13 February 1875 of the 6th Era, the lounge, The Iron Giant

  The day continued to be rather uneventful. Dorian remained in the restaurant cart, first joining Mr Perkins at his table, and then, once the latter retired to his carriage, staying with Mr Placek. Antony and Professor O’Neill decided to move to the lounge. At first, they each picked a chair facing away from the windows and proceeded to observe those going to the restaurant cart or to the back part of the train while pretending to read local newspapers and chatting about Enua’s customs. However, they were soon joined by Professor O’Neill’s acquaintance, Professor Laska. She, too, hailed from Quillivia, but, unlike Professor O’Neill, not from the University of Arts. Hers was a well regarded establishment, Quillivia University of Technology. The dream of almost anyone in Enua who wanted to make a name for themselves in engineering or steam technologies.

  The only person in the room apart from them was Mr Emanuel Adamski, who quietly sat next to a window, gazing outside. But, judging by his restlessness, he could not find anything worth his attention. The hills and the colourful villages at this point gave way to a dense forest mostly consisting of fir trees. He sighed from time to time, and, as Antony soon noticed, was barely holding back tears. Finally, he stood up and walked out, either to the restaurant carriage or to rejoin his wife.

  As the three of them were debating which game cards they could play – Professor Laska happened to have a deck on her hands – the door opened, letting in Lady Flowers. Just like in the restaurant carriage, she still moved with grace and elegant charm. Every gesture she made, every dropped word were full of warmth and compassion. Or, at least, on the surface. Her smile looked cordial, but her gaze remained cold and calculating. The tone of her voice also retained those inflections Antony had heard previously, when she was talking to Mr Flint and her other companion, whose name was Ms Glancy, as Antony learned from Charlotte.

  “Ah, what a pleasant surprise,” she made a beeline towards them, as if she had been hoping to see them, answering their polite greetings with barely a nod. “Oh, is that a deck of cards? What are you playing? And is there still space for me?”

  “Nothing so far,” Antony dragged an extra chair to their table, offering her a seat, which she gracefully accepted. “What would you say to ‘Famous Four’?”

  “Splendid,” noticing their awkward hesitation, she heartily laughed. “Don’t worry about following etiquette, if that is what troubles you.”

  “More so surprised that you suddenly joined our company,” Antony admitted. “I am used to seeing such openness in Lundhaven, but my limited experiences in Enua–”

  “Ah, that. I might be just a trifle bored, Mr Dahl,” she interrupted him, “and you people sounded like interesting company back at the restaurant.

  “Well then. ‘Famous Four’ it is. Would you please deal the cards?”

  Professor O’Neill nodded, shuffling the cards and letting Professor Laska cut the deck. Lady Flowers, Antony noticed, was attentively following the process, watching Alex’s hands like a hawk. Was that just a force of habit or did she really believe that a university professor would try to cheat at a game with no monetary gain?

  Professor O’Neill dealt the cards, calling out the trump, and they began.

  The “Famous Four” was a simple trick-taking game, where the task was to accumulate as many Jacks as possible, while also accumulating as few Queens as possible. It soon became apparent, however, that Lady Flowers wasn’t really interested in the game, as she discarded cards and won tricks however she pleased.

  What she was truly interested in, Antony felt, was knowledge.

  “University of Arts? How charming,” she tilted her head upon learning about Professor O’Neill’s position. “Isn’t that Lord Blumendorf’s little darling?”

  “I wouldn’t call it his darling,” Professor O’Neill kept a perfectly straight face, but Antony knew him all too well. Alex was quietly raging. “He is our largest sponsor.”

  “I heard he was also the largest decision maker.”

  “Not quite. Only when it comes to budget allocations.”

  “You don’t seem to be fond of the man,” Lady Flowers pleasantly chuckled and continued before anyone else could say a word, “Not that I disagree. That man is merely an earl, but thinks himself at least a duke. Or a minor deity, even.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “On a few occasions. He never returned my greetings. Something tells me that to him, I was no more than a piece of interior that dared to address him.”

