Author's Note: Well folks, we're winding down. Not QUITE the end. Quite. Thanks again to everyone who's reviewed :) All the thank-yous in the world wouldn't be enough. Oh yeah, and Rachel-- sorry. But hey, it's a free country. You can choose not to like this story any more if you want to. Let's see here. . . oh, yeah. Forgive my Morse code knowledge (or lack thereof). It kind of sucks. Okay, it REALLY sucks. And just an historical note: I know I have it all over this story, but hugging was just not something people of this time period did. So that's kind of hypocritical, but for some characters, I just don't think a handshake would do it. Yeah. Oh, and I don't think the Brooklyn Bridge really has all that stonework stuff I mention. . . oh well. Hey, folks, I've said it before, I'll say it again: THAT'S WHY THIS STUFF IS FAN FICTION. KEYWORD: FICTION!! Anyway, if I've forgotten to say something, I'll just put it in the next chapter's A/N. Thanks, review (pleeeease!) and enjoy if you can!!!!

TWELVE

"God damn it!" I burst out, tearing the headphones off of my head as the return fire from the Olympic pinged loudly throughout the room.

Even Harry Bride had jumped a mile at the noise. "Jesus!" he exclaimed, trembling. "They're twenty miles away! Tell them to turn down their signal!"

"Believe you me, I'm working at it," I said furiously, tapping at the Morse code transmitter. "Turn. . . down. . . that. . . bloody. . . signal!"

"You'd think they'd know better by now." Bride said, eyes bright with fatigue, dark circles stamped beneath them.

"Have you been aboard her?" I asked, still tapping away to the Olympic.

"For a few months," he said, tiredly pushing hair out of his eyes. "Looks exactly like the Titanic, except she's two hundred feet smaller."

"Dinner," announced Lightoller as he stepped into the tiny room, bearing a tray on which two bowls brimming with vegetable stew sat. "Actually, I think it's more like breakfast."

"Thanks, Lights," Bride said tiredly. "But I'm not hungry."

"Nonsense," Lightoller said, carefully brushing a stack of papers aside to set down the tray. "You haven't eaten since. . . well, since Tuesday night."

"Can't eat," Bride said, picking up a pencil. "It'll only come up."

Lightoller dropped into the spare seat. "In the past few years, Mr. Bride," he said. "Your appetite has gained you a greater reputation than your radio skills. And now you're refusing vegetable stew? Seasick?"

Bride put his head on his arms, tapping his pencil gently against a notepad. "You might say that."

Lightoller glanced at me. "Well, Carrie, I'm sure you can eat something."

"Ha, ha." I dryly, still tapping at the Olympic. At least they'd turned down their signal. I glanced at Bride. "I didn't know you couldn't keep anything down."

"Comes up like fireworks on New Year's." he mumbled. "If I eat, it means I'm not doing anything else, which means I get to thinking, which leads me to. . ." he trailed off, and closed his eyes. ". . . God, all I can think of is that ship just. . . just. . . and Phillips. . ."

He was shivering; Lightoller and I traded glances over his shoulders. I'd heard from Lightoller that the other wireless operator, John Phillips, had climbed aboard Collapsible B with Bride and the second officer, but had died in the middle of the night. "Hey, Bride." I said gently. "Tell you what. You go on break--"

"Oh, rubbish--" he interrupted, but I cut him off.

"You go on break-- we'll get Lights here or Lowe or somebody to make you a cup of tea, then you try to get some sleep."

He looked half grateful, but muttered, "Can't sleep on tea."

"We'll take the caffeine out." I assured him, and tried to smile. "You'll be able to keep down a cup of tea, then maybe we can get some dry toast into you when you come around again."

He sat up, dull nineteen-year-old eyes taking in all the equipment. "What about Cottam?"

Harold Cottam, the wireless operator for the Carpathia, was currently on his break. I said, "Let him sleep. I can handle this."

"You sure?" Bride asked. "Because I can stay, if--"

I waved my hand at him, smiling. "Go on. You need the rest. Go find Lowe and tell him to get you one of those cups of tea."

"Like Lowe will listen," he mumbled, standing up.

"Well," I said. "Tell him Lights sent you." and Lightoller grinned.

"I will, then." Bride said, beaming tiredly at me. "Thanks, Stevenson." and he was gone.

I leaned my elbow on the table, removing one of the phones from my ear. "Is every junior seaman in the Atlantic named Harold?"

Lightoller shrugged. "Sure seems like it." he glanced at the equipment. "What's going on in here?"

