The ocean was a flat, frosted blue expanse of nothing and everything, blending with the sky above it, drowning out any hope of land.

Cora stood at the railing of the ship, her hands gripping the freezing iron and her raven dress fluttering around her. She closed her eyes and let her hair tear loose of the pins her maid had taken so long to secure. Her cool brown curls blew straighter in the new year's cold gusts.

Home. She was going home, to a place she'd not been back to in a year's time. Only a girl when she left, only a child, really, she was coming home a married woman. A Viscountess, a century old wedding band glistening on her finger. She was going home again. Home. It was the place she had wished of, had dreamt about, had longed for these months and months. Only now, she didn't want to return. Only now, she didn't long to be home again. She didn't want to face what would be waiting for her there, or rather, who wouldn't be.

She opened her pale eyes in the wind and tears immediately came to them, the icy gusts stinging them in tandem with the burn she felt at the emotion now conjured. Her husband stood there behind her, motionless, quiet, as he had been since yesterday when she received word. She sensed his restlessness as he brought his coat more tightly around himself, obviously chilled to the bone.

"Cora, dear," he tried. "It's terribly cold."

Anger burned in her chest.

"Aren't you cold?"

Yes. Yes, she was, and had been, cold. So very, very cold. Robert seemed to keep everything so terribly, terribly cold.

"Let's go inside. Please."

Swallowing the sharp lump in her throat, it raw from the frigid air, she squared her jaw. "No."

"Cora-"

"No."

Silenced, her husband only stood idly by, the space between them frosting over.

Some very small part of her felt guilty, some more logical place in her mind told her that he was faultless, he was only protecting her, but that voice of reason was muffled and snuffed out by the emptiness she felt. The hollowness.

For the facts remained. They remained and listed themselves again and again in her mind. Frantic lists, staccato lists, perpetual lists.

They knew her father was going to die.

They knew how sick he was. Mother had telegrammed six weeks ago. In November. He was dying. He wasn't eating. He was frail. Cora must come, she must see him, Isidore asked after her. It would only take six days. She could be there in a week.

But Robert said no.

They knew and she had pleaded but he had said no. Robert had said no. They mustn't, she mustn't. Much careful, much care. It wouldn't be right to risk. She must think. It had taken so long, she must think. Even Violet had thought it safe. But Robert had not. And she hadn't gone. She hadn't gone and had lost it anyway.

It happened anyway.

Her knuckles grew whiter, bluer, as they held tighter to the icy metal.

She saw bright red. She saw so much bright red. Blinding, bleeding, red. Then four days following, there was Christmas. When they had planned to tell. It'd been safe then, to tell them all. To tell her father. He hadn't known. He'd been so pleased, so relieved. He'd known then, that it couldn't be true, that what he had said couldn't be true. But she didn't tell him. So he hadn't known. And now, three weeks later, he was gone.

He was gone, it was gone, and her life suddenly felt broken and shattered.

Cora's consciousness came back to present. She was suddenly hyper-aware of the subtle movement beneath her feet, the deep rumble of the boat, the nearly imperceptible sway of the sea. She was aware that she'd crossed her arms before her, holding herself much tighter, and feeling much warmer than moments before. Her fingers gripped, fingernails scratching against the black wool draped over her. It smelled of sweet tobacco, a cinnamon wood.

Robert's coat.

She turned her body around, her back to the blue, and looked. He was gone. Her hair lashed at her cold cheek, and it stung. It burned.

Taking in a deep breath, her lungs hurting in the chill, she carried herself inside and through the labyrinth of the cabins. She stopped at her own, and put her hand on the knob, knowing that just behind her, in the cabin directly opposite her own, Robert was there. Her chest clenched at the thought of him, and she frowned. Pushing open her door, she slammed it shut again after her. She tore his coat from her and threw it onto the chair in a corner.

She went to the case by the bed, and she dug through it. She found the creased, folded, yellow paper, and she brought it out again, clutching it in her fingers.

She sat upon the bed, and she unfolded it slowly, pulling her gaze across the words for the thousandth time.

Isidore ben Aharon ha-Levi STOP dead STOP Tuesday 6 of Jan 1891 morn STOP proper burial & mourning STOP come STOP sitting shiva STOP

She touched her father's name. His Hebrew name. She mouthed it.

Cora had only seen it written this way a few times in her life - very formal occasions only, never in business. To everyone he was Is Levinson. Is. Isi. Isidore when her mother was fussing, which was often. But very rarely was it this. She thought back to the last time she'd seen it this way, to Saba's funeral. Her grandfather. Her father's father.

She'd been twelve. They've traveled by train to Cincinnati, and they remained there for what, at the time, seemed like forever. She found it all so strange, so surreal at the time. Everything was dark, and covered. No one changed their clothes, or had proper baths. She clearly remembered how she stared at her grandmother, Savta, as she sat upon the floor.

"Sitting shiva," Aunt Ruth had whispered. "It's proper mourning, Cora. For us. For the Jewish."

But Cora wasn't Jewish, and she didn't understand it. All she understood was how important it was to her father. How there was a part of him that belonged solely to him, but that he had wanted to share. How, in sitting shiva for Saba, she'd known her father better. She'd seen her father, and she understood him, however little she understood his faith.

Now she was coming home, again, to sit shiva for him.

She rested on that thought for a moment. Two moments. Three.

Her father. The tall, burly man with round hazel eyes. The man who drank too much with dinner, who cursed and laughed too loudly with his business associates, who read so voraciously there weren't enough books to be bought. The man who woke her on her birthdays with one special gift, who lit a small Menorah amongst their Christmas decorations, who insisted on teaching Harold how to dance.

Another moment. Five. Six.

Her father. The father who had tried to hide his sorrow at her being engaged, who grew furious at the sight of her name on the entailing contract, who didn't speak to her the day of her wedding save for one thing. Save for one thing that he had whispered as he escorted her down the aisle of Robert's church.

"My lady?"

Cora closed her eyes harder, and nestled her head further into the pillow on which she had rested it. She did not respond to her maid.

"Lord Downton is asking after you. He wants to be sure you've eaten."

Cora briefly found the ticking mantelpiece and read the numbers. How had so many hours passed? How had so many hours passed since she came into her room?

" – you know what Dr. Warren said, Cora." Robert. How had Robert come in? When? Her body rolled slightly toward where he sat on the mattress. "Come, please, dearest. Let Perkins help you change. The porter's brought your dinner."

Cora heard him, smelled him, felt his thick hand on her shoulder, but she did not move.

"You can run. Leave the money. Come home with us." Peppermint. Her father smelled perpetually of peppermint. "He doesn't love you, Cora. I'm giving you to a man who does not love you."

And when Cora looked up again, the room was dark, and Robert was gone.