  Professor O’Neill wisely said nothing. Not that Lady Flowers expected him to say anything, either. Having finished that leg of conversation, she immediately lost any and all interest in him, her attention now fully devoted to Antony.

  Her questions were benign at first. Life in Lundhaven. Local customs. Cuisine. Mr Dahl’s hometown. He carefully navigated the conversation, at this point fully aware that this was nothing but a preface to what really interested her the most.

  “What kind of person is Lady Dawntreader, would you say?”

  Antony shifted, making sure to almost show his hand, then placed a card on the table. Not the one he seemingly intended to, “Kind and just, from my experience.”

  “Oh, is that so?” She carefully studied his face, then looked at the card he placed. “I heard she worked at the university.”

  “That would be correct. She’s a very well known name in Astronomy.”

  “And not just Astronomy,” Professor Laska added, “I heard Lord Blackwater mention her name on a few occasions. In connection to Professor Goshawk’s research?”

  “Oh, they worked together, yes. Unfortunately, Professor Goshawk passed away three centuries ago,” Antony nodded. “Quieting sickness.”

  “Huh. And there I was, thinking it was merely a hobby of hers,” Lady Flowers propped her head with her hand, leaning on the armrest. “She’s the daughter of Lord Dawntreader, after all. I expected her to hold a higher position.”

  “She wanted to make a name for herself, without relying on her father’s influence, as impossible as that sounds. Being a university professor felt fitting at that time, and she enjoyed studying the stars, so… Guess it was a favourable decision, no matter which way one looked at it?”

  Lady Flowers did not seem convinced by his reply, but proceeded to ask another question, “And how did you meet her? Through Lord Dawntreader?”

  “Through Professor Goshawk, actually.”

  “I see,” she placed a card on top of the pile, “oh, looks like I won.”

  “So it seems,” Professor O’Neill nodded as she picked up the cards, satisfied.

  “Do you ever talk to Lord Dawntreader?”

  “Occasionally, yes. It is purely work-related, however. Though Lord Dawntreader has retired, he still has a fair number of contacts in the government.”

  “So, you’re not really friends with him?”

  “I wish I were. We’re on good enough terms to address each other by first names, but that’s about it,” he awkwardly laughed, showing that he was slightly bothered by her intrusiveness.

  Lady Flowers picked up on that cue and changed the topic to something more mundane, lecturing the three of them on Stolberg’s cuisine and intricacies of fine dining.

  Throughout this entire exchange, Antony noticed, she did not ask Professor Laska a single question. Not just that. To her, Professor Laska did not even exist.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  At noon, Professor Laska excused herself from the table and took the stage to deliver her lecture on Engineering. Although there weren’t that many listeners, they turned out to be very invested in the subject. They continuously asked questions, thought along, and shared their own experience when it came to the challenges she described. One, who Antony recognised as Lord Michael Weinmann, a senior alchemist at the RAS, even got an idea for a solution to a problem he had been tackling for a while.

  Finally, at a quarter to four, the room began to fill. First to arrive were all of the poetry club members, as Antony dubbed the company sitting at the table next to them earlier in the morning. Then some of the university staff. A few more people from the front carriages. Several of the more important guests, including Cardinal Whitesand and Ms Sharrock, and finally Mr Perkins. Altogether, three dozen or so. Still, there were no traces of unrest or odd behaviour. The waiters were walking around, serving sparkling wine, or rushing to fulfill special orders. Mr Flint, for one, demanded whiskey, while Ms Glancy hesitantly asked for herbal tea.

  “Mrs Adamska isn’t here,” Charlotte sat next to Antony, observing the small crowd. “She never missed any of the literature gatherings up until now.”

  “Her husband seems to be worried, too,” Dorian leaned in his armchair a little, nodding towards the man who was once again sitting at the window, but now anxiously looking around. “Your father isn’t coming?”