I took a bowl of stew in one hand, and a spoon in the other. "I got back to the Olympic about not coming to help us. Captain Rostron and Ismay both decided that it would be way too much to have the Olympic coming along when she looks just like the Titanic-- plus they didn't want to have the passengers go through another transfer."

Lightoller nodded as I took a bite of the stew. "I can see that."

The stew was delicious-- not too hot, but not stone cold, either, and the spices were mixed just right. "What's today? Wednesday?"

"It's probably Thursday by now," he said, fishing his pocket watch from his vest. "Yes-- it's one thirty in the morning. Thursday."

"One thirty?" I finished another bite of my stew. "Geez."

"When was the last time you had a break?" Lightoller asked me suddenly.

"Four hours ago." I lied. Truthfully, I hadn't slept in twenty-nine hours. After the coffee breakfast with the officers Tuesday morning, I'd gone to the wireless room, then to the services for the lost and living, then back to the wireless room. I was let off at one o'clock p.m. for a break, slept for seven hours, then got back to business in the Marconi room, where I'd been since then.

"Right," Lightoller said, clearly not believing me. "Listen, if you want, I'll get Cottam in here in the next hour or so, then let you take a--"

"I said it's been four hours." I said, swallowing more stew. "I'm fine."

"None of the stewards have seen you on deck," Lightoller persisted gently. "And Lowe even talked to the nurses in the infirmary. You've been here for an entire day. More than that, even. And you're irritated. I don't know you all that well, but irritation isn't in your nature."

He was right. Well, sort of. I could get pretty damn irritated when I felt like it, but he was right about my being ticked at the moment, and about my not being anywhere besides the radio room for the day. "Thanks, Lights." I said quietly, removing the headphones. "You're right, a break would be good."

He nodded understandingly. "We're expected to make the coast at eight o'clock tonight."

I shoveled a potato chunk onto my spoon. "I've heard. Look, I don't want to be sleeping more than a couple of hours. Understood? I can do a lot here when I'm up-- not when I'm sleeping."

"I understand." he assured me. "Go on. I'll get Cottam."

"Thanks." I stood up, my legs protesting. "Can I take this with me?" I gestured to the stew in my hands.

"By all means." Lightoller said, and I left the room with a final thank-you.

It was cold out, but far from the freezing cold felt on the deck just three nights ago on the Titanic. I walked slowly, bowl of stew warming my hands, and found a spot on a set of stairs near the bridge. A light was on every few feet along the wall to the officer's quarters, and it made it somewhat difficult to peer through the darkness ahead.

I let out a long and tired breath, shifting my spoon through my soup, leaning my head against the banister. I was dead tired, but I wasn't ready for sleep. Everything was still so raw and painful. . . I shivered involuntarily as I remembered the forward funnel falling so close to Collapsible B that Lightoller and I had been clinging to. I thought of the screams racing out across the calm waves after the ship had gone down, of Chief Officer Wilde, clinging to a deck chair and desperately blasting his whistle. All in vain hope that someone would understand that it was an officer, and come back to help, and pick up a few more people along the way.

Did he know he was going to die? I thought to myself, chewing slowly. Did he know that he'd freeze to death when he was blowing that whistle? Did he know that we'd come back, but be too late?

It was too goddam upsetting to think about.

Then, as they had in nearly every waking moment of spare time I'd had in the last few hours, my thoughts shifted to Thomas.

I turned the ring on my thumb slowly. Somehow, I was still clinging to some shred of hope that he might be alive. That he'd somehow changed his mind to go through with staying behind on his ship, and had swam to a boat, or had found some way off. But it was impossible. If he were alive, why hadn't he gone straight to the bridge to speak with Captain Rostron and the officers of both ships? Why hadn't he stopped by the Marconi room, demanding that messages be sent to Belfast and New York?

And why hadn't he found me?

I thought back to the odd occurrence Tuesday morning, where I'd awoken and thought I'd seen Thomas in the doorway. The more I thought about it, the more I could recall a distinct sense of surrealism in seeing him. Yes, I'd seen Thomas-- but in a dream. The picture of him had been slightly hazy, and no one just disappears like that. And if it had really been him, he wouldn't have just stood there-- he'd have gone straight over to wake me up, to see me. Plus the nurses hadn't seen him.

"Shit." I muttered bitterly as tears gathered in my eyes. No, it was impossible that Thomas had survived. And besides, Boxhall had said that a steward saw him at ten after two-- ten minutes before the Titanic went under, and five minutes after I'd left. He wouldn't have changed his mind and tried to escape.

"Didn't expect to see you up this late."

