"The end comes when we no longer talk with ourselves. It is the end of genuine thinking and the beginning of the final loneliness. The remarkable thing is that the cessation of the inner dialogue marks also the end of our concern with the world around us. It is as if we noted the world and think about it only when we have to report it to ourselves." - Eric Hoffer

Wednesday, April 10th, 1912

RMS TITANIC

Christine perched on the edge of her bed, staring at the floor through glassy eyes as she twisted a pearl bracelet around her wrist. Every few minutes the indistinct muttering from the adjoining room would cause her to blink and look up expectantly until silence resumed again. Her husband had been fretting before a full-length mirror for the better part of an hour, driving himself to distraction over every minute detail of his appearance. He seemed at last to have settled on an outfit to his liking, and had moved on to the painstaking task of slicking the sparse, mousy wisps of hair across his head in a vain attempt to hide his receding hairline.

When fifteen minutes passed without any indication that they were closer to being ready to go down to supper, Christine rose soundlessly from the bed and began to wander around the room in search of something to pass the time. Her fingers skirted over the bedspread, the polished mahogany armoire, the back of an armchair. The room was full of fine things; no detail had been spared in the assembly of Titanic's first class cabins. Had the port window not given away their presence on a ship, she might have thought herself in one of the grand hotels of London or New York.

She paused before the fireplace, lifting her palms to its inviting warmth. The cabin was maintained at a perfectly comfortable temperature, and still Christine felt chilled. Fifty had come and gone, and with it her circulation, it seemed. She was always cold.

Beside the fireplace was an elegant Louis XVI desk, carved from the same mahogany wood as the rest of the furnishings. Christine sat lightly in the chair before it, content to linger close to the fire's warmth. She studied the simple, neoclassical design of the desk for a moment before opening a drawer curiously. A quick peek inside revealed that it was fully stocked with all manner of writing materials, including a thick stack of paper upon which was stamped the official Titanic letterhead. She lifted a calligraphy pen for examination; it, too, had the ship's name emblazoned in gold. It occurred to her that it might be a prudent use of time to write a letter, saying that she and Walter had arrived safely onboard, were very pleased with their accommodations, and expected to arrive home on either Tuesday or Wednesday of the following week, depending on how good of time the ship made in her maiden crossing. She drew out a piece of the thick stationery, took up the calligraphy pen again, and began to write:

Dear—

With a cold stab of realization, Christine slowly set the pen back down again. Dear who? How quickly she'd managed to forget. Her last friend in the world was no longer speaking to her. There was no-one left to write.

She rested her forehead on the heel of her hand, watching the ink dry on that single word, knowing that it would trail off indefinitely, waiting for a name that would never follow. What a miserable existence, she thought. Kindly, she held the paper out to the fire and watched as the edges curled and smoked.

A thought came, unbidden, to the forefront of her mind, stirred to consciousness by the union of fire and paper. Her eyes narrowed pensively, and she rose and went over to the opposite corner of the parlor, where a steward had stacked her personal trunks earlier that morning. She lifted the old leather latches on the biggest trunk and began to sort methodically through its contents. After a bit of digging, she found what she was looking for: she'd stashed Madame Giry's old shoebox haphazardly in the bottom of the trunk and piled several other items on top of it – out of sight and out of mind. It was squashed now, the edges buckled outwards in sharp angles. She pushed at them in a futile attempt to restore the cardboard to its former shape, and then stopped herself as she remembered that it didn't particularly matter, as she had planned to burn it all along.

Taking the old shoebox between cold fingers, she strode back over to the fireplace. In the dancing golden light, she could just make out the note Madame Giry had attached to the box: For Christine, in the hope that she might finally understand. Undoubtedly there was a letter inside lecturing her on her poor life choices, all the crushed hopes and dreams her foster mother had had for her, all the wrong turns she could no longer take back. As if she needed reminding.

