Free The Boundless by Kenneth Oppel

you saw him holding it. I could tell it was important. But didn’t you say the funeral car had no door?”
    â€œThat’s what we’ve told the papers. The car’s made from the hull of an old battleship, steel plates half an inch thick. But even so, there’s a door.”
    â€œWhere?” Will asks.
    His father’s expression is poised between amusement and annoyance. “There are limits to what I’ll tell you,” he says. “But the key isn’t just for the door. Before you can even open the door—if you can find it—there’s another lock that needs attention.”
    â€œAnd what’s that one for?”
    â€œIt turns off the high-voltage current traveling through the outer walls of the car.”
    â€œYou’re joking!”
    He shakes his head. “Enough to knock you out cold. Van Horne designed it himself. I remember him showing me sketches years ago. He wanted his coffin and the spike safe from grave robbers.”
    Will frowns, thinking about it. “But doesn’t the guard get electrocuted?”
    â€œHe’s never inside or on top. He has his own little room at the back of the adjoining maintenance car.”
    Will watches his father closely. “What else is inside?”
    James Everett releases a mouthful of smoke. “Plenty of things. Van Horne was quite a collector and he wanted his favorite belongings with him.”
    â€œYou’ve been inside, then?”
    Will doubts his father would be this forthcoming at home, but maybe there is something about the moving train that makes him more talkative.
    â€œYes, I oversaw the loading of the car. It was done in secret in the middle of the night.” His gaze drifts away, as if remembering something amazing—or alarming. “Good luck to anyone who gets inside, is all I can say.”
    Will wishes he could have seen it, a treasure trove illuminated by lantern light.
    â€œAnd you’ve got the only key?”
    â€œThere’s one other. The guard has it.”
    Will remembers the guard, a portly bearded man, shooing spectators away.
    â€œThere,” his father says, stubbing out his cigar. “You know things that only a handful of people know.”
    Will’s glad his father has confided in him; he feels encouraged.
    â€œWe never finished our conversation at dinner.”
    His father’s face closes. “Yes, we did.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œYou said you wanted to go to art school in San Francisco. I’m against it. I’ll pay for proper training at a university if you mean to study something sensible. But you’ll not go to study art. I forbid it.”
    Forbid. Standing before his father, Will feels a hot tremor move through him, and knows he cannot speak. His voice will shake with rage, and he refuses to look weak before his father.
    Instead he turns and climbs the stairs to his bedroom.
    Standing before the window, all he can see is his own reflection. He doesn’t want to look at himself, so he turns off the electric light. He leans his head against the cool glass, tries to breathe evenly.
    He thinks of Maren. Is it her real name? Don’t circus people have special names? She shed her chains; she disappeared right before everyone’s eyes. It was incredible. He wishes he could do something like that.
    Tomorrow when the train stops, he’ll step off and catch up with her as she’s heading back to the Zirkus Dante cars. He wants to know what she’s done since he last saw her, all the places she’s been, all the new tricks she can do.
    He takes out his sketchbook and tries to conjure her stepping out onto the stage. Over the years, he has tried to draw her many times, but the results never satisfied him—and this time is no exception.
    The train is surprisingly noisy clattering down the tracks, hurtling through the night. He gets ready for bed. On his night table is a small brick of waxed cotton, which the