The Queen in Dust, the Prince in Paint
Doncaster Works, Winter 1922
They always say that silence means the end. But silence is just another kind of service. Another tunnel to wait inside.
And Emily has always been very, very good at service.
Which might explain why she hasn’t moved in years. Not in the ways that matter. Not on her own steam. Not with applause in the rails.
They said “withdrawn,” as though she stepped down politely, like she curtsyed at the end of a play.
Set aside like an heirloom someone meant to fix and never did.
So she waits. With dignity. That sharp kind of grace that knows it’s rusting but refuses to flinch.
Today, the air is loud again.
Thunder on the rails, laughter. Someone important. No one ever important comes to this end of the yard.
"What are you supposed to be?"
A voice. Young. Crisp with arrogance, still drying at the edges.
She blinks, slowly, like fog giving way to light. She settles into her frames, like folding her metaphorical hands in her lap.
Like this siding inside the works is her throne, and not a cage. Like she rules the land and not lying her head down waiting for the guillotine to strike.
"A better question might be: what are you in such a hurry to become?" Emily asks, all pomp and circumstance. Watching. Waiting like a queen.
But that's not what Gordon sees.
He sees an old, dusty racehorce.
That’s the first thing he notices — and isn’t sure if he’s supposed to admire or dismiss her. When he heard of preserved engines, he thinks of them as polished statues where humans and engines alike admire them.
Meanwhile, her paint is faded. Her brass doesn’t shine. Her massive driving wheels sits still like a monument—and scandalously, he might even spot cobwebs.
He’s fresh from his build line. Still gleaming. Still unused. Still apple green. Still perfect.
He was built for speed. For power. For legacy.
So naturally, he walks straight into the ghost of one, being asked a question that might as well been a crossword for all he cares.
So, of course he bristles.
Because what kind of question is that?
Because he knows what he’s becoming.
Because he doesn’t need some outdated art project with wheels asking him existential riddles.
"I Am," He declares, imperiously, "Gresley's Finest. I Am The New Express Engine. Meant For The Main Lines Of The GNR. The Fastest Thing This Decade."
And Emily rolls her eyes. Because of course he is.
She sees it in the shine of his wheels. The way his voice echoes like he expects applause.
She remembers that stage.
The self-belief loud enough to drown out history.
"I’ve already been the fastest thing of my decade." Emily counters with grace, like disarming an opposing fencer, and she can't help but enjoy his sputtering.
She just hopes he hears the weight of history behind it.
"Well—You—You Don't Even Go Fast Anymore! I Do Not See You With Any Passengers!" The young thoroughbred counters, all pouts and a flushed face.
It’s not said with cruelty, not really.
It’s worse than that. It would've been funny, at least, to see someone fumble with their words with a dying heat in their voice.
It’s said with ignorance. Light, desperate, naïve.
And that is what breaks her.
And Gordon stops, when she paused—her face somewhere between scandalised and shattered. And he lets out a hiss of steam in surprise when tears roll down her face.
It’s unnerving. Like he’s ran over something sacred without realizing it—like a human, or his designer's blueprints.
Biting his lip, he tried to look for someone—anyone—to soothe her. An engineer, a foreman, even his own designer!
But here he is, alone with a broken heirloom and no glue to put her back together.
He didn’t mean it like that!
She’s just… not in service, right? What else was he supposed to say?
He’s not used to feeling wrong.
But the silence she gives back?
Then she speaks. And the air itself leans in, and the wind hushes to hear.
"They clocked me at 109 between Barkston and Naburn." Her voice returns, with more intensity this time.
Gordon has never heard of those places, but he nevertheless stood at attention—her voice was like a royal decree by the Queen of England.
"I remember the stars blurring. I remember the wind falling behind," She declares with sovereignty, "You were still graphite sketches when I was thunder in silk."
He says nothing. Because there is nothing to say. What do you say to history herself?
The guilt, poorly disguised.
She doesn’t salt the wound. But she's honest with words sharp enough to cut through egos. And she does love being honest.
"One day you’ll be old too."
It is the most generous thing she can offer a prince who thinks the crown is new.
He blinks, and bows his head. Not physically — but something in his posture lowers. Something in his carefully constructed monument of self cracks.
He can’t even muster sarcasm.
And it is the most respectful thing he has ever said.
Something about the sound of her silence stays with him.
