Author's Note: A few notes today for my lovely reviewers (thank you so much!) and readers. First, you should probably know: after this chapter, there will be two more chapters, and then the epilogue. This chapter and the next will be longer than usual, so I hope you don't mind! Another thing to note: Looking at it from this side of history, it's easy to forget that no one immediately thought the ship was in any real danger. Inconvenienced, yes. In need of repairs, absolutely. But until the historically correct equivalent of that conversation in the chartroom, no one had any idea how bad it really was. Also, I've never had to write the same scene in two different stories before. That was strange. Actually, this whole chapter felt a bit strange. I like the next one much better, as far as sinkings go. As a final note, things have, as they say, gotten real. We're down to the final few chapters, folks. Thanks for sticking with me this long. Enjoy, and review! Until next week.

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Chapter Sixteen: Wallace
April 14, 1912
23:55

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As I came out of the stairwell on A-Deck I nearly smashed into Thomas, which didn't do much for my already-frazzled nerves—nor his, apparently, as he almost dropped the bundle of rolled-up blueprints under his arm. He'd already been on his way up to the bridge.

"They sent you to find me, didn't they?" he asked quietly, pulling me back in the direction I'd come.

"Yes." I nodded, stomach turning over. The resignation in his face was almost more terrifying than the entire last fifteen minutes had been.

"Do you know what—"

"An iceberg," I explained, hurrying along with him. "It came out of nowhere. Scraped all up the port side. Captain Smith shut down the engines until we can figure out what's going on."

"Jesus, Ellen. Has John Hutchinson been sent for?"

"Yes, Murdoch went to find him."

"Did they close the watertight—"

"Soon as she hit." I hated seeing this, his fearful eyes, neither of us knowing how badly the ship was wounded. When we rounded into the wheelhouse, all the lights were on, Moody and Hitchens speaking hastily to Wilde (who was still getting his tie on) and Quartermaster Rowe.

Thomas was just beginning to ask questions when Murdoch and a man who I presumed to be Hutchinson appeared.

"Where's the captain?" Hutchinson said tersely, while I studied Murdoch. He looked a bit better—less panicked, but still in shock. He'd looked for me as soon as he'd stepped into the wheelhouse, and now our eyes couldn't let each other's go.

"Gone to get dressed," Wilde explained. "Mr. Murdoch, did you explain—"

"I've already sounded her," Hutchinson said, eyes wide. He was sweating. "It's not good."

"Mr. Hutchinson." Captain Smith stepped into the wheelhouse, back in his officer's coat and hat. "Follow me. Mr. Andrews, Mr. Wilde, if you please." They headed toward the boat deck, then toward the forward well deck.

"Now what?" Moody said uncertainly.

"Mr. Moody," said Murdoch, stepping forward. "Go get Mr. Bride in the wireless room up to speed, then go and wake Mr. Phillips. We may need them both."

"Yes, sir!" Moody hurried off.

Murdoch looked about. "As for the rest of us, we stay put so they'll know where to find us when they need us."

Hitchens and Rowe went to peer into the night on the bridge, which left Murdoch and I standing in the brightly-lit wheelhouse, looking at each other helplessly. But I couldn't just stand there, and I wanted to talk to Murdoch discreetly, so I turned and went into the chartroom, hoping he'd follow. One of the star charts was across the map table; I leaned over it, not really absorbing anything, just taking deep breaths to try to calm my nerves. It's not good, Hutchinson had said. What the hell did that mean?

"Ellen?" Murdoch's voice moments later, soft as he came up beside me.

He still looked slightly dazed, as though he'd been punched in the face. My heart ached for him. "Will." We stared down at the chart together. "I'm sorry—"

"Bloody stupid," he muttered. "How did we not see it? If we'd been going any slower—if we'd only been a tenth of a degree off our heading—"

"It isn't your fault," I murmured, resisting the urge to pull him into my arms. "There were a hundred reasons—maybe they didn't see the signal in time in the engine room, maybe Fleet and Lee weren't paying enough attention, maybe—"

"My God." He ran a hand over his face. "Her maiden voyage. We'll have to return to Belfast for sure. And. . . and. . ."

