𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄.
andromeda's pov.
4,551 words.
sound recommended.

❝and i... will never die. i refuse
such an inferior life.❞

The moon has always been a friend. A constant companion in the night, when she had no one, not a soul to speak to. Its silverly light had once softened the edges of dark alleyways, creating shapes that turned shadows less monstrous, back when she was a child, slipping between the narrow streets of Sofia with her mother. Luna. That was what the moon was called in her mother tongue. Perhaps that made it easier to think of it as a friend, with its reverent glow... she had once seen its light refract through water droplets in the air, creating a faint, colourful arc in the night sky. Wasn't it almost... magical?

Her mother's eyes had sparkled in delight when she had pointed out as much, her voice a hushed whisper of awe as they stood beneath the celestial dome. Ah yes, her mother. Marion. Her late mother had spun tales of ancient folklore, of how Luna was a guardian of lost souls, guiding them home, and all the young girl could think, was when she would be brought home. To live in not a house, but a home. She had been as lost a soul as any, so why...

Marion was not the perfect mother, maybe not even a good one. But she was hers.

Andromeda turned over in her bed, the dim light of a moon half-obscured by clouds filtering through the narrow train window, casting a faint glow over her. She had been asleep, her auburn hair tousled, spreading across the pillow in soft waves that caught the shimmering light, framing her face. She was still feeling rather out of it now, not tired, all the desire to sleep had been knocked out of her when she had suddenly woken up, but there was that post-sleep daze that was affecting her. A chill had pricked her skin, and her eyelids had fluttered open, green eyes which were sharp and vibrant, even in the dimness, taking in the unfamiliar shadows of her compartment. There are some things even Luna cannot protect you from.

She shifted to lay on her back as she waited for her body to catch up with her mind. Perfectly still, Andromeda was attuned to the strange, rhythmic creaks and groans of the Orient Express. Her senses seemed heightened, even, in the enveloping quiet. There was something peaceful about it, although the sharp pricking sensation on her skin was still running through her mind. Even so, the usual clutter of her waking mind had been softened, replaced by an inexplicable calm, as if her subconscious had been waiting for this precise hour—this exact moment of stillness—to make itself known. She glanced at the slivers of light streaming through the velvet curtains, casting lines across the floor in silken strips. The allure of the unknown tugged at her, but there was something deeper. A feeling beneath the noise of the train and the pulse of her own heartbeat.

With deliberate movements, Andromeda sat up, smoothing the fabric of her nightgown, a gentle flannel in white, long sleeve and fitting for the winter. Despite the train being well-heated, which made it just that touch warmer than was comfortable. Her silhouette shifted in the faint light, casting slender shadows along the wall as she ran a hand through her hair, looking over to where Ramona was sleeping. She had seemed pretty insistent on wearing silk, and with the matching sleeping mask, Andromeda doubted the actress would wake up a minute before morning. Good.

As she slipped out of bed, she felt a shiver of energy as soon as she made contact with the wooden floorboards, the kind she felt before a reading—a faint but unmistakeable pull. What was it her mother had said? Nightingales were voices, voices that communicated with the other world. Never to be silenced. A faint smile pulled at her lips as she slid her slippers on, lifting the candle from her bedside table and lighting the wick. Well, why stop now? She had never ignored intuition before, that was how you got yourself killed. She stepped quietly enough not to wake Ramona, the wooden floor stiff beneath her slippers, the candle flame casting soft, shifting shadows on the polished walls of the compartment.

The Orient Express held a world within itself at night, both intimate and vast, like a winding river in the dark. The question was whether it was the glamorous Nile which fate had chosen to revere, or the River Styx itself. As she crossed over to the door, Andromeda felt the train's gentle swaying, a rhythm like the heartbeat of an ancient creature, alive and whispering secrets only she could understand. The air was thick. Heavy. Infused with the scent of polished wood and lingering perfume, with remnants of the day's conversations and laughter. Tonight, however... there was something else, an electric anticipation that hung in the air. The stillness before the storm.

Before she opened the door that led into the corridor, she hesitated, her fingers hovering over the ornate handle. For good measure, she opened her bag and took out her deck of tarot cards, holding them carefully in one hand. She needed them. She didn't know why, but something was telling her they'd be useful. With the hand carrying the cards she pushed open the door carefully with some effort not to drop the destiny-telling cards, holding the candle delicately in the other as she stepped outside, the door clicking shut behind her. With a deep breath, she stepped into the narrow passageway. The flickering candlelight seemed to dance, illuminating the walls lined with luxurious velvet, creating an ethereal glow.

