The interior is a different story.
Inside, the train is opulent, gilded, and warm. Most of the passenger cars are lined with thick patterned carpets, upholstered in velvets in burgundies and violets and creams, as though they have been dipped in a sunset, hovering at twilight and holding on to the colors before they fade to midnight and stars.
There are lights in sconces lining the corridors, cascades of crystals falling from them and swaying with the motion of the train. Soothing and serene.
Shortly after its departure, Celia places the leather-bound book safely away, camouflaged in plain sight amongst her own volumes.
She changes from her bloodstained gown to a flowing one in moonlight grey, bound with ribbons in black, white, and charcoal, which had been one of Friedrick’s particular favorites.
The ribbons drift behind her as she makes her way down the train.
She stops at the only door that has two calligraphed characters as well as a handwritten name on the tag next to it.
Her polite knock is answered immediately, inviting her inside.
While most of the train compartments are saturated with color, Tsukiko’s private car is almost completely neutral. A bare space surrounded by paper screens and curtains of raw silk, perfumed with the scent of ginger an
d cream.
Tsukiko sits on the floor in the center of the room, wearing a red kimono. A beating crimson heart in the pale chamber.
And she is not alone. Isobel lies on the floor with her head in Tsukiko’s lap, sobbing softly.
“I did not mean to interrupt,” Celia says. She hesitates in the doorway, ready to slide the door closed again.
“You are not interrupting,” Tsukiko says, beckoning her inside. “Perhaps you will be able to help me convince Isobel that she is in need of some rest.”
Celia says nothing, but Isobel wipes her eyes, nodding as she stands.
“Thank you, Kiko,” she says, smoothing out the wrinkles in her gown. Tsukiko remains seated, her attention on Celia.
Isobel stops next to Celia as she makes her way to the door.
“I am sorry about Herr Thiessen,” she says.
“I am as well.”
For a moment, Celia thinks Isobel means to embrace her, but instead she only nods before leaving, sliding the door closed behind her.
“The last hours have been long for all of us,” Tsukiko says after Isobel has departed. “You need tea,” she adds before Celia can explain why she is there. Tsukiko sits her down on a cushion and walks silently to the end of the car, fetching her tea supplies from behind one of the tall screens.
It is not the full tea ceremony that she has performed on several occasions over the years, but as Tsukiko slowly prepares two bowls of green matcha, it is beautiful and calming nonetheless.
“Why did you never tell me?” Celia asks when Tsukiko has settled herself across from her.
“Tell you what?” Tsukiko asks, smiling over her tea.
Celia sighs. She wonders if Lainie Burgess felt a similar frustration over two different cups of tea in Constantinople. She has half a mind to break Tsukiko’s tea bowl, just to see what she would do.
“Did you injure yourself?” Tsukiko asks, nodding at the scar on Celia’s finger.
“I was bound into a challenge almost thirty years ago,” Celia says. She sips her tea before adding, “Are you going to show me your scar, now that you have seen mine?”
Tsukiko smiles and places her tea on the floor in front of her. Then she turns and lowers the neck of her kimono.
At the nape of her neck, in the space between a shower of tattooed symbols, nestled in the curve of a crescent moon, there is a faded scar about the size and shape of a ring.
“The scars last longer than the game, you see,” Tsukiko says, straightening her kimono around her shoulders.