“You’re late,” Rapunzel whined when I strolled into the quiet lounge car. “What took you so long?”

I held up the pocket watch in my hand and wryly replied, “I’m on time, you know.”

She pouted. “That means you’re doing it on purpose!”

With a carefree shrug, I joined her at the bar counter.

There were no other passengers present in the lounge car, and this late into the night, all the lights had been extinguished save for a dimmed table lamp placed in between us. The flickering gaslight cast a dusty yellow glow over the counter, playing soft shadows across her delicately beautiful features and expressive face. She had changed into a frilly white nightgown that hugged her slim waist and flowed down to her feet after her shower, and smelled faintly of citrus and jasmine, much to my amusement.

‘I have quite a strong hunch where she got her fragrance from…’

“Violet, do you want to order a nightcap?”

“Sure thing…but what’s a nightcap, exactly? Isn’t that supposed to be something you wear on your head?”

“Uh, yes, but here it refers to a drink that is taken before retiring for the night.”

“Huh, what a fancy name for something so simple.”

I took a look at the elaborate bar menu as she called for the bartender.

‘As I expected, I can barely read and understand all these fancy names…’

A man donning a crisp white shirt and black tuxedo vest greeted us with a cordial nod.

“Bienvenue, Mesdemoiselles. What can I get for you tonight?”

“A sahramiglögi with extra honey for me, s’il vous plaît.”

“Bien sûr.” The bartender nodded his head, seemingly impressed. “You have an exotic taste, Mademoiselle.”

“Really?” Giggling, she turned to me and asked in a light-hearted tone, “do you want another orange cordial?”

“Well…” I recalled the Conductor’s recommendation and tentatively said, “I’d like to have a hot caramel buttered rum.”

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“Excellent choice, Mademoiselle,” he said, smiling slightly. “Please wait for a moment.”

“Oh?”

Rapunzel gave me an approving look. “Did you upgrade your knowledge on alcoholic drinks in the time between dinner and now?”

“Perhaps,” I said wryly.

The bartender began preparing our concoctions behind the bar, meticulously pouring carefully-measured amounts of alcohol and mixing a variety of ingredients into our glasses like a veteran alchemist. He served my drink first—a rich blend of melted butter, sweet caramel syrup and rum poured into a cut-crystal tumbler, with a dusting of cinnamon on top to complete the entire masterpiece.

“Your hot caramel buttered rum cocktail is ready,” he said, an expectant look in his pale blue eyes. “How does Mademoiselle find it?”

“Mm…”

I picked the cup up and sipped the warm liquor gently.

“Mhm! Woah, this stuff is good! And super sweet!”

The bartender broke into a wide smile.

“I’m glad that you enjoy it. It’s always a pleasure to have the opportunity to craft a drink from my hometown, but not many here can appreciate recipes from America. You’re only the second passenger to order a buttered rum on this train so far.”

I paused, mid-sip.

‘What’s up with the sudden change in his tone?’

For some reason, my instinct told me that I should inquire further. So I carefully asked, “you are from America?”

He shook his head passively.

“I was born in Calais, but moved to New York City when I was just a youngster. My folks said they wanted a fresh start, or something like that. I was fortunate enough to find work as a hotel server, and from there, I spent the better half of my life bartending at several hotels in the city to make ends meet.”

While he shared his tale, the bartender took a steaming pot of mulled wine off the fire and simmered it with a mix of orange zest, cinnamon and saffron.

“But when I lived there, I didn’t like the city one bit. It was too crowded, too rowdy and things would get violent very easily if you made a wrong step. After my folks passed on, I decided that I didn’t want to live in America anymore and moved back to France. Technically speaking, I’m retired already, but I just work on the Orient Express on and off to stave off the ennui.”

“Oh, I see…” I swirled my glass and slowly raised it to my lips, musing over his story as I drank. Then, I remembered an oddly specific detail that he had mentioned and frowned.

“Bartender, you mentioned that I’m the second person to order this particular drink on this train just now, didn’t you? If so, who’s the first?”

He didn’t immediately give a reply as he strained the pot and seasoned the finished ruby-red cocktail with a generous topping of honey syrup.

“And this sahramiglögi is yours, Mademoiselle. Please enjoy.”

“I shall,” Rapunzel said eagerly. “Thank you for the drink!”

“Well, the person who ordered the buttered rum before you, Mademoiselle,” the bartender said, wiping down the counter with a white cloth. “You wouldn’t believe it, but it is the young Russian dvoryanin.”

『Room No. 3』

【Lower】Nikita Dolvaskinov, the Lover