I knew what he was thinking, what he was too humble to actually say—his career might be over. The White Star Line might keep him on out of loyalty, but he'd never be a captain. Would they even let him stay on as first officer? "Will. . ." was all I could say, my eyes stinging.

"The look on your cousin's face." He braced his hands on the chart table, bowed his head. "I've gone and roughed up his ship on her first trip out."

"He won't even blame you," I tried to assure him, and discreetly covered his hand with mine. "He's not like that. No one will. There were far too many factors for it to be your fault."

"What the devil is going on?" came a new voice from the wheelhouse; I turned to see Bruce Ismay in a fur-lined bathrobe, striped silk pajamas and red maroon carpet slippers. He was barking at Moody, who had returned, and Hitchens, who had followed him in. "The engines have stopped!"

"Mr. Ismay." I stepped outside the chartroom, Will following me.

"Miss Wallace." Ismay approached me, frowning, mustache twitching. "Mr. Murdoch. What in the blazes—"

"We've struck an iceberg," Murdoch said, calm once again, folding his hands behind his back. "The captain, Mr. Andrews, Mr. Wilde and the carpenter have gone to inspect the damage. They'll be back shortly with a report."

"An iceberg?" His eyebrows shot up in surprise as he stared between us and the others, our grim faces confirming it. "But visibility is clear tonight. It's an iceberg. How could we possibly have—"

"We saw it too late," Murdoch explained, clearly wanting Ismay off the bridge. I didn't blame him—much as I loved the White Star Line president, Ismay's incredulity would only get in the way until we figured out what was going on.

"And icebergs aren't always stark white, you know," Moody spoke up. "Especially not if they've broken off from a floe lately. They only become white after a few weeks at sea. Before that, you can hardly see them."

Ismay's brows had finally lowered. "But you should have been able to—"

"Evening, all," Fourth Officer Boxhall returned to the wheelhouse, a bit out of breath, looking around at all of us. "Captain Smith had me down in steerage to check for damage, but I didn't see anything."

"Mr. Ismay." Captain Smith, Thomas, Mr. Wilde and Mr. Hutchinson had returned, Thomas leading the way as they brushed past me into the chartroom, Murdoch falling into step behind them.

I gulped. The hard, hollow look in Thomas's eyes, the way he didn't even see me—something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

"Most unfortunate, captain," Ismay was saying, following them in as Murdoch turned and went to sweep the star chart off the table. I stood just outside the doorway, wondering if I should've been elsewhere, but it was Murdoch and Thomas in there, and if they needed me, there I'd be. Behind me, Moody, Boxhall, Hitchens, and Quartermaster Rowe were waiting.

Thomas unfurled a blueprint across the table, reaching for a paperweight molded like an Olympic-class ship. Ismay was pacing slightly behind Thomas and the captain. Murdoch took a few steps back so that he was next to the door, watching them. "Water," Thomas was saying to the captain, gesturing to the diagram, "Fourteen feet above the keel in ten minutes. And in the forepeak. And in all three holds. And in boiler room six."

It was like someone tipped a bucket of ice water over my head, the dread that I suddenly choked on, the disbelief that fought over it. Five compartments.

"That's right, sir," Hutchinson confirmed, breathless.

Ismay paused in his pacing to snap, "When can we get underway, dammit?"

"That's five compartments!" Thomas snapped back, then glanced back at Captain Smith. "She can stay afloat with the first four compartments breached, but not five. Not five." He traced a hand over the diagram that I could see shaking even from here. My eyes stung again. "As she goes down by the head, water will spill over the tops of the bulkheads. . . at E Deck. . ."

I couldn't see Murdoch's face, but he reached up and braced a hand on the doorframe, the weight of it hitting him, too. On impulse, no longer caring who saw, I reached up to cover his hand with my own; his fingers took mine tightly and didn't let go.

". . . from one, to the next," Thomas was saying, "Back, and back. There's no stopping it."

"The pumps," Smith said, not ready to believe it. "If we opened the outer doors—"

"The pumps buy you time," Thomas said, voice catching, "but minutes only. From this moment, no matter what we do. . . Titanic will founder."

I swallowed hard, the stunned silence unbearable, Murdoch's grip numbing my fingers.

"But this ship can't sink!" Ismay said indignantly.

