She had caught herself holding her breath. Peering deep into the ornately gilded oval mirror, she had been studying the scriptogram machine on a desk just below a large painting of a forest in the Shoto region. Its dormant pen was held in place by a metal bar that sat less than an inch over a small piece of paper. If any incoming messages were to be received, the pen would start to scribble down the words while also perfectly mimicking the sender's handwriting. Nonetheless, no letters had yet come, and Juniper Cleary had lost sleep the last few nights pondering whether to feel distressed or relieved.

  Juniper met the eyes of her reflection: deep, brandy-brown irises that almost completely bled into the blackness of her pupils. She examined her pale pink face, which showed not even a single trace of impurity. Upon realizing this, the young woman produced a small eyeliner pen from her purse and drew in a beauty mark near the right corner of her upper lip. Her head of thick, chocolate-colored hair had been brushed and fluffed to perfection, parting from the center of her scalp and running down in curls just below her shoulders. Like a sailor dreaming of the day when he returned from sea into the warm embrace kit and kin, the young, twenty-five-year-old starlet longed for a time when she would no longer have to obsess over every minutia of her appearance, anticipating unexpected visitors.

  In truth, there was a great deal more she longed for than peace and quiet. The hat box filled with dozens of tear-stained letters was proof enough of that fact. In wake of the New Avilonian draft, George had been shipped off to Fort Graham and then to the Southern Front to aid in the Siegesland offensive. Every so often, on the nights she had felt loneliest, she would read and re-read each letter he had sent home in a vain attempt to feel as though she were intimately conversing with him in person. She committed each and every detail to memory, so that when he finally came home, they could pick up right where they left off as if he had never left. Sadly, those fantasies came crumbling to the ground when a man in uniform arrived at her doorstep, little yellow envelope in hand.

  Her thoughts of visitors seemed to manifest them. Moments after drawing in her mole, a swift but delicate knock came to the door. She went to tie the front of her robe closed, but had to repeatedly roll up her sleeves to keep the excessively frilly tulle lining from getting caught in the knot-making process. She swore softly to herself throughout the endeavor before eventually pulling the silk strap tight.

  "Come in," she called, forcing a playful lilt to her voice.

  A fox Fen wearing an officer's uniform entered the lavish suite, tipping his hat upon his arrival. "Miss Cleary," he said, "Security Officer Reynard Fawkes, at your service."

  "Charmed," she replied. She held out her hand for a gentle shake. Despite being petite, her palm dwarfed that of the well-appointed fox. With his full grip, he could only wrap around two of her fingers, though this didn't seem to bother him.

  "I promise I won't take up too much of your time, as I'm sure you are very busy," he continued, "I simply wanted to welcome you aboard. On behalf of the Black Glacier, we are honored to have you traveling with us."

  "The pleasure's all mine," she recited, "To be a performer aboard the world-famous Black Glacier is an opportunity of a lifetime. I'd be a fool not to take it."

  "If you don't mind me saying, miss, I'd argue that a performer of your stature is a bit out of our league."

  "Oh, hardly!" Juniper exclaimed, adding a polite, well-timed giggle for emphasis.

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  "So," said Fawkes, "To keep this brief, and assuming the general safety measures and emergency evacuation protocol have been relayed to you, I am here to offer the services of both myself and the rest of the staff. If you should ever need anything, do not hesitate to ask for it."

  She nodded.

  "Also, while I cannot guarantee the appropriate behavior of the other passengers aboard, the crew has been issued a non-interference policy. Effectively, they will not engage or bother you unless you speak to them first."

  "Oh, I hardly think that's necessary," Juniper replied, "I would like for the crew to feel comfortable around me, as a matter of fact. We'll be traveling together for some time. So long as my arm doesn't become sore from signing autographs all day, I'd appreciate their camaraderie."

  "Duly noted," he replied with a slight bow of the head. "Is there anything else I could personally assist you with? Room service? A tour of the Glacier, perhaps?"

  "I'd actually like to explore the train myself if you wouldn't mind. I'll be needing something to occupy my time before my performance this evening."

  "Certainly."

  She snapped a glance over to the still-motionless scriptogram.

  "Something the matter?" asked the Fen.

  She stood for a moment, debating whether to even bother inquiring before finally relenting. "I was just wondering if that scriptogram is working," she said, pointing to the device, "I'm expecting a message from a friend, you see."

  Reynard incredulously walked over to the table and thoroughly examined the scriptogram, checking that it was plugged in and running through the other basic troubleshooting processes. After about a minute, he turned to the woman. "It appears to be in working order," he said.

  "Thank you for checking," said Juniper.

  "Of course. Anything else of concern?" he asked.

  "No...thank you," she answered.

  With one last tip of the hat, the officer left the celebrity alone in her lodging. She took some time looking around at the large and comfortable space, incapable of shaking the feeling of confinement. She needed to clear her head. She needed to get out. For a minute or an hour, she didn't care; so long as she could focus on herself for a single moment. She raided her wardrobe, ignoring the countless gowns and short-cut sequin dresses in favor of a plain white button-up blouse, black pantyhose, heels, and a dark blue pleated skirt: the closest thing to 'casual' she could muster. She dressed and preened herself. All the while, that infernal contraption leered at her from its perch, mocking her with its damned silence. She hummed a song to herself to drown out her thoughts of anxious anticipation.

  "There's no warmer place," she crooned, "than in your eyes..."

  She lost herself in a memory. She was home, sitting at George's side as he played the piano. With that perfect tenor vibrato, he harmonized, And that ole sun up in the skies...

  Every note was like a kiss: an instant in time but a beautiful eternity in memory.

  Well, he's looking down, feeling so jealous and green...

  She felt as though she were floating. Her body was focused, but her mind was adrift. The puppet of Kitty Cleary waltzed across the empty carpeted dance floor, reaching out to the promise of escape.

  "Cuz in your eyes..." she sang, "It's so sere—"

  Juniper was suddenly jolted back to reality by the sound of whirring cogs and gears. Her hand still gripping the door's brass handle, she turned toward the desk with a sinking heart and watched in dread as the scriptogram began to write. The first three words appeared. The same words that had appeared at the start of every letter George had ever sent her:

  My dearrest Juniper,

  There was an extra "r" in "dearest."

  This was not her husband.