Where do you want me? was the question that lay delicately at the forefront of her mind as she glanced in the two opposing pathways that the corridor offered her. Closing her eyes, she took almost tiptoed steps in the direction that felt the most magnetic, the air glistening with energy around her. The left corridor seemed to recede into shadows, a darkness that hinted at mysteries best left untouched. To the right, was something else. Something she couldn't quite understand. She let her intuition guide her, opening her eyes as she continued determinedly towards the right, the gentle sway of the train intensifying, adding a slight lilt to her steps.

The shadows on the velvet walls seemed to create a waltz that felt almost alive, as if eager to join her on this midnight journey of ambiguity. Her heart raced as she approached the door where the energy felt the most strong, muted wailing to be heard on the other side. Strangely, it felt familiar, but not quite so. It reminded Andromeda of her previous husband. Ezra Cavendish. A marriage of convenience, of course. Just twice... she had encountered this similar equation, with him locked behind a door, crying—no, sobbing—his heart out, most likely keeled over on the floor. There were some people... who could not stand for anyone to see them in a vulnerable state.

Andromeda hadn't done anything back then, she hadn't known what to do. It felt best to leave someone to their own devices, since that was so clearly what they wanted in seeking out privacy before breaking down. Was this some spirit telling her to choose differently, this time? She gave the door a discerning look, contemplating this next choice, before knocking on the door quietly. There was a beat of complete silence, like someone listening to make sure they had heard right, and so the psychic knocked again, just as gently. It was too late at night to be dramatic in her gestures. Maybe for once she would be Andromeda Nightingale, and not Madame Nightingale.

There was the sound of movement on the other side of the door before the door clicked and swung open with some force, enough to almost startle Andromeda, which was rare in itself (foresight, you see). The sight opposite her did startle her, however. Standing before the doorway was Arabella Cavendish herself, her hair a tangled mess, eyebags darkened, cheeks streaked with tears. She was frowning when she realised who had knocked on the door, but just as quickly, Andromeda noticed the expression quickly shift from one of mild annoyance to one of... desperation? It wasn't as clear as she wanted it to be. That was the trouble with clients, or even people in general, like Arabella.

Honestly, she was ashamed not to have connected the dots sooner. Like brother, like sister. Even if Ezra was different to Arabella in every other way, you can't change your coding completely.

Andromeda turned to leave, her grip on the tarot cards stiffening. This was the woman who was making Ramona's life a living hell, who had dared to screw her over and not pay her for a number of sessions they had. And if there was one thing you never wanted to do, it was wasting her valuable time and skill in which she could be making money. It had stiffed her over financially (save for her bad investments, but could you really blame her for those? It was practically a scam. Or something like that), causing her to be in the situation she was now where she was short on money, not as comfortable as she'd like to be. She had no intention of helping that kind of a woman, whatever was making such a mess of her was probably just karma, and you don't fuck around with karma.

"No, please!" The woman begged, stepping out half into the corridor, her stare seeming to near burn a hole in Andromeda's back. The psychic stopped moving, humming impatiently. It was strange, she was intelligent enough to know that someone like Arabella didn't beg. They simply didn't. And then there was the fact that she felt something almost stopping her from physically taking a step forward as the air thickened around her. She paused, feeling the weight of the moment settle heavily on her shoulders, this pounding headache, sudden and relentless. It was disconcerting. Something saying 'Oh no you don't, there's something you must do first'.

Andromeda groaned in annoyance, head in her hands, practically pulling at the roots of her hair. Why was it that spiritual forces had to be so dreadfully annoying. Could they not be helpful for once, and not make her go help the evil woman? That would be great! In spite of herself, she turned around, folding her arms as she tapped her foot against the ground silently. She simply tilted her head and stared at the woman, telling her without words to hurry up and plea her case.

"Ever since," Arabella began, her voice much smaller than it usually was. "Ever since you foretold a tragedy in my new future, I haven't been able to shake the feeling that someone's out to get me. To kill me."

"Well, yes. You can't seriously believe no one wants to harm you, you've ruined lives, can you blame them? What am I supposed to do about that?" The psychic responded with a scoff. It was hard to have pity for someone like that. Andromeda didn't particularly want her dead even if others did, but even if she did want to do something to protect Arabella (which, truthfully, she had no intention of doing), what good could she possibly do? She was a psychic, a medium, not a bodyguard. Morbidly, she would be far more useful after Arabella's death.