Thomas rounded on him. "She's made of iron, sir; I assure you, she can!" He looked back to the diagram, one hand still resting on it. "And she will. 'Tis mathematical certainty."

"How much time?" Smith's voice was quiet.

While Thomas turned the figures over in his head, I released Murdoch's hand, hearing Wilde's footsteps approaching behind me. "An hour," Thomas murmured. "Two, at most."

Wilde brushed past me to stand beside Murdoch while I just stood there and trembled, staring openly at Thomas. "And how many aboard, Mr. Murdoch?" Smith asked, turning back to us now.

"Two thousand, two hundred souls on board, sir." Murdoch's voice was empty.

Captain Smith turned to Ismay, nodded slightly. "Well, I believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Ismay."

Ismay, who'd been gaping, dropped his gaze and didn't speak. Smith turned to the rest of us. "Miss Wallace," he said. "Call the others in."

I gulped, turned toward the wheelhouse where all eyes were on me and the chartroom anyway. I didn't trust my voice, so just waved them toward me.

The clock on the chartroom wall read 12:05 as the rest of us filed in, twelve people crammed into the tiny room. My shoulder was bumping Murdoch's, but I didn't dare look at his face, afraid that seeing it would obliterate the last of my fast-waning resolve.

Smith spoke heavily, but quickly. "We're taking on water by the head, and the first five compartments have been breached from the forepeak. We've little more than an hour before the whole thing goes out from under us."

The others looked stunned, but didn't speak yet. How could they? I was still trying to make myself believe it. Smith continued. "We've got to start swinging out the lifeboats and getting the passengers in them quickly as possible. Mr. Wilde, I want you to round up the crewmen on deck and start them uncovering the boats on the port and starboard sides. Mr. Hitchens and Mr. Rowe, you will go to the crew's quarters and rouse all the crewmen you can find—we'll need them to man the boats. Mr. Murdoch, you and Miss Wallace go inside and start rounding up the passengers, and get them out to the boat deck. Mr. Boxhall, if you could wake Mr. Lightoller and Mr. Pitman and bring them to the bridge. Mr. Moody, fetch the boat assignments so everyone knows where they need to be."

It was all met with murmured yes-sirs and wide eyes. "Whatever you do," Captain Smith said, looking at each of us, "whoever you tell, do it calmly. Be honest with the crew, but do not give the passengers any reason to panic. Understood?"

More yes, sirs. "Good. Dismissed. And good luck."

We scattered.

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"We start with the stewards." Murdoch was speaking too quickly, walking fast, and I could barely keep up with him. "The stations on each deck. Get them to spread the word among each other, then they rouse the passengers, then—"

"Hey." I trotted alongside him, trying to get a good look at him. When he'd brushed by me in the chartroom, on the way out, his face was blank, but I got the feeling it was because he was battering back a hellstorm of emotion. Not that I was much different—but it had yet to truly set in. "Will, slow down."

"We can't slow down. You heard your cousin." We rounded into the stairwell—the first steward's station was on B Deck. "An hour, two if we're lucky."

That was enough. He was so busy holding back panic that he was going nuts. And I couldn't work with him if he was going to snap at me, no matter the situation. On the landing of the empty stairwell I grabbed his arm, hard. "Will!"

He spun around in my grip, facing me, and for the first time I got a full-on glimpse at the guilt and horror fighting it out in him. I felt myself shrink back a bit, stunned. "Ellen." He closed his eyes, hands grasping my arms, pulling me back to him gently. "Ellen, it's my fault. It's—we can't—"

"Listen to me." Recovered, I reached up, grabbing his lapels, meeting his eyes. I could feel my lower lip trembling, but I was still in control of my emotions. I had to be. "You can't let yourself get caught up in guilt when it wasn't your fault anyway. We have a job to do. We can't panic. So—so here's what." I swallowed, bracing myself. "You have thirty seconds to fall apart. Then we get in there and tell those stewards."

Murdoch's eyes searched mine, saw I was serious, and pressed his forehead against my own. "My God," he breathed, and it was strangled; his gloved hands found my hair again. "It may not have been mine directly, but I'm officer of the watch. . . every soul on this boat is my responsibility then, and it's. . ." I fought tears as he pulled back to look at me. "We should be on deck trying to flirt without the others noticing, not—" his voice broke. "—ordering the bloody passengers up to the boat deck with Wilde fitting up those sodding lifeboats!" Shaking, he closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.

