Author's Notes:

Elena arc, part 3 of 7*. The couple reels in the aftermath.

I think I won't be able to finish this arc in 6 chapters, so the total chapter has been upped to 7. Please please review! These next few chapters are very hard to write and I want to know how I did.


The Viceroy Suite took up the entire northwestern corner of its floor, offering a panoramic view of Stanley Park, the harbor, and the bay beyond. The reception room alone could seat ten, and with only three it felt altogether too spacious.

With only four, rather.

I'd retained enough of my wits to usher us to my suite before the reporters got a sniff, but now that we were here, I was in too much shock to say anything. We all were, probably. Only the baby's giggles penetrated the still air. She was soft and plump — creases in her chubby limbs, a smile that melted glaciers, and a hair full of her mother's splendid dark locks.

And Matt's eyes.

Neither of us insulted Nadira by questioning the baby's parentage — that very same blue down to the exact hue. The moment I saw those eyes, I knew she was his.

"How old is she?" I asked finally, more as something to fill the great and awful void than out of true curiosity.

"A month and a half," Nadira said, idly playing with the baby's tummy. "She was born on July 23."

The time fitted quite neatly. Almost exactly nine and a half months; a textbook example of human gestation. I fiddled with the ring on my finger.

We all looked at the baby. She was waving her arms, perhaps trying to pinpoint the sensation she was feeling on her belly. She turned her head somewhat jerkily from side to side, in high spirits. How was it possible, I thought, that something so small and lovable held enough power to change the lives of so many people?

"Why didn't you tell me?" Matt asked. His voice was hoarse, though with what emotion I did not know. I did not want to look at him.

"I never planned to," Nadira said, quick and dismissive. "You were never supposed to know."

He paused. I heard him breathe in. "But —"

"I'm very sorry it happened like this," Nadira said, cutting him off. She sighed, and her green eyes flicked over to me. "This… wasn't my intention."

I felt a stirring of pressure behind my own eyes. I met her gaze straight on.

"And yet here you are," I said.

I didn't mean to be resentful. I was still processing, still trying to comprehend. I forced myself to stop playing with the ring. Its hard metal surface offered none of the giddy rush it did when I'd put it on a few days ago, back in the Cairo Ritz.

"I had a moment of weakness." Nadira said quietly. "When — when she turned a month old…" She shook her head.

Matt and I stayed silent. The baby — Elena — kicked her little feet. Her big eyes scanned the room, like they've been doing since she entered. I thought her gaze would come back to rest on Matt every now and then, but perhaps that was my imagination.

"I thought you were dead," Nadira continued. She didn't look at either of us, but the 'you' had clearly not been plural. "When the news said you'd survived… I wanted her to meet you."

Another minute passed. Nadira's hand never stayed still, provoking chimes of chortling laughter from the baby.

Then she stopped her tickling, and said, "I love you."

There was no build-up, no crescendo. Just those three words.

I should have been angry at her. It had taken me a trip to outer space to say it, and even then only when we were crashing through the atmosphere at twenty-two thousand miles an hour. But she? She'd said it like a remark on the weather, ignorant of the terrifying weight behind that simple declaration.

And it was my words to say. No one had the right to say it to him, in this way. Not after what we'd been through. By rights I should have been furious at her.

Yet… weary envy was all I felt. That, and an incredible loneliness — like I was only an observer, an audience to the drama.

Matt shuffled a bit. I resisted the urge to look at him.

"Please don't," he said after a few seconds.

Nadira shrugged. "It's true. I'm sure all of us would rather that not be the case, but it is." She laughed a little. "Anyway, you needn't worry about us. We'll be leaving soon."

"What?" he said.

"We'll be leaving soon," she repeated. "It's obvious coming here was a mistake. I'll inquire about the first ship out of the city."

"You can't!" he blurted, and my heart gave a strange ache.

"I don't see why not," Nadira said.

Matt stammered. "I still haven't — I mean I just… met her."

I rubbed the ring on my finger. I knew he didn't mean her. He meant her. But her came with her.

Nadira raised an eyebrow. "So?"

For a split second Matt sounded almost angry. "So? you can't just act like this doesn't — you can't expect me to…" he trailed off.

"I don't expect you," Nadira said. "To do anything, that is."

"But —"

"Matt, we're leaving. She's seen you. You've seen her."

"She is m—"

"My daughter," Nadira said, a flame in her green eyes.

I didn't need to look at him to know this hurt him. He shifted a little on the couch, the fabric rustling beneath him.

Nadira stood up and picked up the baby. She strolled over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, lifting Elena up to see.

We watched as the noonday sun geared itself to full force, turning the sea into a coruscant field of white and blue. In the harbor, sailboats and merchant vessels cruised along, their white hulls pristine and picturesque.

"Where will you go?" I asked Nadira.

"Back to New Amsterdam," she replied, without looking back. "I mean to raise her alone."

At this, Matt let out a small sound that was half gasp, half 'oh'. We both ignored him.

"Are you going to be alright?" I asked.

"I have been so far," she quipped. "I've been dabbling in the stock market. Like I said, you needn't worry about us."

