"A train?" In spite of her irritation over that jab at her knees (oh, she could show him exactly how pointy her knees are if she wanted), and in spite of her continued apprehension, she can't help but smile at that. Bartimaeus. On a train. She imagines Ptolemy's form, resolute and stern-faced, perched cross-legged atop a locomotive and trying ever so hard to look impressive and imposing, and the image is perfect in every way. Or perhaps even better, him as a little old German granny, hunched over her playing cards, staying incognito.

"Honestly, all of this seems like such a production. Couldn't you just materialize me where you want to go? Not that I'm complaining, mind, this truly is lovely countryside - " And it's not like she's in a rush to reach their destination - "but surely there's an easier way to go about this."

Still, she obediently bends over and holds out her hand. "I can carry you a while, if you'd like. I think we ought to stop off in this town and get something to eat. I'm utterly famished."