Even still, she hesitated before the grate, the box extended over the fire. A single thought stayed her hand from disposing of the thing as she knew she should: if the box contained a letter, as she believed it did, it would be written in Madame Giry's hand. As Christine read it, it would be Madame Giry's voice in her head, speaking to her. And even that – even the echo of a ghost – was better than being alone.

Gradually, almost imperceptibly, her fingers tightened over the edges, and she drew the old box back in toward her breast. There was no sound but her breathing and the snap of a log in the hearth as she lowered herself back into the desk chair, setting the box in her lap. With trembling hands she untied the twine holding the shoebox shut, and gingerly lifted the worn lid.

A little gasp, no louder than a whisper, drew past her lips as she peered inside. There was not only one letter, but dozens – hundreds, maybe – all written on very old, yellowed paper, folded in thirds, and tied neatly with a faded pink ribbon. For a moment she was almost afraid to touch them, fearing the parchment to be so fragile that it might tear at the slightest movement. But then, that was absurd, she decided; Madame Giry would not have given the box to her if she did not intend her to read whatever was contained in those letters. Her hands hovered uncertainly over the package for another moment before she set to work on the ribbon, plucking at the knot with delicate fingerwork befitting an archaeologist. Gradually, she managed to work the stiffened strip of satin off of the package and set it aside. Barely breathing, she lifted the very first letter from the stack, and carefully, carefully, unfolded the brittle paper…

To her continued surprise, there was only one line printed on the page, and the handwriting was not one she recognized. The letter simply read:

Annie,

Will you meet me at our spot after rehearsal to-night? I have something for you.

Christine flipped the page over, looking for more. There was nothing; not even a signature. Confused, she set the first letter aside and picked up the next. In that same handwriting was written another single line:

Annie,

You left your satchel behind last night. I went in and put it on your nightstand while you were at breakfast. No-one saw me. I hope you don't mind.

Christine's brow knitted tightly as she puzzled over the simple notes. The lack of decorum suggested that a child had written them, but what child in their right mind would ever have dared to address the ballet mistress in such an informal manner? It took her a moment to arrive at the conclusion that, strange as it seemed, Madame Giry had once been a child too. There was no date on these letters, but they were obviously the oldest in the stack, judging by the frailty and yellow tint of the paper. But that was stranger still… why on earth would Madame Giry want her to have an old stack of correspondences between herself and a childhood friend? Spurred on by curiosity, Christine went to pick up the next letter, but found it snatched from her hand before she'd raised it an inch.

"What's this?" Walter demanded. She started, not having heard him come up behind her. Even as she gave a little jolt, she knew how it would be interpreted by her habitually suspicious husband. She composed her features as quickly as she could, but one glance at him was enough to know that the damage had already been done.

"A stack of old correspondences," she answered mildly. "Meg gave them to me."

Walter's eyes narrowed as they scanned the sparse letter he had snatched away from her. "Who is Annie? What is this nonsense?"

Looking down through her eyelashes like a chastised child, Christine said, "I believe it was Meg's mother, Antoinette, but I can't be sure. I've only just begun to read them myself."

Walter studied her over the edge of the paper, looking unconvinced. "And what business is it of yours to be reading through letters that don't belong to you?"

She froze at the accusatory tone, drawing instinctively, protectively, into herself. Of course, she knew Walter had no interest in preserving Madame Giry's privacy. It was strictly a matter of control; he was displeased that he had not been told about this box of letters in the first place. If there was one thing Walter would not stand for, it was secrecy – in his book, it was synonymous with sedition. She knew that to diffuse his temper would require complete, unquestioning submission, and a stroke of luck. If he was in a foul mood to start, there was nothing to be done but wait out the storm.

"It isn't," she said, her voice barely a whisper. Without raising her eyes, she handed the entire shoebox over to her husband. "Meg must have given me the wrong box by mistake."

She held her breath, and waited.