"Come on," I murmured, his hands near bruising on my arms. "Come on, Will. We can do this. I'm with you. I won't leave your side."

"I know." He kissed my forehead, then pulled back and nodded shortly a few times. Took a final deep breath. "Thank you, Ellen. Let's go." He took my hand and pulled me through the B-Deck doors.

It was quick work—we never said exactly what the problem was, only that they needed to round up the passengers and get them up to the Boat Deck quickly as possible. The stewards on duty, clearly sensing the urgency, went to round up each other and the passengers, and before long the two of us were heading back up to the deck. I could already tell that Murdoch felt better; having a job to do made it easier to take both our minds off the imminent hell.

By the time we got back outside, the noise from steam venting out of the funnels was deafening. I shouted in Murdoch's ear my intention to run back to my room and grab a whistle and another set of gloves; he followed me, thinking he'd do the same.

In my room I tore through the debris on my desk, hunting for my extra set of gloves, realizing I was going to leave it all behind. That lovely dress Thomas had spent a fortune on, the book collection I'd spent years growing—I hadn't even gotten to Ethan Frome and a half-dozen others. I'd planned on spending my off-hours reading more, collecting a couple more books in each city we put in to port. Now. . .

I found my spare gloves on the seat of the chair. Brushing past the half-destroyed desk, my elbow knocked the pencil cup to the floor and I cursed, the noise surprising me. I glanced down, meaning to just leave the pencils—but watched as they rolled all the way to the other side of the room to thunk gently against the wall.

I stared in horror. Those pencils were ridged. They shouldn't have gone more than a few inches.

The floor was tilted forward.

Shuddering, I fled, slamming the door behind me, running into Murdoch in the hall. "What's wrong?" he said immediately, searching my face.

"Nothing," I muttered, tucking the gloves into my pocket. "I knocked a few pencils off the desk and they just—they just rolled all the way to the other side of the wall. The deck's tilting already."

He nodded slightly, though fear flashed in his eyes. "It would, wouldn't it." He reached up to stroke down my cheek. "Come on, love. We've got get out there."

I nodded too, and kissed him, deeply as I could in just a few seconds; he returned it, his soft whimper past my lips, and then we were moving again.

Crewmen were hurrying through the wheelhouse, rushing to and fro. Moody, Boxhall, Lowe and Pitman were standing together by the forward helm, Lowe pulling on his greatcoat. Murdoch and I hurried over, steam from the funnels still drowning out everything else.

"Right," Moody was calling, looking at a clipboard, "Mr. Pitman, you'll be on the starboard side with Mr. Murdoch—Ellen, same with you. Mr. Boxhall, over on the port side, with Lights and Mr. Wilde."

"Bad idea, that," Lowe said, buttoning his coat now. "Lights'n'Wilde will rip each other's throats out."

"They might not have to," Pitman said, looking out the wheelhouse windows.

"Well, Mr. Boxhall, help them out. And Mr. Lowe, you're to be on the starboard side as well. The crewmen have their assignments; they should be in the right spot." He nodded around to us. "Good luck, gentlemen. And Ellen."

I took a good look at Boxhall and Moody as we turned away; it occurred to me that I might not see them again—at least not til this was long over. I thought longingly of my warm bunk, how it would be swimming with water soon, and wondered when I'd next get the chance to just curl up and forget all of this.

Murdoch, Pitman, Lowe and I wove our way toward the starboard side. There were now baffled passengers in bulky lifeboats milling confusedly about the deck. They seemed to be concentrated at the port side of the ship despite the fact that by now the crew were swinging out boats on both sides.

Near the wheelhouse, a flare short straight up into the sky and exploded, white lights and sparks raining down from it. Any other time I would have been mesmerized. But now, dread settled in the pit of my stomach. We were desperate enough that we were trying to signal any ship who could see us. Anyone at all. I swallowed hard, and turned back to the boat deck.

The deck looked naked, a few boats already attached to the falls as they swung out, navy-uniformed crewmen rushing about to get it done. Above the sound of steam billowing out of three funnels, Murdoch called back to us, "We start with number seven—then work our way forward!"