I jumped a mile as Fifth Officer Lowe came up behind me, nearly spilling stew all over myself. "Jesus." I said, blinking rapidly to clear my eyes. "Sorry. Didn't hear you."

"That's all right." he sat down beside me, and then his eyes took on a look of regret as he saw mine. "Did I come at a bad time?" he asked gently.

"Nope." I said, breathing deeply for a moment to steady myself, and I smiled at him. "You sure didn't."

He glanced at me sideways. "Did Lightoller really request that I brew tea for a junior wireless operator?"

"Nope." I said again, smiling slightly at him. "I requested it, then said you'd do it if Lights told you to."

He half-smiled as well. "You'd have me be a steward to that boy?"

"Hey, come on now." I said, lifting an eyebrow. "Bride's a good kid. He just needed a break-- his nerves are fried. And you're a junior officer too, you know."

He shook his head slightly. "Not something I'm particularly proud of."

"At least you're an officer at all." I pointed out.

Lowe smiled at that. "This is true." the smile faded slightly. "At least, I was. . . as of Monday morning."

There was a long silence, but it wasn't an uncomfortable one. "Listen to us," I said quietly. "We're less than seventy-two hours past the most terrible accident in the history of boating, and we're talking as though it's a nice Sunday in the park."

"It helps close the wound." Lowe said, just as softly. "Thinking about it is like throwing salt into that wound."

"But we'll have to think about it eventually." I muttered. "I mean, the longer you hold it off, the more painful it will become."

Lowe said nothing for a long beat, and neither did I. Finally he said, "What are your plans after we dock?"

Christ. I hadn't even thought about it. "I don't know." I realized aloud. "I guess. . ." I looked down at the ring on my thumb. "I guess I never really thought about life without Jack and Fabrizio and Thomas."

Lowe put his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand. "Did Thomas leave you nothing that he wanted you to do in his passing?"

"Well, he did, sort of." I said, the plans heavy against my leg in my workpants pocket. "He wants me to mail something to his uncle in Belfast." As much as it was wonderful to dream, my becoming master (or mistress) shipbuilder seemed out of the question, plus I didn't feel like sharing it with Lowe just then.

"Doesn't sound like him." Lowe told me, once again looking sideways at me. I didn't meet his eyes, and Lowe dropped the subject. "Well." he said quietly. "I'm off to get some sleep."

"See you." I said, looking over now, smiling at him. "Thanks for stopping by." When he left, I finished my stew, and then wandered below decks, where I had a small room to myself-- arranged by Lightoller, bless the man. I crashed there, and sank into a deep and dreamless sleep.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

I stood in silence as the rain poured from a black sky, staring up at the dimly lit Statue of Liberty looming out of the darkness. I remembered that day, eons ago, when Fabrizio had murmured dreamily that he'd love to stare at the Statue of Liberty until his eyes hurt.

Is this what he meant? I thought as my eyes stung with a fresh batch of tears. I brushed them off of my cheeks almost angrily, hands in my pockets, still turning the ring on my thumb. Did he mean he'd weep when he finally saw it?

To my right, an officer from the Carpathia was going around with an umbrella and checklist, taking names. On a sudden impulse, I stepped over to him, but before I'd even opened my mouth, his features took on a look of dread. He clearly thought I would be another one of the hysterical passengers demanding to know if a loved one was alive.

The second part was true, anyway. "Listen," I told him dully. "I'm not going to get all crazy on you or anything. I just wanted to know if you've got some names on your list."

He instantly relaxed. "Of course, miss."

"Dawson." I said, blinking rain out of my eyes. "Should have been steerage. Jack Dawson."

He turned the leaves of his checklist, slowly, and shook his head. "We've naught but a female Dawson, miss. I'm sorry." he truly did sound it.

I nodded slightly. "What about DeRossi, Fabrizio?"

Again he thumbed through the pages, taking his time. "No, miss."

"Thomas Andrews," I said finally, that shred of hope still alive.

He didn't even have to look at his checklist. "He went down with his masterpiece, miss."

I let out a long breath, trembling. "Thanks. That's all."

"I'm sorry," he said again, quietly, and gripped his pencil. After a moment he said, "Can I take your name?"

"Stevenson." I told him. "Carrie Stevenson."

"Thank you." he moved on, and the rain again pattered down on me.

The ring was heavy around my thumb, and for a moment I wondered why I hadn't chosen to take Thomas' last name. After all, he'd asked me to marry him. But it was a matter of common sense-- how would his relatives react at hearing that Thomas had proposed to a third-class girl? Because if I took his name, certainly they'd find out. Hell, they could take the thing to court.

Speaking of court. . .

