Chapter 2: One

Departing from the capital city of the Aetherium Empire every evening was the crème de la crème of luxury travel—l’Express d’Orient Train de Luxe Quotidien. Or as it was more popularly known, the Orient Express.

Operated by the Compagnie Aetherium des Wagons Lits, the Orient Express swiftly rose to prominence as a wonderfully stylish, congenial means of transport exclusively catered for the aristocracy and wealthy elite. Four beautiful mahogany-panelled sleepers (three first-class and one second-class wagon-lits), a plush lounge car offering panoramic views of the surrounding scenery and a red-upholstered dining car manned by a crew of world-renowned chefs made up the train, pulled along by a state-of-the-art streamliner steam locomotive crafted from the finest steel. In addition, every member of the train crew had to undergo rigorous screening and a wide array of etiquette lessons, not unlike those received by palace servants, before they were deemed suitable to be employed on the Orient Express.

It goes without saying that such an important train could ill afford any delays or mishaps. This, of course, was true for the Orient Express on the 10th of Solis as well. It would have to travel across the Empire’s massive territory all the way south to Alsace-Lotharingia, give the passengers on board a day’s rest at Sirap and make the connection onto the Elvetican train to Hacerne and Maripol—just in time for the opening of the Exposition Universelle on the 15th. 

However, on this particular evening, the Wagon Lit conductor was especially cautious not to make any mistakes in the inspection and seating of passengers on board. After all, two VIPs were directly under his care tonight—Her Highness Princess Anastasia de Cetheri and Her Grace Saintess Rasputina of the Königreich Kievsta—and Lord knows what would become of him if he incurred the disapproval of the two heads of state. 

“Ugh, I should have requested for more conductors from the Director beforehand. Just my luck,” he grumbled quietly to himself as he glanced through the chef de train’s report. Usually there would be at least one conductor per wagon-lit; but since the three other conductors were apparently assigned onto a different train at the last minute, it was now his responsibility to oversee all the passengers from second-class to first. He made a mental note to raise a complaint with the Director when they see each other next time.

The Wagon Lit conductor checked his pocket watch against the schedule. Five minutes and twenty-four seconds to departure.

Putting away the file below the conductor’s seat, he adjusted his forage cap on his head and stepped out from the carriage. The flurry of activity that choked the platform minutes ago had mostly died down, with the majority of passengers settled in their berths. A pair of young foreign-looking ladies passed by him, exchanging hushed chatter in an unknown tongue as they followed a porter carrying their valises to the second-class fourgon. The station shunter was carrying out a final inspection of the couplings between each car. Huge plumes of white steam clung to the air all around him, the hot, musky smell of burnt coal permeating his senses. 

Standing straight in his smart, ironed brown uniform, he pulled his steam whistle to his mouth and blew four short, piercing blasts. 

“Votre attention, s’il vous plaît!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, causing the few people on the platform to pause and stare at him. “The Orient Express, with stops in Lancashire, Canterbury, Dover, Calais, Versailles, Fraintche, Sirap with connection to Hacerne, Maripol leaves in five minutes. All passengers are to board the train immediately!”

Turning to face the royal blue, gold-trimmed carriages, he was about to board the waiting train when suddenly an authoritative voice halted him in his footsteps. 

“Machel, over here! Quick!”   

He turned around with well-trained respectful alacrity and greeted the Director of the Company. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Bianchi.”

The Director didn’t return the greeting. “The Orient Express tonight's full from end to end?” 

“It is unbelievable, Monsieur. All of Aetherium wishes to catch the opening of the Exposition Universelle just in time.” 

“All the same you must find room for this gentleman here.” The Director gestured at a short man, with brilliantly pomaded hair and a stiff, waxed moustache, waiting next to the apologetic-looking concierge in a corner. “We shall make space. He can have the No. 14. That is always kept open for the Company’s use.” 

He shifted his gaze down to the well-creased passenger list in his hand. “It is taken, Monsieur.” 

“What? The No. 14?” 

“But yes, Monsieur. As I told you, we are occupied—occupied—everywhere.” 