I nodded, the four of us setting about helping the crew of number seven. More passengers began milling about on our side, clustered against the entrance to the grand staircase, watching us work with wide, uncertain eyes. I felt that way, too, turning cranks, holding ropes, shouting to be heard. Before long the steam died off, so the clank of the cranks and squeak of the pulleys filled our ears instead. I realized after a bit that the knuckles on my right hand were throbbing; the bruise from the fight the other night was still there. That night seemed like a hundred years ago, not two days ago.

As we were just about ready to ask for orders, Captain Smith approached us, looking lost.

"Sir," Murdoch said, going to him. "We're swung out and ready. Should we begin loading?"

"Yes." He nodded, still not entirely there. "Yes, please do. Women and children first."

I helped a few crewmen wrestle the boat into lowering so that its gunwale was level with the deck. "Mr. Jewell. Mr. Hogg." Murdoch nodded to two of the crewmen, who happened to be lookouts from an earlier shift. "Man the boat. And you." He nodded to another crewman. "In. Be sure to help the women over the edge. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," they echoed together, and began climbing in.

"If we could have the women and children," Pitman called toward the crowd, but they just stood there, watching us, looking frozen in their lifebelts.

I didn't blame them. Who would want to plunge fifty feet to the sea in a tiny little boat when this glowing, seemingly steady beast was already here? "You should give it a go," Pitman said, coming to stand beside me. "You're a woman. Perhaps they'll listen to you."

I nodded; he had a point. Gulping, I straightened my hat, and then stepped forward a bit, closer to the crowd, trying to meet the eyes of the women. "Please," I said, "If the women and children could come forward, we'll help you into the boats. You must come forward."

One of the women set her jaw and stepped forward, nodding, bringing who appeared to be her mother with her. Another woman followed.

"What about—what about the newlyweds?" called Lowe. Looking at the knot of passengers, I realized that a lot of them did seem to be young couples, clutching each other.

Murdoch came up beside me, said, "Yes, please, let's get all the young couples into the boat. Now."

"Yes," I said, gesturing at them all, "Please come forward. We'll take as many as we can."

One of the couples came forward, looking at me and the officers as though they expected a pummeling, but let us help them into the boat. Another couple followed them, and at last there was a bit of steady traffic over the rail, young women and a few young men with them. Older men helped their wives forward, but didn't try to come into the boat themselves. It was sobering. Once their wives were onboard, they simply turned and disappeared into the crowd.

The boat was halfway full when suddenly, from near the grand entrance doors, I heard—well, it had to be—

"Is that Wedding Dance?" Pitman muttered from my left.

"I think so," I said, both of us staring at each other in surprise. "The band must be on deck." They were; other passengers were turning to look. It was surreal, hearing the charming waltz while the barely-contained panic simmered around us.

After a few minutes it was obvious that no others were willing to climb aboard, so Murdoch called, "Prepare to lower!"

There were hardly thirty people in the boat. What else could we do? No one else was stepping forward, and this left room for the boat to come back.

"Lower away!" Murdoch called to the deck hands on either side, and the pulleys began squeaking as they released the ropes. He was standing right on the edge. "Left and right together; steady lads!"

I hung onto the right davit frame, leaning partway over the side to look down at the boat. God, it was a long way down to the ocean. Wait—the lifeboat seemed to tip, and screams drifted up—

"Hold the left!" I cried, breathlessly watching the left side dip dangerously.

"Right side only!" Murdoch shouted to the crew. "Right side only, hold the left side—" It began to even out. "—and lower away evenly, both sides together!"

Breathing a sigh of relief, I watched the boat continue its descent, the crewmen at the pulleys now far more conscious of their work. At last it touched down, and the crewmen below disconnected from the lines. The first boat away.

I turned back to the deck, and saw that the crowd on this side was still depressingly small. We'd never fill another boat like this. I stepped over to Will as he and Pitman began moving toward the next boat. "I'm going to see if I can get more people over here," I said. "We won't fill any boats this way."

"Right," he said, squeezing my arm. "Go on, take Bert with you."

Pitman lifted an eyebrow at Murdoch's affections, but nodded and followed me to the port side.