"I was hoping I'd at least make it to forty before my actions caught up on me," the woman shrugged, with surprising honesty. Andromeda never did know what was wrong with her. If she was a psychopath of some sort—there was a deep darkness in her, but even she managed to charm people somehow, or she never would have been in a position to make them pawns in her game in the first place. "I'm clever. I don't look it, but I am. Being the villain in people's stories is a terribly male-dominated field, understand? Everyone is so awfully stupid, can you really blame me for wanting to have my fun? No one is ever smart enough," she paused, rubbing at her temples with the heel of her hand, "—to entertain me."

Andromeda was still, temporarily speechless. She understood the logic, to be sure, she was more intelligent than Arabella was giving her credit for. But she couldn't relate to it. Having basic empathy makes a world of difference, it seemed. The woman's attitude was something you saw in serial killers, but Andromeda trusted her gut instinct enough to know there was nothing for her to fear in this moment. Before she could respond, Arabella was already continuing.

"Right, so, I received a death threat a day before I boarded the train. I didn't want to come here after that, but mummy and daddy said they'd take away my inheritance if I didn't. Wealthy people business to attend to, you understand. Or don't," she added on quite unnecessarily, yawning behind her hand, her tears already dried. "So, of course, I had to come. But I know someone's out to get me. I need you to do a reading for me, so that I can plan my next move."

"What? Why would I do that?" Andromeda continued, wearing a slight scowl after the comment about her own wealth, or lackthereof. Comments like that always did come to Arabella, not the most likeable talent to have, especially when you needed someone to help you. But then... there was an opportunity here. "Alright. I do a reading for you on two conditions," she stated seriously, holding up two fingers and nodding solemnly.

"One, you pay me. Six times my usual rate," this seemed a reasonable demand, to say the least. Andromeda could have demanded more, Arabella was rich enough, but there was something about the number six that was speaking to her, and omens ought to always be listened to. "And second, you burn that tape you've been blackmailing Ramona with. I want to watch you burn it."

Arabella seemed to perk up on the first demand, though she raised a brow on the second. She stepped back into her room nonetheless, allowing room for Andromeda to step past her. "I had heard she was a client of yours. You do know she slept with my fiancé?" She rolled her eyes, sitting down at the centre of the room, legs crossed.

"People make mistakes. You were also awful to him. Those are my demands. Comply with them or I let your mysterious letter sender brutally murder you," Andromeda responded coolly, not one to soften the blow where she felt she didn't need to. She was already reluctant to even do this reading, but if it meant securing her friend's safety (and improving her own financial situation), then the few minutes spent doing this would be worth it.

"Touché. Alright, fine," Arabella sighed, reaching for a safe under her bed which she put the code into. Andromeda was carefully watching her movements, already able to tell exactly what the pin was despite the woman facing the box away from her. 1812. Ezra's birthday. How peculiar. The safe opened and Arabella took out some notes, counting up to £300, the equivalent of the average person's rent for six months. To her, it seemed like nothing, handing the notes over to Andromeda, who took it and settled it carefully near her. Then, she took something else out of the safe, handing over a film stock.

Andromeda accepted the film stock, guarding it carefully while she counted the notes herself (of course she wasn't going to trust Arabella not to be deceptive). Once she had confirmed the amount, she shuffled her tarot cards, keeping an eye on the woman. "Three minutes," she said with a grimace, laying out a Celtic Cross card spread intended to provide a comprehensive overview of a situation. Ten cards total. A brief glance of the cards was enough to paint a grim picture—the mere presence of just Ten of Swords, The Tower and Death itself were enough to suggest something amiss. But just then, something had occurred to her.

"That roll of film, it's the only copy you have. Correct?" Andromeda murmured, glancing up from the cards at Arabella, who was craning her neck to look at the cards.

"Obviously," Arabella replied absent-mindedly, more intent on reading her cards, even though Andromeda knew for certain she didn't know how to read tarot cards. Even if Death seemed pretty explicit, it often represented transformation, endings, and new beginnings, and not just literal death. That was something even Arabella knew. As Andromeda studied her now, she shook her head subtly, able to tell instantly that she was being lied to. She always knew the tells of her clients.

Now, she was faced with two forks in a road again. And somehow, neither seemed to change anything other than her moral code, because whether she read the cards right or not, you cannot change what is written in the stars.

