The train hurtled forward, only minutes away from St. Pancras Station.
The rhythmic clatter of the wheels filled the air, drowning out everything except the quiet storm of Elias's own thoughts.
Smoke rose steadily from the locomotive's chimney—a sight that, to Elias, felt both aristocratic and vulgar, a privilege wrapped in the clamor of the common masses.
He leaned his forehead gently against the cool glass of the First Class carriage window and allowed a faint smile to touch his lips.
At last, the whistle sounded. The train had reached St. Pancras.
That sharp blast meant the journey was ending. For Elias—who had slept through nearly the entire trip—the voyage had felt brief, yet in truth he had traveled all the way from Manchester to London, a journey that had taken at least seven hours.
The train shuddered to a complete stop. Clouds of steam and smoke billowed from the chimney.
Station attendants swung open the doors, allowing passengers to disembark.
When the door to the First Class carriage opened, Elias was already there—first in line.
He stepped down calmly. The attendant who had opened the door dipped his head in quiet respect, eyes lowered to the platform for a moment before straightening once more.
Elias lingered near the door when a voice rose from among the cluster of nobles.
He pressed a hand lightly to his forehead, turned sharply, and re-entered the carriage.
With a cold glance and the slightest gesture of his hand, the nobles—recognizing the political weight and influence Elias carried—parted just enough to clear a path.
His advisor pushed through the crowd and joined him. Together, they stepped down from the train.
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I disembarked with my advisor at my side. The scent of coal ash hung thick in the air—of course, nothing less could be expected from a steam train.
I clasped my hands behind my back and exhaled slowly.
"At last… after a year, perhaps even longer… I have returned to London."
My advisor—holding the valise I had handed him—drew a deep breath and said,
"Yes… and at last I am free of your lectures on economics."
I cast him a sidelong glance.
"Mr. William Helms, do you not perhaps consider yourself… a little too familiar with me?"
He looked from me to himself, took a small step back, cleared his throat briefly, and replied,
"Forgive me, my lord…"
For a moment, a faint smirk tugged at my lips. I tilted my head back to admire the vast iron-and-glass roof of St. Pancras.
Then I shook my head lightly and began walking toward the area where the carriages waited. My advisor followed, carefully maintaining the new distance.
The elderly servant—or rather, Frederick Clayton—stood beside a private carriage bearing the Montagu family crest.
His left hand rested behind his back, his right held formally in front. In the year that had passed, I had committed to memory the names of every advisor and head butler in the Montagu household.
Asking them again would, after all, have been far too awkward.
When I reached him, he inclined his head respectfully and opened the carriage door.
I noted the fine leather gloves he wore, then climbed inside.
My advisor followed, and finally Frederick entered, closing the door behind him with practiced grace.
As before, I took the left seat; my advisor and the elderly servant sat opposite on the right.
The carriage lurched into motion, bound for the Montagu family's London manor.
The very same manor where everything I currently knew about this world had begun.
Oh… right. I still don't actually know very much at all.