No need to get all worked up, Twilight, she reminded herself.  If the train was passing through tunnels, then it was closer to Canterlot than she thought.  She carefully capped the ink bottle and slid it back into her saddlebags, blotted her journal and folded it shut, putting it in the opposite side from the ink.  She wrapped a small piece of stained cotton around the tip of her quill, and put it away, as well, then went to the small bathroom in the car.  Thankful that she had remembered to put a brush on her packing-for-a-trip-to-Canterlot checklist, she got her mane and tail in order, finishing as the train began to slow for the outer guardpost.  She remembered when she was a filly, the train hadn’t slowed here, but several attempts on the throne over the last few years—even if all had failed—had caused the guards to become a lot more serious than they had been when she was young, helped along by Shining’s demand for perfection.