"Burlington," the conductor called at last, moving through the corridor with the weary triumph of a man delivering people to their plots. "Burlington next. Watch your step; the platform's a skating rink and we don't sell insurance."
Claire stood. She put on the white gloves, finger by finger. She settled the faux fur, checked her reflection in the dark of the window now lightening with morning—platinum hair, arched brows, winged liner, the whole glamorous architecture reassembled for the world. In the watery morning light she looked less like a display and more like a person about to do something brave in ordinary rooms. Samuel rose with her. The compartment felt suddenly too small and too precious, a box that had held a year in a night.
"My aunt's number is on the ticket," she said. "If you call and a woman answers who sounds like she owns porcelain angels and a fire extinguisher and strong opinions about posture, that's Meg. Ask for me. I'll be the one not wearing white, probably. After Christmas I go back to blacks and charcoals like a responsible adult who understands snow is not a lifestyle."
"I'll call," he said. "From Rutland. From Brooklyn. From wherever I am when I stop being afraid the snow globe empties. Tonight, if the landline and my courage both work."
She nodded. Her eyes shone—not with the practiced gloss of fashion floors under holiday lights, but with something wetter, truer, the shine of a person who has cried recently or might cry soon and has decided either is acceptable. "Samuel Drake. Thank you for freezing in my doorway. Thank you for the table in the baggage car I haven't even seen. Thank you for not being sensible when sensible would have been easier."