I stared at her silhouette and admired her strength — thanking her for it; hating her for it. For another few minutes, nobody said anything. I watched as Ellie seemed to track an airship in the sky with her head, following its serene glide over the bustle of the harbor. When it turned for the landing fields, she jiggled her limbs and made a noise of excitement.

"May I hold her?" Matt asked.

It was out of the blue, and I had the feeling he was just as surprised as the rest of us. I felt him look at me immediately after the words left his mouth. I still wouldn't look at him. He made a move to sit next to me, but I flinched and he stayed put.

Ahead, Nadira remained silent. She swayed back and forth, rocking the baby. I thought perhaps she hadn't heard him, but that was impossible. Her dark curly hair created an almost heartbreaking image of perfection against the brilliance and light outside, and I thought, This is the picture of motherhood.

I hated her for it. I admired her for it.

A minute or so passed before she gave her answer, though it felt like an hour. Finally, almost imperceptibly, a terse nod.

Matt exhaled.

When she turned around, her eyes sought mine, and I forced out a smile. She stepped over in her nimble way, put the baby on the couch, and retreated back to the window. The overt gesture of distance was no doubt for my benefit, though it seemed paltry and unnecessary.

Matt didn't move. I felt his gaze on me again.

Go on, I thought. I waited for ten seconds, then twenty. He still hasn't moved, and abruptly I realized he wanted my consent.

How considerate of them to treat me like a beaker of nitroglycerin, primed to explode at any instant.

I made a small impatient gesture with my shoulder. Go on, then.

He stood up. I knew he wanted me to look at him. I wouldn't.

Go on, already, I thought, and he did.

He approached his daughter like she was something terrible and strange and precious, some ancient fragile artifact he scarcely believed existed and was almost too afraid to hold. Small steps, slightly stooped posture, and the intensity of focus I'd only seen when he was at the helm of an airship. She looked at him — now she was truly, undoubtedly looking at him — and when the identical hues met, she smiled, her eyes crinkling into merry slits.

The moment I saw that smile, I knew he was hers.

He trembled. I thought he wanted to look back at me, or maybe run out of the room. But he bent down and gently, gently, he picked her up.

I wanted to look away. I ought to have looked away. Anything than to see the small, disbelieving gape on his face, the sheer awe. I thumbed my ring, but it offered me no solace — for here was a bond I could not break, a woman with whom I could not compete.

I watched as he watched her. He lifted her high enough that she could touch him, and she did, her tiny fingers grabbing at his cheeks.

"Hi," he said, and his voice broke.

"Please excuse me," I said, standing up. Clutching the tattered remains of my own composure as a shield around me, I walked as fast as possible to the master bedroom. I did not wait to see if he'd noticed; I just shut the door and threw myself onto the great feather bed, where I curled up and shivered.

He rushed in about twenty seconds later. He'd noticed, after all. That ought to have cheered me, but I flinched when he climbed in next to me and pressed me to him.

"Mo spéir," was the first thing he said. He usually reserved that name for intimate occasions, and even in this outlandish situation, those two syllables had lost none of its potency. I simply unwound.

I didn't know why I sobbed. I didn't wish to sob — it was the most useless thing a person could do in this or any situation — but I did. I clung to him, terrified that if I let go, he would be snatched away. He didn't attempt to kiss me, for which I was grateful. He just held me and rested his chin on my shoulder.

The comforting warmth was enough to soothe me for the time being. I closed my eyes, wishing we could forget everything. But of course we couldn't.

"I'm horrible," I whispered.

There was a brief pause before he spoke. "I should be the one saying that."

"No. I was — it was petty, of me."

"I don't think so," he said quietly. "I think you're very brave."

"Brave?" I almost laughed, but when I turned to look at him, his eyes were serious. I looked away. "Nadira is brave."

"You are, too," he said. "More so than her. You could've been angry. You could've not invited her up here at all. You could've been horrible to them, but you weren't."

"Oh, but I am angry," I said. "And scared. And jealous. I don't know, Matt, when I see you holding her, I just — I can't think."

"I never meant — I never want to hurt you." He rubbed my shoulders as he said this, and the way his chest vibrated when he spoke was so familiar to me that I wanted to cry all over again.

"It doesn't change how I'm feeling."

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I just wanted to see… if… if she was real."

"Oh, like you thought she was some doll?"

The response came out more like a retort, and he winced.

"Kate…" he said plaintively, and instantly I felt guilty.

We were accomplishing nothing here. Anger, resentment, pettiness… we both knew how easily they could tear us apart. This wasn't the right time for this conversation. I wasn't ready to face my feelings, calmly and logically, without hurting him or myself.

I took a deep breath.

"You should go to her," I said. His ring bit into my finger. I reminded myself that this wasn't anyone's fault, that it had already happened.

"What?" he asked, surprised.

"You heard Nadira. They're leaving the city soon."

"But, Kate, I can't —"

"For goodness' sake," I said, almost seething, "you're her father."