I hurried after the officer who'd just left me; thankfully he wasn't in the middle of a conversation with anyone else. "D'you have a Brian O'Reily?"

After a good ten seconds of looking, he said quietly, "No."

Well, that was a relief. Brian O'Reily was the name of the sick guy who'd tried to take advantage of me in the stairwell, and again below decks after the ship hit. I realized somewhere that now, as both the defendant and the two witnesses were dead, there'd be no trial at all.

I heard footsteps behind me, and turned to see Lightoller, Lowe, and Boxhall, the last two sharing an umbrella, Lightoller with one all to himself. "Hey, guys." I said, smiling a little at them.

They smiled back, Lightoller standing next to me, his umbrella over both of our heads. "We just came to say good-bye." Lightoller said hesitantly. "They-- they're going to want us to help get the lifeboats down to the pier in a moment."

I smiled a little at them. "I figured." There was a pause. "Well, thanks for all the help."

"It's us who should be thanking you," Lowe said quietly. "You did as much work as any of us."

I knew I was blushing. "Thanks, but you guys did the hardest part."

"Miss Stevenson," Boxhall said, still uncomfortable using my first name. "I'd like to apologize again for not listening to you the other night, when I put you in--"

"Hey," I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay-- you were only doing your job." I couldn't stop a smile. "Besides, if you hadn't, I wouldn't have seen Murdoch one last time."

This seemed to make him feel a little better, and he smiled weakly. "Yes. Right. Well." We shook hands, and I met his uncertain stare with a confident one, trying to assure him that he'd done the right thing.

Lowe tried to smile at me, but forget the handshake-- he somewhat impulsively put his arms around me in a warm embrace.

"Lowe!" I cried, though pleased that he thought me friend enough to do so. "I'm soaking wet!"

"Well, so am I," he came back with, and I returned the hug, both Boxhall and Lightoller smiling at Lowe's boldness. "Was nice working with you," he told me before pulling away again, eyes sincere and bright. "You take care of yourself."

"You, too." I said, and looked at Lightoller. He smiled and offered a one-armed embrace, as one of his hands still held the umbrella. "Stay out of trouble," I told him, smiling.

He nodded, and pulled back. "Same to you." he murmured, and thanked me again for my help.

I turned back to the Statue of Liberty as they left, and was just getting a grip on the intensely depressed feeling in my stomach when suddenly a hand locked onto my elbow; I turned and saw the concerned face of Lightoller before me. "Lights?" I said as he released my elbow.

"Just wanted to let you know," he said quietly. "If there's ever anything you need-- a place to stay, something to eat, even a good friend-- come and find me. You'll have them."

Somehow, that touched me to the bone. "Thanks." I said, fighting tears. "That really. . . that really means a lot to me."

He nodded shortly, and did his best to smile. "Cheerio, then." and he was gone.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

It was shocking how many people stood at pier 54 to see us arrive. The docks were jam-packed with people, and it was rather intimidating as I stepped over the gangplank and onto dry land, following a stream of passengers.

A couple of steps forward and I nearly fell over; it took me a few more steps to regain my land legs, which I used to fight through the crowd of reporters. Several of them dashed off to follow passengers; flashbulbs popped left and right, questions were being hollered. It wasn't that much different from the chaos early Monday morning.

"How many dead?"

"Is it true that the Titanic has been towed--"

"Mayhem at the White Star Line offices--"

"Where is Captain Smith--"

"Has anyone seen Thomas Andrews--"

Somehow I picked out that shouter immediately; he was several paces to my left and in the thick of the crowd. I fought my way over and grabbed his sleeve. "You knew Thomas Andrews?"

He looked down at me, shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes. I nearly jumped; his brown eyes looked almost exactly like Thomas'. Despite the unkempt hair, he was dressed in a fine, expensive suit, and held a large umbrella. "I know him, yes. He's my cousin."

I tried to speak, but somehow my voice quit on me. I couldn't bear telling a relative what had happened.

"Why," he said, almost suspiciously. "D'you know him?"

"He was my fiancé." I mumbled, staring at the ground.

"What?" he hadn't heard me.

"He was my friend." I said louder, looking back up.

The man stared at me for a long moment. Finally he said, "Was?"

I pushed my hands in my pocket, mainly to hide Thomas' ring. "Thomas Andrews gave his lifebelt to a passenger and went down with the Titanic."

For a moment the man looked dumbstruck; the look in his eyes brought me back to the night of the collision, when the tremor had jolted the entire ship. "You're serious?" he said after a long silence.

"Why would I lie about something like this?"

He let out a long breath as it sunk in. "I apologize." he extended his hand. "George Wallace."

