The Red Scrolls of Magic (The Eldest Curses, #1)(23)
Magnus returned himself to the present moment. For Alec, the Orient Express wasn’t a nostalgic throwback or a distant fond memory, but an adventure in the present moment, an adventure of grand meals taken among a forest of snowcapped mountains, an adventure of sleeping in a comfortable bed while still feeling the rhythmic, regular thump of the train over the track.
They reached their assigned cabin in the corner near the end of the sleeper car. True to his word, Magnus had sprung for the fanciest option available, a large suite with a sitting room in front and a bedroom behind. In between the two rooms was a small bathroom with a shower surrounded by glass walls. Lacquered rosewood walls and Turkish accents gave the whole suite a decadent feel. Magnus deeply approved.
“Our grand suites are all decorated in the style of cities along our route,” the porter said, still struggling to carry Magnus’s luggage inside. “This one is Istanbul.”
Magnus gave him the generous tip he deserved for his efforts, then closed the door behind him and spun to face Alec, just as the train jolted into movement around them. “What do you think?”
Alec smiled. “Why Istanbul?”
“The Paris suite and the Venice suite seemed silly. We’ve had a lot of Paris and we’re just about to have a lot of Venice. So, Istanbul.”
They sat on the couch in the sitting room and watched the scenery go by. The train was picking up speed. Within minutes, it was out of the station and slipping out of Paris. The cityscape gave way to residential neighborhoods until finally they were speeding through rolling green hills and soft fields of dying lavender in the French countryside.
“This is . . .” Alec gestured at their surroundings. “This is . . .” He blinked, unable to find words.
“Isn’t it great? So let’s get dressed and go get dinner. We can explore the rest of the train too.”
“Yes,” said Alec, still struck mostly dumb. “Dinner. Yes. Good. What do you wear to dinner on this kind of train?” He leaned over the garment bag as Magnus began unfolding it. “Can I get away with just a nice jacket and jeans?”
“Alec,” Magnus admonished him. “This is the Orient Express. You wear a tuxedo.”
Where tuxedos were concerned, Magnus had learned over decades to be a purist. Trends came and went. And he loved bright colors and showiness, it was true. But the dinner jackets he had brought for himself and Alec were black, with grosgrain peak lapels and a two-button front.
The bow ties were black. Alec had no idea how to tie one. “Where would I have ever needed to wear a bow tie before in my life?” said Alec. Magnus conceded the point and tied Alec’s for him, without the teasing that they both understood at some level that Alec deserved.
The secret of the tuxedo, Magnus knew from many decades of experience, was that every man looked good in a tuxedo. If you were already a very attractive man, like Alec, you would look very, very good in a tuxedo. Magnus briefly allowed himself a moment of reverie to simply take in the sight of Alec in black tie, fiddling with the studs in his shirt. Alec caught his eye and a slow, shy smile emerged as he realized Magnus had been looking.
Alec owned no cuff links, of course. Magnus had so many ideas for cuff links to buy Alec in the future, but on short notice he’d found a pair of his own with a bow-and-arrow motif, and now provided them to Alec with a flourish.
“What about you?” said Alec, doing up his cuffs.
Magnus went back into the garment bag and withdrew two enormous square-cut amethysts, set in gold. Alec laughed.
They left their cabin and were about to join the throng of like-minded mundanes heading toward the restaurant car, when a giddy nymph rushed past them toward the rear of the train. A moment later, a small group of visibly drunk sprites pushed their way past Alec, heading in the same direction.
Alec tapped Magnus on the shoulder. “Where do you think all the Downworlders are going?”
Magnus looked over just in time to see two werewolves enter the next car. When they opened the door, loud singing streamed out. Magnus was hungry, but distractible. “Sounds like a party. Let us follow the siren song.”
They followed the Downworlders and poked their heads into the back bar, in the last car of the train, which indeed seemed to be hosting a party in full swing. The decor reminded Magnus of the speakeasy he’d owned during Prohibition. A full-size bar counter hugged the right side, and plush purple sectional sofas occupied the other. In the center of the car, a grand piano was being played by a dapper-looking man with a beard and goat legs. A siren wearing a dress made from swirling water lounged on top of it, entertaining the audience.
A group of brownies huddled in the corner, one of them strumming a twisted instrument that looked like a lute carved out of a branch. Two phoukas were smoking pipes near the window, admiring the landscape. A purple-skinned warlock was playing dice with some goblins. Above the bar was a sign reading NO BITING. NO FIGHTING. NO MAGIC.
The mood in the car was festive, relaxed. Despite the sheer number of Downworlders, they all seemed to know each other.
“Where are you headed?” Magnus asked a goblin.
“To Venice!” said the goblin. A bunch of other goblins in various parts of the car yelled, “To Venice!” back. He hoisted his mug, which hissed and foamed alarmingly. “To the party!”
“What party?” asked Magnus as the goblin clocked Alec behind him.