Jack's dead. Jack's dead. Jack's dead.

It was like some horrible mantra that wouldn't leave Rose's head, no matter how hard she tried to push it away. She was still shivering slightly after being piled under the first-class ship blankets for a little under half an hour. She didn't feel like moving. She didn't feel live living.

Jack's dead. Jack's dead. Jack's dead.

Shut up, she prayed silently, hoping her heart would just listen to her head for once. First she thought she'd fallen for Cal… then she truly fell for Jack… now this. Would she ever learn?

The eerie green light cast from yet another of Fifth Officer Lowe's flares hit her square in the eyes. This time she opened them. The sun was just beginning to rise, turning the sky a beautiful pink and gold, as if in apology for all the Titanic's victims had just witnessed. Rose hated the sky for that.

"Boat ahoy!" came the faint cry once more, as it had routinely throughout the last ten minutes or so. People vainly calling for help, but no one would hear them. They were all going to die.

Rose pulled the blanket up to her nose and closed her eyes again. She didn't deserve to live, even if she had promised Jack. Where was he now? She shuddered as she thought of his water grave.

Stop, she told herself firmly, but it did no good. Tears leaked slowly out from beneath her eyes as she thought of Jack, her promise to him, all he had done for her. He had freed her from her seemingly unbreakable bonds. There had been nothing more she had wanted, except him.

And suddenly, a large, looming shadow passed over her face. Curious and suddenly alert, she opened her eyes again. The creaking and small splashes of a ship, a ship larger than the wooden craft she was in, could be heard. Voices more numerous than any of the people in her own boat were murmuring softly. Rose struggled to sit up.

"Careful," Lowe said, noticing her for nearly the first time since she'd been taken aboard. He helped her up, and she nearly went down again as her still-cold legs trembled beneath her weight. "Help this lady up!" he called above.

Rose looked up. Strange men in strange uniforms were standing by a ladder, reaching their arms down to her. They looked like funny angels. Lowe helped her step up onto the ladder, climb a few steps. And then the angel-men grabbed her arms and helped hoist her aboard. She crumbled as soon as she felt firm wood beneath her feet again, only to be caught by a kindly stewardess.

"It's all right, miss," the woman murmured soothingly, helping Rose regain her balance. Rose gazed at her, almost unseeing. "Where am I?" she mumbled.

"You're on the Carpathia, miss," said the stewardess. "Come, let's get you down to the deck where the other third-class are waiting." Rose didn't argue as she felt a hot drink being pressed into her hand by Officer Lowe. She followed a large mob of shabbily-dressed people being led onto the poop deck of this strange ship, miniscule in comparison to the sunken liner they had boarded only days earlier.

Rose was placed on a bench, blankets wrapped around her head and body, so thickly she felt like a mummy. People spoke in all languages around her, to other survivors, to stewards, to anyone who might know something about a loved one. Rose felt detached from it all. This is not my life.

Suddenly, as she listened to the many conversations and strange languages that floated like lazy bumblebees around her head, a snippet of conversation stood out, making her blood run cold. "I don't think you'll find any people of yours here, sir. They're all steerage."

Was it Cal?

Of course it's not Cal, she scolded herself. Cal would think she'd died, along with Jack. Cal wouldn't be looking for her. Cal couldn't be looking for her.

"Excuse me?" came a voice near her left ear. She began to tremble again. It was Cal. No other man's voice could make her feel that scared.

"Have you seen a young woman, about seventeen?" the voice continued. "Long, curly red hair, possibly with a man about her age?"

Rose pulled the blanket farther over her face, praying Cal wouldn't notice how smooth and immaculate her hands were. No third-class woman had hands like those. Maybe he'd think she didn't even speak English, and he'd leave her alone.

No such luck.

"Are you even listening to me?" Cal snapped, and to Rose's horror she felt the blanket jerked back from her face. She stared up into the shocked, livid face of none other than Caledon Hockley.