It was the first time I spoke those words, and it sounded altogether foreign on my tongue. Father. That noun alone weighed more than an entire continent, suffocating and obfuscating. We trembled.

He tried to say something, but I freed myself from him.

"Go say goodbye to her," I said.

"Kate, I —"

"Just go."

He sat still on the bed for a very long moment.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He kissed me on the nape of my neck. "I love you."

And then he was gone.

ooo

We never talked about it.

The next week passed by in a blur. We spent a day in Kalgary and two each in the rest: Torontto, Ottawa, Quebec City. The visits always followed the same template; a pompous parade, a luncheon with some celebrity or another, then in the evenings an elaborate banquet, plus dancing, interviews, and other publicity events. Matt was usually paired with me during those functions — probably courtesy of Mr. Lunardi — but with a hive of reporters buzzing around, our conversations were limited to polite chitchat.

And at night, when we retired to our suites, I just seemed to loose all my courage. He tried, of course, to reach me, to talk —night after night without fail, a quiet knock around twelve or one — but every time I just sat on the floor in front of my door, dreading and craving his presence. I would palm the texture of the painted wood board, listen to the rustle of him sliding down to sit as well. He knew I was there; sometimes he called my name, his muffled voice through the crack, and my heart would lurch.

But it was impossible. The moment I let him in, I would be thrust defenseless into the dragon's maw. It was too momentous, too vast to confront alone, too terrifying to even contemplate. Having already escaped once, it was easy to keep hiding, keep pretending everything was all right. And in the end I always convinced myself: Now's not the time. You need to think. Maybe tomorrow.

He would fall silent when I didn't respond, and we would listen to each other's breathing. After about thirty or so minutes, I would hear him whisper "Good night," before he walked away.

He stopped asking me to talk when we reached Quebec City, though he still came and sat by my door. We continued this ludicrous ritual for whatever ludicrous reason — perhaps we both thought that, once the storm-front passed us by, once we were out of the constantly flashing cameras, we would be whole again.

By the time we arrived in Halifax, I was dazed, empty, and miserable. Everyone seemed to be enervated after a whole week of this circus — even Sir Snuffles was a husk of his pompous self.

At least we didn't have to deal with another parade. Not here… not in Shepherd's hometown. We were to visit his family and his fiancé first, before together attending the service and laying him to rest. The break in routine was welcoming, though a melancholic aura hung over our heads as we passed the throngs of people dressed in black, staring at our entourage with pride and sorrow both. Somehow it seemed a fitting end for the grand national tour.

I stood next to Matt in the cemetery overlooking the coast. A hundred-odd souls laid in these grounds, sailors and passengers who'd lost their lives to the sea when the Titanica went beneath the waves last year.

Now another brave sailor would join their ranks; one who'd lost his life to the stars.

The ceremony was simple and dignified. Inside the casket were Shepherd's service clothes, some memorabilia, and the two posthumous medals he'd received in Ottawa — the Air Gallantry Cross, and the Order of Canada.

His family and service mates went forth to pay their respects. Flowers were laid on his headstone. Then a young woman, not much older than myself, walked up to the casket and knelt down with not a care for her expensive black dress. She was pale but composed, and hung her head in silent prayer. She took off a ring she was wearing, and kissed it deeply.

That could've been me, I thought as I watched Shepherd's fiancé finally cast aside her veil and bury her face into her palm. Matt had been with Shepherd on his last spacewalk, after all. The roles could have easily been reversed.

I glanced at my own fiancé. He seemed so far away in the daylight, shielding himself in a layer of aloofness I couldn't quite penetrate. He was sallow and thin, with his eyes ringed with exhaustion.

I shuffled closer to him, thumbing my ring for courage. The reporters have all been held far back from the scene, and with a small, inconspicuous nudge, I grabbed his hand.

He didn't move away. After a few seconds, he gave my hand a little squeeze. I squeezed back, hard, wishing I could just cry like the young woman in front of me.

The Bluenose departed that night after an early dinner, bound on a two-day transcontinental flight all the way back to Lionsgate City. I excused myself soon after we lifted off, and collapsed in my stateroom bed.

ooo

It was pitch dark when I woke up. Outside the porthole, the sky was moonless and churning with clouds. My night lamp provided the only illumination as I leaned over to squint at the clock.

It was approaching one. It took my groggy mind a few seconds to grasp the implications, and then I bolted out of bed.

Matt.

I rushed to the door, thinking he might have left already. I unlocked the stateroom door and yanked it open. The dim lights revealed nothing at first, but then there was a small rustle, and there he was in his bathrobe, sitting on the floor, staring down the hallway.

He looked up, craning his neck backwards until he saw me. There was no sigh of relief, no accusation for making him wait. He simply gave me a tired smile.

"May I come in?"

I pulled him up.

I will be brave, I thought. I am brave.

"Yes," I said.


Author's Notes:

1. The Order of Canada wasn't established until 1967, but I included it for the same reason I included the Canadian flag.

2. The Titanic sank in April 1912, and most victims were buried by the end of that year, in three cemeteries across Halifax. Oppel also made a reference to the ship in Starclimber (calling it Titanica).