"Carrie Stevenson." I shook his hand. "I'm sorry about this."

"No, no." he said, a heavy sorrow clouding his eyes. "It's not as though it's your fault." George regarded me for a moment. "Did you know him well?"

"Very." I said.

"Well." he tried to smile, and failed. "I'd best be moving on. . . his family will want to know. I've got to send them a Marconigram right away."

I let him go, watching his retreating back as he pulled his coat collar up around his ears to ward off the cold and damp.

I shivered; my coat was gone, and my clothes were soaking again. I had no place to go, no one to go with, and nothing to go on. On impulse I rooted through my pockets, and came up with a dime. Christ, if I'd known it was there sooner, it would have been gone.

For a moment I just stood there holding the dime, rain continuing its relentless downpour. Then I folded the dime in my fist, pushed it back into my pocket, and started walking.

One block, and I was shivering again. Putting my hands in my pockets did no good whatsoever. Two blocks, and I felt as though I'd been battered with sledgehammers. Three blocks and my feet felt heavy as a few small cars. I hadn't eaten anything since last night, and my stomach was growling from hunger.

Four blocks, and I dug the dime from my pocket and entered a bakery. I spent five cents on yesterday's bread and was allowed to stay inside for a few moments while I ate. Then it was back into the rain again; I felt only slightly better.

Five blocks and I recognized the territory; six and I was nearly to my destination. Seven blocks, and I stopped before the large brick building before me. A large, black sign over the entrance was painted with gold and white letters, reading, GARRISON & WHEELER SHIPBUILDERS, LTD.

Of course, the building itself was closed this late at night. But the entrance had a curved canopy in front of it; I sat down against the brickwork and under the canopy, drew my knees up to my chest, and put my arms around them. I closed my eyes and thought of that warm beach in Maine, and tried desperately not to think of the man whose ring was around my thumb.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

"Hoi!"

I jumped a mile as someone nudged me, blinking bleary-eyed up at the person. His face was dark, thick mustache well-trimmed; he'd nudged me with his well-shined patented leather shoe. From his business suit I could tell he worked at Garrison and Wheeler, and I scrambled to my feet.

"What the hell d'you think you were doing?" he snapped at me.

I was still waking up, and I squinted against the sunlight. "Sleeping. Sir."

"Well, get on out. D'you have any idea how awful you're making the place look?"

I didn't recognize him; he had to be new. "Sir," I said. "I'm trying to come back. I mean, I used to work here."

He looked at me as though I'd dropped the f-bomb in his face. "The hell you did!" And he pushed his way past me to the door. "Get out of here!"

Wonderful, I thought sarcastically, stretching my cramped muscles. That went well. I gave it a minute before going inside. The sundial shaped like an ocean liner outside the entrance told me that it was shortly past nine. So the place had been open for an hour, and I'd slept all through it.

I found myself practically barging through the doors. I was nearly dry, but I was streaked with dirt from the place where I'd sat, and with my tangled hair, I was positive I looked insane.

All the better.

The lobby was just like I remembered it; long and wide and high-ceilinged, leading to an enormous mahogany desk behind which a clerk sat. The windows streamed light in; portraits of ships hung on the wall. One of them was completely covered in black cloth, one that hadn't been there when I'd left-- I figured that the picture was of the Titanic.

When I got to the desk, I put my arms on the shoulder-high surface. I didn't recognize the clerk. "Hi," I said. "Look, I'm Carrie Stevenson-- I need to see Robert Wheeler, Junior."

The clerk surveyed me as a housekeeper looks at a dirty room. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No." I said. "I'm his friend, from a few years ago. I've just returned from--"

The clerk smiled silkily. "I'm sorry. You can't see him without having scheduled an appointment beforehand."

"You don't understand," I told him, my stomach churning. "We were close friends. Isn't that enough?"

"Mr. Wheeler," the clerk snapped. "would not associate himself with the likes of you."

"Want to bet?" I snapped, now just plain pissed off. "You can even go to him and tell him my name. He'll know me."

"I cannot allow you," the clerk said sharply. "Someone of your state of being should not have even been allowed past the entrance."

For a moment I glared at him, furious. Then I turned away from the desk and headed left for the corridor that I knew led to Robert's office. "Miss!" the clerk called, rushing after me, and then, louder, "Security!"

Without warning, I felt two beefy hands lock onto either of my forearms, and I looked up into the most intimidating faces I'd ever seen. "What the hell!?" I demanded of the clerk as I was half dragged toward the exit. "What's happened to this place!?"

"Come back again," the clerk called, ignoring my question. "and we'll make sure you don't return!"