  “He’ll probably attend Professor O’Neill’s lecture tomorrow. Not big on discussing Literature, and prefers investigative journalism to a good novel. Also, as a word of warning, never start a conversation about Sir Fleming in his presence,” there was something quite sly about the way she delivered that last sentence.

  “How come?”

  “He’s just as passionate about those books as I am, just… in the opposite direction. He cannot stand the way Sir Fleming portrays intelligence agencies,” Antony, too, barely held back laughter. “I do agree with him, it could be a bit more realistic without sacrificing the plot twists and the tension, but he took it to the next level. The one time I had the misfortune to mention one of the books while he was passing by the door, I witnessed the ire of a thousand suns descend on Ceres. If you ever want to see this man lose his composure, you can attempt the same, but be warned that unless Josephine… That would be Lady Dawntreader. Unless she’s somewhere nearby, there is no stopping the man or calming him down.”

  “And there I was, thinking there’s no topping your dedication to his writing.”

  “I thought the same,” Antony sheepishly ruffled his hair, while his three companions tried to retain a presentable appearance and not burst into laughter.

  “Going back to your observations,” Dorian turned to Charlotte, “Is there anyone else missing?”

  She thoughtfully looked around, then shook her head, “No one else immediately comes to mind. But then again, it’s just a few people who really engage with the lecturers,” she elegantly leaned forward and continued to whisper, making sure that it was only Antony, Dorian, and Professor O’Neill who could hear her. “I am almost inclined to believe that a fair few come to these discussions just to watch Mr Flint make a fool of himself yet again.”

  “He is quite a memorable figure,” Professor O’Neill looked at the dwarf. The latter was gesturing wildly with his now empty whiskey glass in hand. From what Antony could hear, he and Lady Flowers were arguing about yet another poem by Lord Miles.

  Charlotte was about to continue the discussion, but at that moment, Professor Roberta Stein took the stage, greeted by a round of applause. Even Mr Flint begrudgingly clapped a few times. She turned out to be a short and somewhat plump dusk elf of about six hundred years old, with silky raven black hair, dark eyes, and an open, almost girlish face despite her age. Antony had to admit that she looked nothing like the literature critics he was acquainted with.

  “Thank you, thank you. Yesterday, we covered why Lord Miles’s literary work was so pivotal to the shaping of Lundhaven’s progressive society we see and enjoy nowadays. Right now, however, I would like to deviate from what you saw in the program, and conduct today’s session in a slightly less formal manner. Ms Glancy, would you assist me in that?”

  “Oh, I,” the catfolk woman from the poetry club group seemed a tad lost. Nevertheless, she stood up and walked over to the stage, taking the other vacant armchair.

  “Everyone, may I introduce Ms Beatrice Glancy, the winner of last year’s Silver Roses Award!”

  There seemed to be quite a few people in the audience for whom the accolades seemed familiar. Equally, a few people also whispered Ms Glancy’s name in confusion, as if unable to put the name and the award together.

  Professor O’Neill leaned towards Charlotte and explained, “It’s one of the most prestigious poetry contests in Enua. Established by His Majesty the late King Tamir. Her Majesty Luciana III has continued with the tradition, and she is always present during the award ceremony.”

  “As we have such an esteemed member of the audience with us today, I thought we could organise a proper discussion. You and I will be representing opposite opinions,” Professor Stein continued. “Not necessarily because we believe it to be the case. Just in the spirit of being contrarian. What do you say to this?”

  “I am all for it,” came a mellow response.

  “Splendid. Now, to–”

  Before Professor Stein could say another word, the lights began violently flickering. Then one of the lightbulbs exploded. Followed by a few more, until whatever little shimmer that came through the thick canopy of the forest they were travelling through was the only remaining source of light.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Calm down, everyone, surely there’s–”

  “A g-g-g-ghost! Th-there’s a ghost!”

