A Sprig in the Thermos

A stubborn bergamot plant refused to bloom for anyone who lacked patience, and Dearbhail had spent three seasons earning hers.

She knelt on the polished teak floorboards of Carriage Four, her wool cardigan sleeves pushed above her elbows. With a brass spanner, she eased open the radiator's petcock valve just a hair. A hiss of white steam puffed against the terracotta pot, warming the moist loam.

Dearbhail rested two fingers against the stem's green skin. Beneath her touch, the cellular pulse of the sap responded to her biokinetic coaxing. She guided the vapor into the plant's capillaries, coaxing the dormant bud to swell, unfurl, and release a bright, citrusy perfume into the parlor car.

"There now," Dearbhail murmured, wiping soil from her apron. "Behave like that all the way to Morven, and we will get along splendidly."

The Glenalbh trans-continental express hummed beneath her clogs, idling at platform nine while the last coal-water tankers detached. Carriage Four was her pride. Rows of copper planters hung along the mahogany walls, cradling sweet mint, chamomile, and mountain heather. Brass samovars stood polished and ready on the tea bar, their spouts gleaming under the soft gas lamps. She had forty minutes before passenger boarding to verify every leaf and rootstock against the climate quarantine manifest.

A violent shudder rattled the carriage's sliding frosted-glass partition.

Dearbhail stood up, spanner still in hand. The brass latch groaned as the door slid back. A freezing gale swept across the parlor, biting through her woolen stockings and turning her breath into a plume of white mist.

In the doorway stood a mountain of a man, though calling him merely a man overlooked the six-foot spread of crystalline, pale-blue antlers branching from his thick dark hair.

"Pardon," a deep, rumbling voice said from the threshold.

The newcomer tried to step forward, but the wide tines of his antlers jammed firmly against the carved oak doorframe with a resonant thud. He backed up an inch, tilted his head forty-five degrees to clear the left horn, and stepped forward again, only for the right brow-tine to wedge itself into the decorative molding.

"Ah," he added, frozen in place. "A bit snug."

Dearbhail stared at him. He wore a heavy wool overcoat cinched with thick leather straps, frost clinging to every button and hem. A dusting of rime covered his broad shoulders, and his breath rolled out like exhaust from a steam engine's chimney.

"You must be Eachann," Dearbhail said, keeping her voice even as she tucked her spanner into her apron pocket. "The climate-control contractor from the alpine canton."

"Eachann of Morven, yes. Trans-rail sent me to maintain the cargo holds." He shifted slightly, trying to lever his antlers free without gouging the woodwork. "I apologize for the delay. The doorway on carriage three was arched higher."

"Our carriage was designed for tea drinkers, Mr. Eachann, not magnificent forest monarchs," Dearbhail said. She walked over to the door, stood on tiptoe, and tapped the lower crook of his right antler. "Duck your chin to your collarbone and slide your right shoulder first. Slowly."

Eachann followed the instructions with painstaking caution. His shoulders cleared the oak jamb with a millimeter to spare, and he eased into the parlor car. As he stepped fully onto the carpet, a wave of biting, dry cold radiated from him in an expanding ring.

The warmth Dearbhail had built over two hours evaporated in three seconds.

Along the nearest side-table, a lush pot of maidenhair fern crackled. The delicate green fronds turned translucent, stiffening into delicate spindles of pale frost. Ice crystals crawled along the edge of the polished mahogany table, sparkling in the gaslight like crushed diamonds.

Eachann looked down at the fern, his gray eyes widening in genuine dismay. "Oh no. I... I did not touch it, I swear."

"You did not have to," Dearbhail said, her hand dropping to the fern's pot. She pushed a quick surge of warmth through the soil, but the outer leaves had already snap-frozen to the consistency of fine glass. "Your ambient temperature sits twenty degrees below cellar storage, doesn't it?"

"Twenty-four," Eachann admitted softly. He took a nervous step back, bumping his back against the linen cupboard. The vibration caused two porcelain cups on the counter to chime together. "The rail authority said this car required active thermal regulation. They did not specify the botanical specimens were so... sensitive."

"These are temperamental microclimate herbs destined for high-altitude brewing," Dearbhail explained. She picked up a pair of brass pruning shears from the counter and neatly snipped the frosted fern frond before the cold could rot the root ball. "If my bergamot freezes before we clear the Glenalbh perimeter, Conductor Fearchar will revoke my salon permit before the train even builds steam."

Eachann pulled his arms tight against his chest, tucking his hands beneath his heavy sleeves as though trying to shrink his massive frame. "I can stand in the vestibule between carriages until we reach the pass."

"The vestibule has no heating ducts. If your aura interacts with the exterior brake lines, we'll derail on the first switchback," Dearbhail said. She set the shears down and picked up a heavy stoneware kettle. "We need a workable boundary. You stay on the galley side of the copper floor strip, and I will keep the radiator running high on the salon side."

"I can do that," Eachann said with earnest relief. "I am very good at remaining stationary."

He drew in a sharp, sudden breath through his nose to steady himself.

Dearbhail watched as the air around his nostrils curled into thick spirals of vapor. A sudden, sharp tickle caught in his throat.

"Wait," Dearbhail said, raising a hand. "Do not—"

Eachann squeezed his eyes shut, his massive antlers trembling. "A... achoo!"

A sonic blast of subzero air exploded across Carriage Four.

A blizzard of diamond-dust shot from his mouth and nose, slamming into the tea bar. The heavy stoneware kettle in Dearbhail's hand instantly glazed over in a shell of opaque white rime. Across the car, every single arched window crackled loudly as intricate, fern-like frost patterns bloomed across the glass, blocking the platform light and plunging the cozy parlor into a pale, wintry twilight.

The newly bloomed bergamot shivered under a sudden dusting of snow, while Dearbhail stood frozen in place, a dusting of frost clinging to her eyelashes.

Eachann slowly opened one eye, looking at the frozen kettle, the frosted windows, and Dearbhail's unimpressed face.

"Bless you," Dearbhail said quietly.

"I am so very sorry," Eachann whispered, his breath puffing into the newly formed indoor glacier.