The crowds were far more dense on this side. I could see Lightoller trying to help people into the boats, Wilde shouting at the crewmen and blowing his whistle. "If you please!" Pitman called to the passengers, trying to get their attention. "There's plenty more boats on the starboard side!"

"Yes, come along!" I waved them forward. A few of the passengers started at us like we were out of our minds, but a few followed.

There was no mistaking the relief in Murdoch's face when Pitman and I returned, more passengers in tow. He was relieved to see the passengers, certainly, but the way his eyes lingered on mine, his hand briefly at my side—he needed me there as much as I needed him.

We must have had forty occupants and no more women when Pitman and Murdoch looked at each other and shrugged, then at me, and I shrugged, too, and then we started letting single men aboard. At one point I heard someone new shouting for more passengers, and glanced back to see Bruce Ismay, coming to join one of the crewmen by the falls, waving passengers forward. He'd cut right in front of where Lowe had one foot in and one foot out of the boat, helping people board.

"Come on, then!" Ismay called, waving people forward wildly. "Step aboard!"

I couldn't believe it. I'd known Ismay for years, and I'd never seen him so insane. "Come on, Bruce," I said, touching his shoulder, gesturing off to the side. "You're in the way."

"Got to get them all lowered!" he said, all but ignoring me. "Come along, ladies!"

I glancing up at Lowe, but the fifth officer rolled his eyes, took a step back, and helped from there.

"I think that's it," I said to Murdoch at last, who nodded, seeing that there was nearly no one else about. He then looked at the two crewmen in the boat, then back to me.

Stomach falling away, I realized exactly what he was thinking. I stepped forward quickly and said, "Don't even think about it. Not yet."

Murdoch bit his lip, clearly wanting to put me in the boat and wondering whether it was worth it to fight me.

"Please," I whispered. "Don't make me leave you yet."

He nodded, tried to smile weakly, then looked around. "Mr. Pitman? Jump in with the other crewmen."

Pitman's mustache twitched, looking between both of us. "Sir. . ."

"That's an order, Bert," Murdoch said softly.

Pitman nodded, mouth in a thin line. He clearly wanted to stay and help, but held out his hand to me, then Murdoch. "Good-bye, then," Pitman said, meeting our eyes intently. "Good luck."

"And to you, old friend." Murdoch released Pitman's hand. Pitman climbed over the railing, and we started lowering.

I stood by the falls, waiting, listening to Ismay shouting Lower away!, just one thought on my mind: Who tells the first officer to jump in?

There were many more people by the time we were ready to lower boat No. 3, when we had to really begin separating the women from the men—including women who didn't want to leave the ship or their husbands.

"Come on, miss," I said as the woman nearest to me sobbed, trying to hang onto her husband, despite the fact that he was pushing her to get in. "This way. We'll help you." I could hear my voice shaking even as I tried to smile encouragingly.

"Go on, darling," the man was saying. "It's perfectly safe."

They buried themselves in a kiss and an embrace, and when I looked away, I found Murdoch meeting my eyes from over by the other davit. He looked about like I felt, and I could only stare back helplessly. Neither of us wanted this. I at last passed the woman over the gunwale to one of the crewmen, and her husband latched onto my shoulder. "Take care of her," he said, and disappeared into the crowd.

Staring after him, I had to force myself to get back to work, trying to ignore a pair of sobbing children already in No. 3 with their mother. I smiled at the next woman, a girl a few years younger than me. "Come on miss, you'll be all right. Into the boat. There you are." I was wondering when Murdoch and I would have to leave each other. And whether or not I'd actually obey his order.

"I can't ruddy do this," I whispered as he came to stand by me, the deckhands preparing to lower. "I can't force them apart from each other." Because I kept seeing the two of us in every one of those couples. And I was nowhere near ready to let go of Murdoch, no matter how fast the boat was slipping from beneath us.

"Throw them in if you have to," he murmured. "We must save as many as we can. Buck up, Ellen. You're brilliant with those women."

I tried nodding, and he moved away. "Ready on the left?" he called.

Ismay, who'd been encouraging passengers aboard No. 3, went to stand beside Murdoch and started wind-milling his arms, shouting "Lower away!"

I stared, rather wanting to kill him, because I couldn't make him go away and he was only being distracting. I could tell that Murdoch thought the same thing, but neither of us were about to pull the president of the line out of the way.

