An author's note to you, my dearest friends: You and I have come a long way since the last time I posted an update to this story.

I need to thank you—you've all been brilliant with your reviews, and your favorite-adds and your support even when I was being silly and not writing. Life happened. I've grown up, and I'm sure you have, too. Now I wield proper grammar like knights wielded swords. I cringe at the quality of writing I used to think was brilliant (see MAwtMS). But I never got this story out of my system. It was always hovering at the back of my mind—thanks, in no small part, to your reviews.

Then one day, a couple months ago, I started writing and couldn't stop—despite the utter absurdity of the plot basis. In days I had an outline. In two months it was done. So yes: it's done. Well, I've still a page to go of the epilogue, but today was my deadline. I wanted to make sure I finished before I started posting, to avoid letting you down after you've stuck with me for so long. I'll post once a week until we've reached the end.

I hope you'll forgive me. And I hope you enjoy the rest of the ride. Thank you, friends. Onward!

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Chapter Ten: Wallace
April 12, 1912
21:18

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"Damn it!" I cried over the noise, slapping my cards down again. "Fold. Fold, fold, fold. For the fourth time. I fold."

The guys were laughing and the room was loud with music and hazy with smoke, the tang of ale in the air, sticking in my clothes along with the smoke. I'd been playing poker with them for at least an hour now, and kept getting dealt awful hands. "Y'don't know how to bluff, lass!" Fred explained.

"Yeah, well." I started to reach for a glass of ale and then remembered, sharply pulling my hand back—no drinking. Watch was soon. If I showed up tipsy it would be the end of my career and no questions. The smoke and alcohol smell would probably be enough to earn me a scolding as it was. "I'm out of practice."

"You were never in practice," Frank joked, while the rest of them laughed.

"How long until your watch, Wallace?" called Bill across the table and over the noise.

I glanced at the clock over the doorway, and swore. "Starts at ten. I should really get up there now. I still have to change and report in."

"Go on, then," said Fred as I stood. "But come back another night."

I shrugged my jacket on, grinning at their beaming faces. "I'll certainly try. If Murdoch decides to give me a bit of ruddy time."

"That Murdoch?" said the other Bill, looking past me, and I turned—nearly ramming a surprised first officer with my elbow.

I felt heat rise in my cheeks, stunned. "Sir. I—"

"Hello, Miss Wallace. Hello, you lot." He grinned at my friends, most of who waved back—the others were busy snorting at my ill-timed words. Murdoch turned to me. "I had to send a note to the engine room, and heard you were here. Thought I'd stop by before watch."

"Oh." I didn't know what to say—he was still smiling, but I couldn't tell if it would dissolve into a scolding the instant we were outside. He hadn't quite deserved the verbal pummeling he'd obviously overhead. "Well, I, er—I was just on my way back up—"

"I can see that." He glanced back at my still-amused companions. "What sort of poker are you all playing, then? Lowball?"

"Aye, sir." Fred shot me a half-wink. "And even then our Ellen can't win."

"Must not know how to bluff," he said, eyes shining as he received another round of laughter from the guys.

I managed to smile a bit. "Right. Well, we'd—better get above decks, hadn't we?"

They made me promise to come back tomorrow or the night after, and then I followed Murdoch out of the music and smoke. In the corridor, I gulped, staring ahead as we walked side by side. "Sir, I apologize. I was—out of line."

"Your friends seem like an interesting lot." The grin was still in his voice. "How do you know them?"

I glanced over. He was clearly amused, and didn't look like he'd be scolding any time soon. I said cautiously, "I spent a lot of time in the shipyards, because of Thomas, so we just became friends. I didn't know they'd be on board. I'm sorry, sir, I really intended to be back in time—"

"Hush, will you?" he clapped me on the shoulder, grip tight, and I blinked, surprised—I'd seem him to the same to Wilde and Lights. We started up the stairs that would take us topside. "I don't think I've ever seen you that relaxed. Obviously you were on your way up, so you've nothing for which to apologize. And I would assume you knew better than to start imbibing."

"Certainly, Mr. Murdoch," I said quietly.

"Well then, there you are." At blast of cold air from the deck swept into my jacket as we emerged. "Cold one this evening."

I was trying not to stare at him. His friendliness was off-putting, to say the least. "Indeed. I'm going to go change, then I'll meet you on the bridge."

When I emerged in the wheelhouse twenty minutes later, feeling oddly comfortable in my uniform, I looked around. Murdoch and Mr. Pitman were chatting by the railing while Quartermaster Rowe manned the helm.

