The robes are nice. Alan's spent nights in the luxury of Cheetham Hall, gotten about as used to its expensive linens as he thinks he ever will -- but the fine, plush garment he's handed now still ranks as something special. He gives the housekeeper a grateful nod as he wraps it around himself and cinches the belt closed.
"Mad, this is," he mutters, following after Edwin. Out in the corridors, now, he's glancing every which way to try and take in the surroundings. The finery reminds him of the first-class cabins on the Lyric. There's considerably more space here, and the aesthetics have a foreign air of futuristic shine and minimalism.
(And for a moment, in a mirror-polished wall, he thinks he sees a reflection of familiar broad shoulders and walnut hair. When he jerks to look over his shoulder, though, no one's there, and the reflection is only himself when he looks back.)
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"Mad, this is," he mutters, following after Edwin. Out in the corridors, now, he's glancing every which way to try and take in the surroundings. The finery reminds him of the first-class cabins on the Lyric. There's considerably more space here, and the aesthetics have a foreign air of futuristic shine and minimalism.
(And for a moment, in a mirror-polished wall, he thinks he sees a reflection of familiar broad shoulders and walnut hair. When he jerks to look over his shoulder, though, no one's there, and the reflection is only himself when he looks back.)