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The Boundless, the greatest train ever built, is on its maiden voyage across the country, and first-class passenger Will Everett is about to embark on the adventure of his life!
When Will ends up in possession of the key to a train car containing priceless treasures, he becomes the target of sinister figures from his past.
In order to survive, Will must join a traveling circus, enlisting the aid of Mr. Dorian, the ringmaster and leader of the troupe, and Maren, a girl his age who is an expert escape artist. With villains fast on their heels, can Will and Maren reach Will’s father and save The Boundless before someone winds up dead?
“Canadian railway history, fantasy, a flutter of romance—and a thoughtful examination of social injustice—collide in this entertaining swashbuckler from the author of Printz Honor–winning Airborne” (Kirkus Reviews, starred review).
wealthy gentlemen. His insides twist. “And this beardless man here is Mr. Dorian,” Mr. Van Horne finishes, indicating a tall man with curly black hair. “How do you do, Will?” Unlike the other gentlemen, he approaches Will and shakes his hand. He has strikingly high cheekbones, a warm hue to his skin, and a dark, penetrating gaze. “Good, thanks,” murmurs Will. “Mr. Dorian here,” says the rail baron, “has taken a great liking to a painting of mine.” Mr. Van Horne walks over to the parlor wall
around here.” In a cabinet’s open drawer Will spots a large meaty hand with a bloody stump of a wrist. “What’s that?” “Hm? Oh, that’s just to scare the kids. Touch it if you want.” Will pokes at it, and the hand immediately flips over and grabs his wrist. With a yelp Will shakes it loose. The hand falls to the floor and scuttles about like a spider. Will’s about to stamp on it when Maren pulls him back, laughing. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.” Her voice takes on the tone of a circus spieler.
the shadow of a crate right near him. There is something expectant in the flex of its fingers. It steps closer. Chisholm backs up, taking a breather. In horror Will watches as the hand scuttles closer still to him. “Hear that?” Brogan says. “That same rustling sound.” He steps toward the marionettes. The hand touches Will’s shoe tentatively, tapping with its fingertips. Will forces himself to look away. He doesn’t want to encourage it. He swallows when he feels a weight on his shoe and knows
There is a loose-fitting white shirt with beadwork around the collar and buttons, a pair of white cotton trousers, and a brown leather vest. “Stand,” says Mrs. Lamoine, and steps back to look at him. She slaps him here and there, moving him around so she can examine him from every angle. “Don’t touch face,” is all she says. He thinks he understands what she means about it drying. The paint doesn’t feel quite so wet and heavy. “Try them on,” Maren says, holding out the clothes. Will takes
firemen, their hands raised wretchedly above their heads, descending the outside stairs. They don’t carry on to the lower level but head out along a narrow footboard that slants down against the boiler to the very front of the locomotive. Snow flies hard. Following the two firemen comes Will’s father, his hands also raised. Behind him is Brogan, his pistol held out. He marches them into the driving snow. Will peeks his head out the open doorway to watch them make for the pilot—a small platform