Sometimes, breaking her moral code is worth it. But Arabella isn't.

"Yeah, you're probably going to die," Andromeda began to pack up the cards, not looking at the way the colour had drained from Arabella's face. "Something to do with a knife, so avoid those. It's someone you know, but I'm sure you could gather that much. Interestingly, I don't think it's the same person who sent the death threat, but I can't know for sure," she said all this very quickly, snapping the film stock and then handing it to Arabella, who slowly set it alight on top of the safe box with a lighter, before snuffing out the flame, chucking the remnants of the film out of the window for good measure.

At first, she had looked shocked, but as Andromeda went on about the details, her cockiness was slowly returning, a smile broaching her features. All Andromeda could think was that for someone so undeniably intelligent, she was so senseless in other ways. Too stupid to believe that she could change fate. She could know everything about how she was going to die, and it still wouldn't save her, for death is a punctual companion.

Andromeda picked up her candle again, along with the cards and the money using her other hand, raising herself as she stepped towards the door. Knowing there was a murderer who was either on this train right now, or was going to be, should have been unsettling. Maybe it was, slightly. But there was something telling her that no one need to be wary other than the woman in this very room. She stepped out of the door now, Arabella walking over to close it.

"Thank you so much for your assistance. By the way, of course that film wasn't the only copy I had. I'm not stupid. I hope your client sleeps well, though," Arabella smirked as she shut the door in Andromeda's face, probably off to do whatever scheming she thought could prevent her death.

For a few seconds, Andromeda just stood outside of the door, not deigning to respond. She glanced up at the number '6' in gold on the compartment door. "That woman is so going to hell."

━━━━ °⌜ 火车 ⌟° ━━━━

By the next morning, the train had arrived at the next stop: Lausanne, Switzerland. That meant new passengers. Andromeda herself was sitting in the lounge car of the Orient Express, sitting in a plush armchair and reading a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. Reading was a favourite pastime of hers, and a rather productive way of spending her time when she wasn't doing readings of some sort. It sharpens the mind, her mother had told her numerous times—and she was right. Ramona and Jia were sat at a table nearby, with Jia teaching the actress how to play Xiangqi, the Chinese version of chess.

Someone she knew had boarded. She sat up and settled her book down, feeling a gentle prick on her skin, not as strong as the one from last night. She pretended to keep reading, but in her periphery, she noticed a man she knew passing by the open lounge car door. Ezra. She also noticed the fact that he had noticed her, the novelist doubling back, seeming to notice her, after which he hastily started walking in the opposite direction of where she was.

Now, this was an interesting use of her time. Andromeda shut her book and set it down as she got up and walked towards the door, the confident tap of her heels belying her movements, as usual. Her day dress swung neatly as she approached the carriage that Ezra had walked into, although at a single glance, he wasn't around. The bar area, it happened to be. Andromeda knew better than to think he had mysteriously vanished, a small smile appearing on her face as she shook her head.

She heard a faint "Sir, you really can't be here—" as she stepped in, before the train conductor was distracted by her entering the carriage, giving her a gentle wave. "Miss Nightingale, I hope you've been having a good morning," Joaquín nodded with a greeting bow. He seemed conflicted, almost like he had just been pleaded with by a certain someone to not tell her about his presence. For the fourth time just since today, he wished he had normal passengers. "Could I get you a drink? We have some various juices, coffee, tea... if you're feeling brave we've even had a restock of Amaretto at this stop," he continued on, seeming to be trying to distract the psychic from noticing the man crouched down next to him behind the bar counter.

"Water is always reliable. Constant as the stars above, so they say," Andromeda replied with a smile as she sat down at the bar. Joaquín seemed puzzled, but she knew the weight of those words. Constant as the stars above. It was an inside joke between her and Ezra, something they agreed to say in social interactions with others about their love for each other, at the time when they were married. They had a charade to sell, after all.

As the train conductor turned to get a glass of water, a man from behind the counter sheepishly stood up, knowing that he had been caught. Andromeda knew exactly what he was feeling even if it barely showed on his face, which only ever seemed to accommodate the smallest of changes in his expression. But the slight twitch to his left eye made the situation obvious, if nothing else. He straightened his tie, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, avoiding looking at Andromeda, looking at everything but her.

"Hello, Ezra," Andromeda smiled mockingly, drumming her fingers against the bar counter's surface. Finally, the man looked her in the eyes, clearing his throat.

