I slouched in my chair under the intense scrutiny of my aunt, her eyes boring into me as if her sight alone could somehow quantify my current level of mental stability. I angled my head slightly in hopes that it might make her more likely to overlook the shadow of a bruise that still surrounded my eye. Jerry Siege was slouching as well in the chair next to mine, but I was familiar enough with his habits to understand that his lack of proper posture was more a matter of personal preference than a sign of discomfort. His pipe continued to jut indifferently from his lips.

The aging historical plaque mounted in the front lobby of the building explained that it had once been the Chinwick City Hall, first opened to the public on some or another date of historical significance (I don’t recall the details), however for the past fifty or so years its structure has served as the Chinwick Island Chapter House for the Guild of Cartographers – a citizen’s organization well known throughout the islands of Jackson’s Break. And my Aunt Charlise, it just so happens, currently serves as one of the guild’s chapterheads.

Which makes her not just my aunt, but my employer as well.

Her hair was cropped short and her patience clearly worn thin. After a long and uncomfortable pause, she fired off a series of quick questions pertaining to my recuperation. I answered them as best as I could, hoping that she would find my responses to be adequate.

I tried to impress her. I told her what had happened just the night before. I explained how I had looked with my eyes and had been able to perceive the numbers behind the angles and curves of the old house, the mathematical functions that described the ripples that humidity had left in the envelope she had sent.

And she stared at me.

“HUMIDITY?” She asked, as if searching for clarification. She paused to blink. “Was it HUMID these past few days?”

I hesitated, but in retrospect had to admit that it had not been.

“And yet you saw evidence of humidity in the envelope for the letter I sent?”

I had no response. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what she wanted of me. Was she questioning the veracity of my statement?

“What do you think this means?” She asked, her tone that of a school teacher readying to admonish a particularly wayward student. I wanted more than anything to make her happy, to provide her with what ever answer she might be looking for, but instead I found myself having to admit that I did not know.

My aunt sighed and hung her head. “You may have the most blessed eyesight in the world,” she stated, echoes of defeat in her voice, “but sometimes you’re as good as blind to me.”

Her tone and posture made me feel as if I had genuinely let her down. I was used to sharp reprimands from her, but this was unfamiliar territory. I sat up straight and took a deep breath, vowing internally to never give her reason to repeat this sentiment.

It was steam, she explained – the letter had almost certainly been steamed open. Someone had been intercepting my correspondence.