“Pardon me sir, but is this the station for the three o’clock train to Lutesse?”

The mustachioed railroad official stooped down to look at the outstretched ticket in the boy’s hand. “That it is, lad. Train’ll arrive at a quarter to.”

“All right. Thank you for your time.”

“Bezhe var!” The official tilted his cap.

Zephyrin acknowledged the traditional formula of farewell with a nod, then watched as the official strode off in search of other passengers to assist. He released a deep breath.

For heaven’s sake, why was he finding this such a nerve-wracking experience? He didn’t even have the excuse of age; there was no reason why his heart should be keeping an uneven, almost jerky rhythm as he waited for the train to arrive. Gaulyrian railways were well known for their clockwork efficiency; the conductor would smoothly bring the train to a halt, he would embark, show his ticket to the inspector, and by this time tomorrow he would be in his new room at the lyceum. There was no reason to feel the slightest concern, even if Abbé Beauvran had bidden him a cheery farewell sooner than he would have liked…

I’m just not used to this. That’s all.

It was true that despite his nearly thirty years of accumulated life experience, Zephyrin had had little opportunity to travel. His life as a political prisoner had begun at the tender age of two; he had no memories of the forced journey from Lutesse to Elysia, only a vague impression of distress at having to leave behind his nurse… after that, he had traveled no further than the palace, the royal park, and its environs; even attending the opera in the city had been forbidden, for fear of the ‘Golden Gryphon’ meeting his father’s followers and having his head filled with dangerous notions—or unimaginably worse still, receiving aid for an escape attempt…

And now here he was, hours away from taking his first steps in his birthplace... nay, his birthright.

Zephyrin watched as another train on the opposite end of the tracks left the station. There was something poignant in the thought of ageless, myth-enshrouded forests being hacked down to feed the insatiable appetites of these wheezing, wood-fired behemoths; but, at the same time, their charm lay in their very crudeness. Zephyrin had never seen a modern train prior to his death, but he had observed the mana-powered carriages in action, their pistons silently working up and down on their undersides, and though there was something marvelous about a horseless, practically noiseless method of transportation, they also gave an eerie impression of sorts, at least to him. He liked hearing the clopping of horse’s hooves, liked their impact on the ground when he rode hard, with the wind in his face…

The train. There it was, puffing black smoke in the distance like an inveterate smoker. As it screeched to a halt, the would-be passengers swarmed around it like ants around an obstructed anthill, entering in precipitated fashion. Eventually the crowd shrank as the train took on more and more of its living cargo, and Zephyrin numbered among the few remaining passengers waiting to embark. He stood by a little longer, allowing a gratefully smiling lady to pass and mount the steps before him, then climbed aboard the train in turn.

By now, most of the passengers had taken their seats, making it easier to navigate through the train. Proceeding down the red carpeted interior, Zephyrin turned his head this way and that, looking for the right compartment. He glanced down at his ticket to confirm the number. 751, which meant…ah. There it was, compartment seven. Zephyrin slid open the door, revealing six empty seats. He took one by the window—a bit of generosity on the part of the diocesan administrator who had booked his ticket, for which he was thankful.

He was also pleasantly surprised to discover his compartment empty, but his hopes for a tranquil journey were dashed when a heavy-set man—a middle class businessman, by the looks of him, with snuff stains all over his brown and gold striped waistcoat—lumbered into the compartment at the last minute. The man had given him a vaguely genial smile, checked his golden pocket watch, and then promptly fallen asleep. Upright and unfurled he was quite tall, but sitting his body seemed to screw up within itself like a caterpillar, his neck vanishing as his head tilted and he sank into slumber. The train lurched out of the station, and as their journey went underway, his snores gamely opposed the chugging of the train, filling the compartment with the overpowering roars of two equally matched engines.

Zephyrin tried reading the book he had picked up in Apolinary’s shop, but found himself unable to concentrate on the words owing to the noise and his state of nervous excitement. Instead, he slumped back against his seat and gazed out the window as the train rushed over the arid plains of the south, curving northward to traverse the marshy midlands of the country. The advent of the elevated railway—one of Rudolf XII’s many pet projects—would certainly shorten what would have otherwise been a long and onerous journey.

Seeing the blurry landscape pass by reminded him of the times when his health had permitted him to go riding in the royal park. How he had ridden his mount hard! And how his mother had scolded him, when he had returned from his excursion flushed and exhausted, his thin legs on the verge of collapse…

Zephyrin continued staring out for some time, as one hypnotized. He broke his gaze from the window only long enough to show his ticket to the inspector, and see the man glance at his fellow passenger’s tightly curled fingers, where his own ticket had been primed prior to falling asleep. This display of foresight to enjoy an unbroken nap caused a small smile to float to Zephyrin’s lips as he turned back to look out the window once more. He continued watching the scenery fly by for some time, before allowing his own eyes to gradually close.

He wouldn’t sleep, of course. He would merely rest his eyes….