I barely managed to catch myself as I was practically thrown outside; I splashed through a puddle in the road before turning back to the door, which had been closed. By this point I was nearly gaping. If I couldn't get Garrison and Wheeler to take me back, then who. . . who would?

For a moment longer I stood staring at the door, and then I picked up my feet again and began to move.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

I sat by the warm light of the tavern's fireplace, hands wrapped around a large coffee mug. It was shortly past midnight, now Saturday. All day Friday I'd walked around trying to find someplace that needed work and would take me, but I was usually met with the same excuse that the Garrison and Wheeler clerk had used. The sad part was that they were right. My hair looked terrible, my clothing was damp and dirty, and my eyes had dark half-moons below them.

I'd arrived in the tavern at about ten thirty, damp and tired (it was raining again), when I'd asked the woman in charge if I could work for a cup of coffee. She agreed, so I spent over an hour doing dishes in the back kitchen from the constant stream of customers.

I stared into the flames as they popped and crackled, occasionally sipping the (spiked) coffee, turning the ring on my thumb, thoughts full to bursting of Thomas. If he were here. . . what would we be doing now? He'd probably already be on a ship back to Ireland, heading for the White Star Line offices and his uncle, prepared to answer swarms of questions and defend his company. Would I be with him as his wife?

I looked down at the pocket in the leg of my dungarees, and unbuttoned it, sliding the folded blueprints out. They were still slightly damp, but they hadn't smeared at all, and it was the first time I'd looked at them since seeing them Sunday afternoon, when we'd gone over them together at his desk, and. . .

A small sheet of paper slipped out from between the folds. The side facing me was blank, but, curious, I turned it over. My breath caught in my throat as I recognized Thomas' handwriting. In his quick, penciled letters, I read the following:

My dearest Carrie,

I pray this note may never reach your hands, but if you should find yourself reading it, its purpose is to give you an address to send the blueprints to. Remember, only if there is no chance of your being a part of its construction, then, and only then, send the plans to this address:

W.S.L. Offices

Lord Pirrie (Unnamed)

34 Connery Ln.

67451 Belfast, Ireland

God bless you, Carrie. I thank you from my heart, which belongs only to you, now and forever.

Yours,

Thomas

My hands shook. When had he time to write this? In the smoking room, perhaps? Then I remembered emerging from my room after grabbing my jacket, right before Thomas and I had headed to the bridge after the collision. He'd been bent over his desk, scribbling on a sheet of paper, which he'd stuck into his pocket before leaving. Had this been what he was writing? Could he tell even then that he'd never leave his ship?

It was almost too much to think about. Instead, I spread the blueprints before me, and looked over the familiar layout, drinking more coffee, the noise of the drinkers behind me loud and cheerful.

Another five minutes had passed when a voice said, "Excuse me, miss," and I looked up and saw the middle-aged face of the tavern keeper. She looked slightly embarrassed, but kept her voice low. "Forgive me, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave soon. You're not good for my business. The men at the bar are speaking about you."

I glanced over at them; they were a rough and rowdy crowd, streaked with sweat and grime themselves. I looked back up at the woman. "They aren't much of a sight, either."

"I really would appreciate your departure." she insisted firmly. "And thank you again for the work." She turned on her heel to leave.

I stared back into the flames, knowing that I'd have to go into the cold again. I let out a long breath, then downed the rest of my coffee. Pocketing the blueprints, I stood up, and left my coffee mug on the mantle. I then cast a glance around at the bar, and made my way swiftly to the exit.

I was reaching for the door handle when suddenly a man stepped in front of me, looking as though he could be related to one of the security guards at Garrison and Wheeler. "Where d'you think you're goin'?" he said, undertones of anger creeping into his voice.

"Excuse me," I said, trying to push past him, a little afraid.

His glare didn't soften. "I said," he repeated. "Where d'you think you're goin'?"

"I'm leaving," I told him, meeting his cold stare, noticing that the bar had gone deathly silent behind me. "I'm obviously not welcome here."

His eyes flickered to my left hand hanging at my side. "Where'd you get that ring? Steal it?"

"Hell, no." I said, trying to keep from shaking. "It was given to me."

"What d'you want for it?" he prompted.

"I don't want anything." I said through my teeth. "It's not for sale or trade. Now please, excuse m--"

"I don't think so." he said calmly, thick eyebrows lowering. "Y'see, miss, I asked what you want for that ring. And I don't intend to let you pass until I'm wearin' it."

"Well, I don't intend to let you have it." I snapped, and once again tried to push past him. Suddenly his fist flew into my stomach, and I fell back, gasping for breath, the wind knocked out of me.