"Evening, Miss Wallace," said Mr. Lowe, smiling as he came into the wheelhouse from the left. He was pink-nosed from the cold—probably started his shift with rounds. "I don't suppose you've seen the binoculars?"

"I haven't. They've gone missing?" I said, as Murdoch and Pitman came back into the wheelhouse. Lowe and I saluted.

"Binoculars?" Murdoch asked us. "Any luck?"

"No, sir," Lowe said, "I was just asking Miss Wallace if she'd seen them. We'll need a set before long, with these waters."

"Aye." Pitman took his cap off, scrubbed a gloved hand over his short auburn hair, and joked, "Could always start asking the passengers."

"Well, let's not resort to that yet." Murdoch said, and looked around at all of us. "Right, then. Orders."

The evening started normally enough—I ran an errand for Captain Smith, went with Murdoch while he did a mid-voyage check of lifeboat davits on the starboard side (port side was Lightoller's duty—he'd done it on his shift), and helped wireless operator Harold Bride while he went over the day's telegrams, filing them into different categories.

At around midnight, finished with my duties for the moment, I passed Pitman on the bridge and came into the wheelhouse. I was surprised to find not Hitchens or Rowe at the helm, but Murdoch. I didn't realize I was staring until he glanced back, an eyebrow lifted. "A report, Miss Wallace?" he said.

I startled but stepped forward, linking my hands behind my back. I hadn't seen him actually steer the ship before, and for some reason it was making me smile—he just looked so natural, standing there, navy uniform, cap on his head. I didn't know why I was surprised; obviously he could steer the ship, he was a bloody senior officer. He'd probably been a quartermaster himself, years ago. "Mr. Bride has everything filed away for the night. Nothing new—just a few iceberg warnings from around the North Atlantic. I have the coordinates, here."

He shook his head, hands fixed on the helm. "And we're holding steady at twenty-two knots."

I detected sarcasm. "Sir?"

He jerked his head to nod me forward; I drew closer. "We shouldn't be going so fast," he explained, voice low. "We're having trouble in the engine room as it is, and with all the berg warnings, it's. . ." he glanced over at me and seemed to remember that he was speaking with a junior officer.

I straightened, and tried to salvage it. "What has been happening in the engine room? I've just delivered messages; I haven't actually read them." They'd been sealed, and I didn't dare open them.

He looked ahead once more. "Just the regular maiden voyage mishaps. It's sort of expected, when they're still testing the limits of the furnaces."

He wasn't going to explain, because he didn't think I knew the language. I didn't have time to assure him I might surprise him, because just then Captain Smith stepped from the deck into the wheelhouse.

"Sir," Murdoch and I said at the same time, both of us saluting properly.

He saluted back. "At ease. I just wanted to remind the pair of you that you're expected at the service early Sunday morning, at oh-eight hundred. And Mr. Murdoch, you and Mr. Wilde have readings—I believe the assigned material was delivered to your cabins today, was it not?"

"Yes, sir," Murdoch said. I was watching with bemused interest. Murdoch and Wilde, reading together at the service. It seemed exactly the sort of thing Murdoch would refuse if he was allowed, and the kind of thing Wilde would pounce on with all sorts of enthusiasm.

"Very good," Smith said. He began walking towards his own quarters. "There's assigned seating for you up front. Miss Wallace, you'll be situated among the junior officers. Questions?"

"No, sir," Murdoch said.

"Thank you, sir," I added.

"Good night, then. Steady as she goes." His door clicked shut behind him.

"Brusque sort of fellow, isn't he?" I said, then felt my cheeks burn as Murdoch glanced over, one eyebrow raised, his sincere but surprised half-smile reminding me yet again of the bounds I was stepping over. His eyes shone more blue than gray at the moment, I noticed, before he turned to the sea once more. "Er—sorry, I didn't mean. . ."

"I know you didn't. And yes, he is. But it's probably not a conversation we should have."

"Agreed." I let out a breath I'd been holding. "Well then, how may I be of assistance?"

Still looking forward, he said, "D'you want to drive?"

My chin straying sideways, I stared. "Er—what?"

He looked back at me again, smile barely there, and nodded towards the helm. "Would you like to steer for a moment?"

I took a step backward without meaning to. It was a question, not an order—not a "here, steer for five minutes while I run and have a word with the captain," not intended to teach me anything, because when would I ever be a quartermaster?