  Everyone looked to the far corner where Mr Flint’s shaking finger was pointing. A semitranslucent shimmering figure stood next to the doorway. Or, rather, hovered a few inches from the ground.

  Somebody shrieked. Another jumped in fright, overturning their chair. A few were on the verge of fainting. Mr Perkins’s and Ms Sharrock’s bodyguards hesitantly took a step forward, though it was clear that none of them were equipped to deal with something coming from the Other World. None of them knew how to deal with those beings.

  “You serve the Dead Moon. Do something!” Mr Flint pivoted towards Cardinal Whitesand, who, unlike many others, remained perfectly calm and still.

  “I’m not sure what you expect of me.”

  “Purify it! Exorcise it! Do what do you people do to ghosts!”

  “I’m sorry, but… Either Mr Perkins is about to reveal that he forgot to warn us, and this is a very unfortunate attempt at entertainment gone wrong, or this is someone’s badly thought out prank.

  “This isn’t a ghost, Mr Flint. It’s an illusion.”

  As if to give confirmation to his words, the image suddenly shifted, then dispersed as illusion spells tended to do once someone saw through one.

  Everyone in the room turned to Mr Perkins, who was slowly stroking his chin.

  “I asked for no such thing,” he said finally. “Not sure what to make of this, either.”

  “I suggest we treat it as the opening to our debate,” Ms Glancy proposed, her voice surprisingly calm. “Professor, what do you say to examining the depiction of ghosts and spirits in the works of Lady Maria Pinegrove? Are they mere symbols of days gone by, or, perhaps, she was spiritually gifted?”

  “Oh, of course!” Professor Stein sat down. She was still pale, but the simple question brought back some of her usual candour. “I would like to add that I wrote an entire monograph on that specific question. So…”

  ******

  “Anything of interest?”

  The poetry discussion club ended half an hour ago. The guests either moved to the restaurant carriage or went back to their rooms to get some rest and change into different clothes before dinner. The lounge now stood empty and dark, as Mr Perkins proposed that the evening’s performance be organised in the restaurant. Even though the ghost proved to be a mere illusion, many still felt uneasy while leaving the room, checking every shadow.

  Antony was standing on a chair, inspecting one of the exploded lightbulbs, with Charlotte patiently waiting next to him.

  “I can tell you it didn’t happen because of some malfunction,” he said finally. “There’s a thin layer of powder on this one. While I obviously don’t have the means to perform an alchemical analysis, I am pretty certain it’s not from the inside of the lightbulb. It’s not any special kind of coating, either.”

  He thought for a bit, then took out a handkerchief and gathered some of the suspicious dust onto it, wrapped it up and placed it back into his pocket.

  “I don’t understand what they were trying to achieve by this.”

  “Neither do I,” he jumped down. “Give someone specific a heart attack? Or see if there’s someone who would lose their composure and try to throw a fireball at that thing?”

  “Come to think of it, Mr Flint looked quite taken out of it. And so did Ms Glancy.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s very hard to tell with catfolk, as their emotional response differs from most species, but I’m fairly certain,” Charlotte nodded. “There was something odd about her response. As if she were just as terrified as others at first, but then elated?”

  “When she and Professor Stein talked, I got the impression that she was quite infatuated by spirits. Maybe she thought she was about to experience a real ghost sighting?”

  “It is possible.”

  “Some food for thought, if only to pass the time. I guess we should join the others,” Antony looked in the direction of the restaurant carriage. “Before Dorian gets impatient and comes to check on us.

  “Is something wrong?”

  He noticed that Charlotte did not react to his proposal, standing still and staring at the spot where the illusion manifested.

  “It’s just that… It was clearly an illusion,” her expression changed, becoming serene, almost otherworldly, “but for the briefest of moments, I could have sworn there was indeed something more to it. She stirred, but it was too subtle to fully process.”

  “Did Cardinal Whitesand feel the same?”

  She shook her head, “Maybe it’s just lack of rest. You’re right, let’s go.”