Walter perused the letter in his hand again, as if to verify that what she'd said was true, and then gave a sadistic little bark of laughter. "God, this one's not even signed. I keep telling you, Meg's going bosh in the head, just like her old goat of a mother." It was all Christine could do not to wince as Walter folded the letter in his hand up sloppily, tossed it into the shoebox, and dropped the entire package unceremoniously in the open trunk. Once he'd latched it, straightened up, and checked his reflection in the vanity mirror one last time, he extended his arm to Christine. "All right, then. Shall we?"

She stood at once and laced her arm obediently through his, saying a silent prayer of thanks that luck had been on her side this time. Walter's anger had dissipated as quickly as it had come; indeed, as they strode along the B-deck promenade and down the Grand Staircase, he seemed practically giddy in anticipation of the evening. Despite John's absence, Christine knew her husband still viewed this trip as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to rub elbows with some of the most influential men in the industrialized world. His arm was tensed and sweating against hers, and his eyes flitted anxiously over each face they passed, searching for the multimillionaires in the crowd.

They were fashionably late for dinner, but as they weren't meeting anyone, no one particularly took notice of their delayed entrance to the first class dining room. They paused in the doorway as a server dressed in white fetched their menus and directed them to a table for two. As they wove past the other tables, Christine glanced over and saw Walter's eyes grow progressively larger as he spotted one business tycoon after another. By the time they reached their table and took a seat, her husband had to pull the handkerchief from his breast pocket and mop at the beads of sweat that dotted his forehead. Once their server had taken their drink orders and departed, Walter leaned toward her across the table and hissed in a conspiratorial whisper, "Do you have any idea who is sitting directly behind you? No, don't look, don't look! That's Isidor Straus. He owns the Macy's department store." By the way he spoke, he might have been addressing the second coming of Christ.

Fortunately, the server returned at that moment with their ice water and a bottle of merlot, saving Christine from the task of mustering a sufficiently awed reaction. Walter ordered meals for the both of them, but the moment the server departed again, his gaze zeroed back in on Straus's table. Christine could almost see the wheels turning in her husband's head.

"All right, look, he's just finishing up his supper now. Afterwards I bet he'll sojourn to the smoking parlor with all the rest of them – yes, see, he's telling his wife." Suddenly Walter pushed back from the table with a scrape of his chair. His eyes never left Straus, but he flicked a wrist offhandedly at Christine. "Tell the server to send my supper up to the room, will you? If I go now I can probably manage to bump in to him right as he gets to the lounge…"

Before Christine could even swallow her mouthful of ice water and answer in the affirmative, her husband had disappeared into the crowd. She pursed her lips and straightened her shoulders, keenly aware of the questioning eyes turned upon her from neighboring tables. Alone and vulnerable at her table for two, she sat in silence until the server returned with the food. She relayed Walter's instructions in a hushed voice, and the man kindly made no further remark except to say, "Of course, madam."

The food was divine; there was lamb with mint sauce, new potatoes, steamed asparagus, and Waldorf pudding, all arranged artfully upon a china plate and accented with sprigs of fresh parsley. Her mouth watered as she tasted the first few bites, but still she could not shake the uncomfortable feeling that there were many sets of eyes upon her. She dared not look up to confirm it for herself. Instead, she set her fork on the edge of her plate, took a delicate sip of water, and dabbed her lips with her napkin. Ignoring the growling protests of her stomach, she slipped out from her seat at the table, intent upon making her exit quietly before the waiter could return to question her about the quality of her meal. Christine kept her eyes on the floor as she wound past the other tables, back toward the door she'd entered through just a few minutes prior. A startled cry hitched in her chest as she nearly collided head-on with another passenger coming in to the dining hall, and she jumped back, an apology already flying from her mouth.

"Oh, forgive me, I didn't se—"

The words caught in her throat, pinned with the precision of a knife, as she looked up into a pair of dreadfully familiar eyes.