"Andre—Andromeda," he corrected himself, realising at the very least that their relationship currently wasn't the sort where using the old nickname would be appropriate. Andrea was for friends, not people you hated. It was a miracle he even managed to figure out that much—for all his intelligence and logic, people were so impossible to understand. Andromeda understood people, but well, it seemed opposites didn't always attract. "You look lively."

"As opposed to looking dead?" She responded sharply, though she didn't mean it, only toying with him, in her own way. She knew how he ticked, after all.

It was right as she said this that Joaquín came back with her water, only seeming to catch the words 'looking dead'. He set down the glass, looking perplexed as he slowly stepped back. "I'm just going to give you two some privacy. Knock if you need anything," he stated slowly, backing up until he reached the handle to the store room, not turning away until he had reached the handle and opened the door, stepping inside and closing it definitively.

Ezra's eye seemed to twitch even harder. Was this the price he had to pay for saying their marriage was as phony as her magic? What was wrong with that? It was the truth. He knew that the marriage part obviously hadn't offended her, they had both known that, but the dismissal of the supernatural... that seemed to get right under her skin. "Look, I was only being honest. Of course, it's very nice that you believe in ghosts or whatnot—"

He stopped abruptly as Andromeda scoffed, glaring at him. If looks could kill, he would surely be dead.

"I didn't know you would be here. But as it happens, we both are here, so I propose we stay civil," he suggested, picking up a bottle of wine to inspect it, always needing to be doing something other than standing still. "It wouldn't do, to have us behaving like we're each other's archnemesis—"

Andromeda interrupted him again, shaking her head. "You're not my archnemesis. That bastard Russell Barclay is, though you're a close third," she admitted, holding up her glass though she didn't drink from it, not breaking eye contact, knowing it unsettled the man.

"Right, of course. Third is great—perfect even," Ezra muttered, setting the wine bottle down. "So, a truce?" He forced a smile (though it really was more like the corner of his mouth lifting by a fraction), holding out his hand for Andromeda to shake.

All she did was place the glass of water she was holding into his hand, which he looked down at in confusion. Andromeda stood up, smoothing down her dress and running a hand through her hair, sighing. She gave him an almost pitiful look, one he couldn't read, as she turned around and started walking towards the door leading back in the direction of the lounge. Each step she took had that usual dramatic flair, one leg crossing over the other, making any ground she walked on her runway, as always. Right as she reached the door, one gloved hand resting on it, she gave a toss of her hair as she looked over her shoulder back at Ezra, angling her head downwards and locking eyes with him.

"I'll think about it. Stay hydrated, you never did know how to look after yourself," she answered smoothly, opening the door and stepping out, letting the door swing shut.

Ezra was left standing there, confused, holding the glass in his hand. Joaquín finally stepped out of the store room he had been shut in, looking from the novelist to the door curiously. "Are you drinking that, sir?" He questioned politely, still seeming just as puzzled as Ezra. The mysterious woman tended to have that effect.

"I—yes, I suppose I am," Ezra replied quietly, glancing down at the contents of the glass. He had forgotten how much it had been nice to know Andromeda, not in the romantic sense, but as a companion who he had a few treasured memories with. And that was more than he could say about most people. He downed the glass of water and set it down a little louder than he had wanted to.

"An interesting woman, Miss Nightingale," Joaquín had quipped with a smile as he took the empty glass to clean. Truthfully, the supernatural unsettled the train conductor, so he couldn't blame Ezra for seeming so out of it (he was yet to realise that the man was simply socially inept by nature). Andromeda did have a presence that changed the atmosphere of a room.

"An interesting woman, indeed."

𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒.
an agatha christie inspired applyfic.

A/N - hello again, told you I'd be quick w it 🫵 but don't worry about chapters being too quick or anything like that, there'll probably be at least a week between this one and the next. Hope it was enjoyable! Again, it's a little longer than I'd like it to be, but if I've heavily featured other characters I try to extend it more so that it's truly the character whose pov it's about as the focus. If there's any typos, ignore them, I haven't proofread 💔

On a side note, I've changed Roland's fc, so it's this guy now 😻 hopefully the change isn't that hard to adjust to. I'll update his cast page graphics soon, though the form may or may not be altered, if so it won't be for a while. Just know this is his new fc, and his voice claim changes along with that to David Corenswet (the fc).

Like Ezra, stay hydrated and healthy, love you guys !! 🫶