The look on his face, his relaxed body language, the complete breach of etiquette—he was asking me whether I wanted to steer the largest, grandest monstrosity man had ever created just because, smiling like he trusted me, like he knew I wouldn't screw it up, like he knew I would adore it far more than I was prepared to admit.

"No, sir," I said quietly.

"Are you certain? There's really nothing to it. It takes a good amount of effort to turn it one way or another; it isn't as though you'd run us off course."

My face felt hot again. He had that look once more, bemused but somehow so—fond, I suppose—that it was as though he'd forgotten the past few days of his sheer assholery. "No thank you, Mr. Murdoch. With my luck, something would go wrong for certain."

"So bloody cold," Pitman gritted, coming into the wheelhouse, rubbing his hands together. "I'm sending someone out for a cup of tea the first chance I get."

Murdoch started to reply; I muttered, "Excuse me," and ducked into the hallway of the officers' quarters, shutting the door behind me and leaning against it for just a moment, closing my eyes, pulling my hat off. My face was still red—it felt hot to the touch, although that just might have been my cold hands. What was wrong with me? I've gone around the twist, I thought, disgusted and amused at the same time. That look on Murdoch's face flashed though my mind again, when he'd asked me to steer, and I couldn't stop a smile. It was great to be on his good side.

I opened my eyes, heaving a sigh, about to turn back, when suddenly I realized that Charles Lightoller was standing in the threshold of his open doorway, looking expectantly at me.

"Hell," I muttered.

"Feeling all right?" he asked mildly, smiling like he knew something. He was wearing a ridiculous maroon dressing gown.

"Fine," I said, straightening. "Just—needed to get out of the cold for a second."

"Of course." He turned back to his room. "Good night, Miss Wallace."

"Good night, Mr. Lightoller." I took a deep breath and swung back out to the wheelhouse again.

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Murdoch and I were walking along the starboard side, finishing off our rounds, chatting a bit as we roamed the decks, stars brilliant overhead. He was telling me a story Mr. Lowe told him earlier, something about a passenger knocking a goblet of wine onto the countess of Rothes' lap and the ensuing hilarity.

"Wish I could have seen that," I said as he finished. "I hope it was the Worstings."

He snorted conspiratorially. "I agree." We were silent for a moment, then he said, "Have you recovered from the other night? At dinner?"

I glanced over. He was doing that thing again—caring. "Certainly."

He sighed. "I do wish we hadn't gone. They were ghastly."

"I wish I'd had a proper dress; I would've worn it instead of a uniform. Thomas's cousin just along for the fun, and all of that."

"You could try again, with a proper dress, as you say. See if they recognize you."

I grinned. "If I had one appropriate for dinner, I just might."

"Surely you have something?"

I shook my head. The nicest dress I had with me was the one I'd worn on the first day, and it was currently caked with dried mud. And anyway, it was an afternoon dress. I did have another one with me, a pretty teal thing, but it was nowhere near the satiny swaths of iridescence the first-class ladies wore. "No, not that nice."

"But you're a proper woman," he said, somewhat incredulously.

I nearly laughed. "Think about that one."

Murdoch grinned, too. "Right. I mean, when you're not holding a job no woman has ever held in the history of maritime occupations, you're a proper woman."

Shrugging, I tucked my hands into my pocket. We reached the prow of the ship, and for a moment just stood there, staring out at the dark Atlantic past the low deck lights. "I've had to make my own way," I explained. "Stephen never had much to begin with, and I didn't want to take Thomas's help—he has a family of his own." Chancing a glance over, I saw Murdoch's eyes on mine, a combination of admiration and sympathy shining from them. I looked away, glad for the cold that made my cheeks red already.

"Well," he said, "I applaud you. It can't be easy. You've got spunk, Ms. Wallace."

"Thanks." We began walking back towards the ship. "Let's hope that comment makes it onto my first evaluation."

As we were beginning to hand things over to Mr. Wilde, he asked me to run orders and a report down to the engine room. I didn't mind; we still had 15 minutes of our shift left as it was, so I bade good night to Murdoch and began the familiar path down to the engine room.

Passing the third-class common room, which was just now beginning to quiet down, I thought back to my promise to return to my friends when I could. Perhaps I'll pull that teal dress out of my trunk in the morning, I thought, not a little giddily. Let it air out in time for the evening.

After all. Grandest ship in the world, close friends, and a party. That dress would have to do.