatly crossed, the tip of one of her leather-soled slippers dangerously encroached upon by the grisly pool as it expanded across the carpeted floor. Whatever she thought she saw in the window evidently fascinated her. A moment passed. Finally the porter, indecisive and still somewhat whelmed by the scene, thought again to inquire, yet louder, when Lisette started. Her back straightened and she turned on him quite suddenly, a pale hand drawn up in front of her half-opened mouth in a muted gasp of astonishment. He, likewise startled, lurched backwards into the side hall, but quickly recovered his manly resolve. Confronted by the lady’s wide-eyed expression and passive silence, he again neared, rather abashed, and delicately probed, [i]“Ma’am, are you unharmed?”[/i] [i]“Why yes,”[/i] Lisette replied, her enunciation gradual and mellow voice barely raised above a whisper, [i]“I suppose it is nearly dinner. But no, I’m not rather hungry. Perhaps a chamomile?”[/i] The porter frowned. The lady was obviously in shock, based on his inexpert evaluation. Eccentric at the very least. He perceived it best to not confront her with the body at her feet and, as he would with his anile grandmother, helpfully lied, [i]“We’ve made a brief stop in the country. If you’d be so kind as to accompany me, you may take your tea out in the fresh air.”[/i] With a facile gesture, she grasped his proffered hand for support. With her other she plucked her violin case out of the carnage, still, by all appearances, oblivious to the macabre display. [i]“That would be agreeable,”[/i] she conceded. Her hand in his, she departed the compartment and avoided without acknowledgment the otherwise obvious hurdle. From there they strolled down the hall, out the car, down three steps, and into a pleasant little pasture. The promised fresh air was still polluted with smog from the combustion of coal, but a cool breeze steadily pushed such southwest. [i]“I’ll be back with your tea, ma’am,”[/i] the porter excused himself then rushed off to check on Lisette’s caretaker, whom he assumed, but soon with certainty ascertained, died as a consequence of the train’s abrupt halt. [I]“His tanned flesh a fine canvas, painted sanguine, stretched upon frame of bones,” [/i] Lisette darkly whispered, her senses focused on a distant nowhere. Inevitably, she returned to the present and relaxed herself on the lawn. There, almost indifferently, she observed other passengers disembark and scurry to and fro, in particular a man, perhaps a priest, as he rushed toward the rear of the train where several derailed carriages disrupted the bucolic scenery. Nobody, as yet, seemed to have noticed the front of the train which, from her vantage, appeared—or rather failed to appear—unaccounted for.