Okay, then. I thought as I stared at him in shock and anger. If he wants a fight, then he's going to get a fight. I raised my fists and prepared for the worst.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

In the pouring rain at the end of the street, I grumbled curses as I tipped my head back, holding my throbbing nose closed to stop the bleeding. My shirtsleeve was splattered with blood from my nose, and my stomach was unbelievably sore. I had some bruises that were going to last me awhile, but I'd also managed to get in some pretty good punches and kicks myself before the woman running the shop threw me out. My guess was that she'd hired the man to get rid of me. Finally I gave up on my nose, and decided just to let it bleed itself out. I started walking again, trembling, occasionally wiping my face with my rain-soaked sleeve.

Somehow I felt even more exhausted than I had before all the coffee and brandy. It was raining, and I was hungry, cold, tired, and saturated with rain water. Plus, I'd just gotten into a bar fight. A fight in a bar, for God's sake. My knees were knocking together by the time I found shelter under a small bridge. I curled up on a concrete block in the space between it and the bridge, and closed my eyes, glad to be out of the rain. I tried to focus on anything other than the pain in my nose and stomach, and of course, could only think of Thomas. Fighting tears, I imagined that he was right next to me, holding me in his arms, whispering in my ear and telling me that everything would be alright. But I was sick of fantasy, and soon his imaginary warm embrace evaporated. I instead focused my attention on the rock-hard and freezing concrete beneath me, and fell asleep watching lighting forks in the distance.

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I scooped yesterday's newspaper out of a sidewalk trashcan. The headline blared: FIFTEEN HUNDRED FEARED DEAD IN SINKING OF RMS TITANIC. Trembling from hunger and fatigue, I sat down on a park bench, bringing my legs up to sit Indian-style on the dry bench in my still-damp clothes, half of my shirt stained with pink. Upon looking in the window of a store earlier, I saw in my reflection that my cheek was slightly swollen and the barest shades of a bruise were showing,. The large clock on the bank told me that it was five minutes past seven o'clock in the morning, and the streets were misty with a thin veil of fog. My arms shook has I held up the newspaper, scanning the article. Inside the paper was a complete list of those dead or missing, and those who were alive. Under some of them, there were a few sentences saying when and where a funeral or memorial service would be held. My eyes immediately searched for Thomas' name, and I found it in the deceased column.

His blurb read: "Andrews, Thomas. Aged 39 yrs. old. Shipbuilder. Memorial service held at 45 Hudson St. Sunday 8-9pm. Family and friends invited. Funeral to take place in Belfast, Ireland."

Today was Sunday. And tonight would be the memorial service. For a moment I contemplated whether or not I should go, then decided that the worst that could happen is that I'd be kicked out, which was more than likely. But I owed it to Thomas to try to make it to his memorial service. Besides, my mind was on him too much to do otherwise.

So that's how I found myself standing outside of 45 Hudson Street in the pouring rain (again) of Sunday evening, staring at the warmly lit parlor windows in my soaking outfit, exhausted from lack of food and sleep. From under heavy eyelids I watched the darkly clothed people hurry to the door under black umbrellas, watched the guards at the door take names.

I approached the door at exactly eight o'clock, after one of the last cars pulled away. I tried to pass by the guards, but was stopped. "I'm sorry," the one of them said, gloved hand pulling my soaked shoulder to stop me. "You won't be permitted to enter."

"I was one of Thomas' friends," I said, feeling sick to my stomach. "We knew--"

"Were you really," the other one said scathingly. "Mr. Andrews never would have stooped so low as to become acquainted with the likes of you."

"Shut it," growled the other guard to his companion, then looked at me. "Miss, you'd have to have proper attire to attend this gathering. We can't allow you inside-- you look like you just came from the slums."

"I still knew Thomas." I said defensively. "He--"

"If I must," the guard said, puffing out his chest. "I will use force to dismiss you from the premises. Now please-- be gone. Get some new clothes, why don't you-- clean ones."

For a moment I stared stonily back at him, then saw I wasn't about to persuade him, and turned and headed numbly away from the entrance. I didn't go back to the street, however-- I went up to stand in front of the parlor window. The orange glow from the soft lights inside cast a pleasant light into the dark night, and thunder rolled overhead as I watched the small crowd seat themselves to hear a speaker. A portrait of Thomas, surrounded by bouquets of flowers, stood near the podium.

