Chapter 16: Fifteen

Voiture-Lit 1st Classe № 3 ﹠ 4

Despite her sister’s detestable personality, Nightingale couldn’t help but give an approving look at Parthenope’s outfit for the evening. 

It was rare to see her willing to wear such a close-fitting dress, she noted, with a high-waisted bodice and daring décolletage that rivalled her own. Under the dim illumination of the gaslight, she looked exceptionally charming yet subtly mysterious at the same time. In her hand was a dainty fan lorgnette to complete the perfect ingénue look. 

“You look presentable,” she said, adding “for once” to tease her sister.  

“Only because you asked me to,” Parthenope angrily muttered, instantaneously shattering her first impression. She supported herself on the wall while hopping to straighten the layers of silk taffeta underskirts that billowed out at her hips—much like frilly layers on an elaborate wedding cake. “It was absolutely vexing to put on this old gown, I’m telling you right now.” 

“And you pulled off the look wonderfully,” Nightingale complimented, in an effort to please her sister. “If you smile more, you’ll look stunning.” 

She humphed. “Like this?” She put on an overly sweet smile while doing a forceful twirl, her burgundy ankle-length dress swishing noisily with the motion. 

“Fantastic,”  Nightingale replied, smoothly ignoring the sarcasm in her sister’s tone. 

Parthenope gave a fake cough, but didn’t say anything to retort. Nightingale figured that there wouldn’t be a better time to ask than now. “So…I would like to ask for your opinion on my dress too, if you don’t mind.” 

“Huh? I’ve not been updating myself on the latest fashion trends, just saying.” Parthenope scratched her chin, stared at her from head to toe, and asked tentatively, “how much did you buy this silver blue gown for?” 

“Just a little over three hundred doubloons,” she answered after a moment’s hesitation. 

“T-three hundred?!” 

“The price was already discounted because it came from someone’s unwanted trousseau,” Nightingale mumbled, looking away purposefully. “Damask doesn’t come cheap, alright? And look, it comes with this pretty back panel forming the train…” 

Parthenope rolled her eyes. “You better pray that you can resell this dress after we’re done.” 

“Putting the cost aside, how does it look on me?” she pressed. 

“To be frank…” She looked thoughtfully at the pearl-and-diamond embroidered sleeves, delicate square-shaped point d’alençon lace collar and velvety bell-shaped skirt. It was a soft and innocent-looking dress, totally in contrast to Nightingale’s character. 

“It’s too elegant for someone like you,” she said truthfully. 

Nightingale sighed. “Gosh, forget it.” She turned to put her hand on the door handle—but paused when she heard voices coming down the hallway outside. 

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“…lift your hems so that you won’t keep tripping over your own dress…” 

“…my heels aren’t cooperating, Rasputina…” 

The voices along with the sound of footsteps slowly faded away. Nightingale didn’t even realise that Parthenope was listening in next to her until she spoke.

“Those voices belong to Her Highness and Grace, don’t they?” 

There was something in her sister’s tone that hinted at something more serious than a passing remark. She threw her a sidelong glance. “What is it?”

Parthenope furrowed her brows ever so slightly. “Remember I told you that I observed them in the dining car this morning?” 

She nodded her head slowly. “You said that they didn’t catch your attention.”

“Yes, but there was someone else who did. A lady in black who I had never seen before. She approached them as they were leaving and alighted together with them.” Parthenope paused, as if she was unsure about what she was going to say next. “…but I counted eleven passengers, including myself, remaining in the dining car.”  

“Eleven?” Nightingale frowned. “There are three first-class carriages carrying two passengers each, and one second-class carriage divided into four compartments of two, right? So there should be…”

“Fourteen passengers in total,” she confirmed. “And sister, you skipped breakfast today, didn’t you?”

“Of course, it’s a habit—” Nightingale stopped when she realised her sister didn’t mean to lecture her for skipping her meals again by raising that point up. “Wait a minute, including you…there should be thirteen passengers in the dining car.”

“Subtracting three from thirteen gives ten,” Parthenope said quietly. “Even if there are still passengers who have yet to board, the total number of passengers on the Orient Express can’t exceed fourteen. Do you understand what I’m saying now, Florence?” 

“An extra passenger.” She muttered a curse under her breath. “Those fucking separatists have begun making their move. Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” 

“I was going to, but then you blasted me with ice-cold water, so I forgot.” Parthenope shrugged almost nonchalantly. “Also, there’s one more thing about that lady that…feels off. I’m not too certain how to put it in words without sounding like I have gone mad.” 

Nightingale shot her a glare demanding her to explain. 

“Alright, it’s up to you to believe me anyways,” she muttered, averting her eyes. “The extra passenger, well, she has the same hair colour, same eyes, same height…as you. An almost identical copy of Florence Nightingale.” 

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