“Milladiou, there is not one second-class berth free?” The Director paused. “Everyone has arrived?” 

“There is one passenger who has not arrived yet,” he replied slowly, with reluctant hesitation, while consulting his list. “W. M. Harris. He is confirmed for the No. 9 berth.” 

Suddenly, the moustachioed man stepped forward with a twinkle in his eye; Machel noticed that the gentleman had a copy of A Tale of Two Cities under his arm, the latest work by his favourite author. 

“A good omen,” he said. “M. Harris, he will not arrive.”

He was about to ask the gentleman how he could be so sure of himself, but the Director cut him off before he could speak. 

“Put this gentleman’s luggage in the No. 9,” said Bianchi firmly. “I will personally deal with this M. Harris, should he arrive before the train departs.”

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“Understood, Monsieur.” He quickly gave instructions to the nearest available porter to transport the gentleman’s luggage into the fourgon; with a graceful bow, he welcomed the unexpected last-minute passenger on board the Orient Express. 

“Mes hommage, my humble name is Machel. Please don’t hesitate to ask for anything from me or my crew if you find any amenities lacking in your compartment. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name, Monsieur?” 

 

---

 

Meanwhile, inside the Orient Express— 

“Berth No. 1 and 2, huh…” Rasputina murmured as she glanced at the brass door plate above the connecting door to the last carriage.

Voiture-Lit 1st Classe № 1 ﹠ 2

“Right, this should be our car.” She let out a relieved sigh and turned to her back. “Anastasia, do you want to take the first or second berth…?” 

“Mhm?” Anastasia stopped drinking her glass of jubilee red wine (that she secretly took from the lounge car without Rasputina’s knowledge) and let out a silly giggle, her cheeks flushed pinkish-red. “En route, mauvaise troupe!” 

“Where did you even get this wine from?” she chided mildly, prying the wine glass out of Anastasia’s hands. “Look at you, how can you get inebriated this easily? You’re only allowed to drink cider from now on, understand?” 

“Okaaay,” Anastasia said, wrapping her arm around her neck before declaring loudly, “I loooove you, hic-Rasputina!” 

“Yeah, yeah, you should probably retire for the night now,” Rasputina said, holding the tipsy princess steady while she opened the door to their wagon-lit. 

A rich dark wood-panelled hallway immediately greeted their eyes. Red velvet carpet lined the floor, while a row of ornate gas lamps charmingly illuminated the narrow space, creating a lovely inviting atmosphere. Opposite the square gold-trimmed windows facing the steam-shrouded train platform were the No. 1 and No. 2 first-class berths—their residence for the next five days. However, Rasputina thought it would be more fitting to call them ‘suites’—for each compartment had its own drawing room, bedchamber and the pièce de résistance for her: a state-of-the-art steam-heated bathroom, ready to be used and enjoyed. 

“If Theo were here, he would probably flip out at first sight,” she remarked, taking in all the extravagance of the Orient Express with sheer amazement. “Anastasia, are you okay with taking this compartment? I’ll occupy the adjacent compartment down the corridor.”

Anastasia, who had already made herself comfortable on the full-sized bed, gave her a languid smile. “What’s the hic-rush? Why don’t you…stay here with me, Rasputina?” 

“I’d like to at least change out of my day clothes, princess,” she said. “Well, I’ll come back to check on you later—”

An elongated blast from a steam whistle filled the air; it was shortly followed by a tremendous vibration that shook the floor beneath her feet. 

“W-what’s going on?” Anastasia sat up on her bed, regaining some sobriety in her momentary panic. “Earthquake?!” 

A loud shout drew their gazes to the windows facing the train platform; the brown-uniformed train conductor from earlier ran past towards the front of the train, raising his hand to give a signal to the engineer. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Orient Express for Sirap is now departing from Gare de Cetheri! Please stand away from the platform edge!”

“And…” Rasputina murmured, listening to the clanging and rattling of the engine. “…we’re off.” 

With a shrill hiss, the train lurched forward into the twilight.

 

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