I turned away from the window, trembling from fatigue, hunger, cold, and anger. All day I'd walked around more of the city, trying to find someplace, anyplace, that I could work for a mere loaf of bread, and had no luck, just as I hadn't yesterday. I was convinced, however, that I shouldn't spend my nickel left over from buying bread. It was my backup, in case I was so hungry that I had to drag myself on my hands and knees. It was exhausting to be this upset and miserable, and my head was pounding fiercely, abs aching.

And now this had happened, being turned away from the memorial service for Thomas.

Standing on the sidewalk, I put a hand over the plans in my pocket. Garrison and Wheeler, I knew now, was impossible. Wasn't that the only reason I had stepped off of the Carpathia? That I'd wanted to try for building Thomas' ship? And now I couldn't. Without Garrison and Wheeler, there was. . . there was nothing.

I found myself walking away from 45 Hudson Street, running actually-- hurrying down the street in the pouring rain, heading for the city, where I knew the post office was.

I banged through the door, dripping water everywhere, and went shivering to the counter. I asked the clerk for an envelope, a pen, and a stamp, and gave him my nickel for them. I enclosed the plans in the envelope, copied the address onto it, and handed the clerk the soggy envelope. "When's the mail collected?" I asked the clerk.

"Three o'clock sharp every afternoon." he replied, and I left the shop.

I walked three blocks in the rain, before stopping outside a shop whose large sign over the entrance read: BEAUCHAMP'S FIREARMS AND AMMUNITION. By now I was feeling light-headed and slightly dizzy from hunger pangs, but I got inside anyway.

There were racks of weapons on the walls, each with a miniature price tag on it. I went up to the counter and put my arms on it, not caring that it left a watermark. The white-haired man behind the counter lifted an eyebrow, but said politely, "May I help you?"

I cleared my throat; my mouth felt dry as dust. "What's the cheapest, most lethal gun you have here?"

He glanced around a moment, then took a small Webley revolver from the wall. "This here's one of our biggest sellers. Inexpensive, but she sure is reliable."

"How much?" I asked hoarsely.

"Twenty-five." he answered.

A long breath escaped my lungs. The whole reason I'd come here was to get an estimate, to see if it was worth it to try to scrounge up that kind of money. . . I bit my lip, staring at my hands. Where could I come up with twenty-five. . . with. . . oh. Lord. I looked back up at the man. "D'you do trades?"

"Depends on what you've got." he said, mustache twitching.

Swallowing hard, I slowly pulled Thomas' ring off of my finger. "What about this?"

He took it from me, and I felt sick at seeing someone else hold it. For a moment he studied it, eyes narrowed, then said, "I could give you two pistols for this thing."

I nodded a little and closed my eyes to steady myself. "I'll just take this one. And a round of bullets. Keep the change." It's material. I thought forcefully. The things that matter aren't man-made. Let it go.

He took a paper bag from underneath the counter. "This here's a six-shot." he said, inserting a small packet of bullets into the bag, and showing me how to open the chamber of the Webley before putting it into the bag as well. "What's somebody like you need a gun for?"

"Birthday gift," I lied, and didn't care that he could tell I was fibbing. "Thanks." I left without another word.

Dawn found me in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, standing on one of the large stone ledges while the traffic passed slowly behind me. I was in the space between two large blocks of stone that kept the cables in place, nothing before me but a hundred-foot drop into the river. I faced the sunrise, watching it streak the sky with its myriad of vibrant colors.

Shaking but determined, one shoulder leaning against the stonework for support, I cracked open the Webley and emptied the packet of bullets into my hand. One by one, slowly, I pushed the bullets into the chamber, the golden sunlight spilling across my palms as I did so. When the last bullet was in place, I dropped the packet, and snapped the chamber closed. Taking in a deep breath, I lifted my shoulder and replaced it with my left hand, and then held the pistol to my temple.

My voice was rough and dry as I spoke quietly. "Give me one good reason, Thomas." I said under my breath. "Give me one damn reason why I shouldn't pull the trigger and join you." The metal was cold and terrifyingly real against my head. My thumb pulled the hammer back; I was briefly reminded of seeing Murdoch shoot himself a week ago. "If there is one reason at all why I shouldn't do this, then you just try and send somebody to stop me."

A breeze picked up and chilled me to the bone in my wet clothes as I waited.

I pushed the gun further against my temple, waiting for someone to stop me.

Nothing happened.

"Well, then." I said dully. "See you in a minute." My finger wrapped around the trigger, and one last time, I took in the brilliant sunrise.

"Carrie! Don't!"

My entire body jolted as I gasped; the gun nearly slipped out of my hand as I turned back to see who'd shouted-- and suddenly I was looking into the wide eyes of a shell-shocked Charles Lightoller.