Lowe didn't mind, though. "If you get the hell out of the way," he exploded, "I could bloody do something!"

Ismay stepped back, surprised into silence, and didn't say much after that, but the passengers were staring at Lowe, absolutely aghast. I snorted, glad of Lowe's rambunctiousness, and clapped him on the shoulder. He nodded back, exasperated, watching Ismay go stand to the side as the boat went down. "Another minute and I would've said it," I told Lowe.

"Bloody hell!" Lowe said appreciatively, shaking his head. "He's lost it completely."

"Absolutely," I started, but that's when two men jumped past me, toward the half-lowered lifeboat. "Hey—!"

Lowe made a grab for them, but they jumped straight over the edge and into the boat. "Oi!" I shouted down at them, livid. "You wankers! Get out of there!"

But there was no way they could, as the passengers down below were still trying to get out from under the men who'd jumped, all shouting in the confusion.

I straightened, adrenaline coursing through me, feeling slightly hysterical. "The both of them," I said. "Wankers. There's a word everyone should use more often." Glancing over, I saw Murdoch staring at me, a surprised look on his face.

"They're a mite worse than wankers," Lowe grumbled from behind me.

"What's that look about?" I asked Murdoch.

"Ellen," Murdoch said, still surprised, "I think I might be in love with you."

I blinked at him. He was smiling slightly. "You—"

"What?" Lowe was staring between the two of us.

"Mr. Murdoch!" came a familiar voice; I spun to see Thomas heading our way. From his expression, it was clear that Murdoch's declaration and Lowe's surprise would need to wait. Lowe busied himself at the falls.

"What's this?" Thomas demanded of us, eyes on the boats rowing away. "These lifeboats are nowhere near full!"

"They won't board," I explained, defensive of Murdoch. "None of them want to leave the ship. And we thought if there's room, they can come back for the ones left in the water."

"But the water's at freezing," Thomas said, eyebrows slanted upwards. All the mirth I felt at Murdoch's words had faded. "They won't last twenty minutes in it. You've got to fill the boats as much as you can!"

"She's right, Thomas," Murdoch said, coming up beside me. He took my hand in his. "They won't bloody go. Believe us when we say we're doing all we can."

"Try picking them up and throw them in," Thomas said, then looked down at our hands. Then up at us. "What're—"

"Long story," I said sheepishly, Murdoch and I glancing at one another. "I was going to tell you later."

Thomas was surprised, the first smile I'd seen all night ghosting over his lips. "What, you spent two days griping at each other and now you're—holding hands, and flirting?"

"Quite," I told him, then reached out to squeeze his shoulder. "We'll get as many in as we can, Thomas."

He nodded. "Keep trying. I'm going to go help."

Murdoch turned to me as Thomas left. His eyes were so steady, compared to the confusion around us. "Holding up all right?"

I couldn't help but smile a bit, thinking of his words a few minutes ago. "Yes. Fine. You?"

"Bit warm." He was right; inside my greatcoat I could feel myself sweating.

"Are you two—are you—" Lowe was back, staring confusedly at us.

"Mr. Lowe," Murdoch said, putting a hand on Lowe's shoulder, "You should go and check the other side. See if they need help over there. That's where the crowds are."

Lowe knew a dismissal when he heard one. "Yes, sir," he said, wanting to know more but well aware of his duty. He turned to go.

And I remembered something. "Wait!" I dashed forward as he pulled up short, his curious gray eyes searching mine. I said, "A tablespoon each of cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg when you're making a big pot. And a dash of cardamom if you have it."

For a moment Lowe looked confused, then I saw the realization, and he turned to grip my shoulders, his jaw clenched. "I won't bloody remember that," he said, "Because you're making a pot of it the instant we're rescued. Understand?"

I nodded mutely, wishing I could truly believe him, trying to memorize his face. "Of course," I managed. "We—we'll need it. I plan on getting in at least a dozen more fights before they dismiss me."

"I should hope so." He squeezed my shoulder, nodded to Murdoch and then me, and I lost him in the crowds.

"Come on," Murdoch said, waving me toward boat No. 1, where the crowd waiting to board was thin. "You know what I think?" He raised his voice so the crew around us could hear. "From now on, if we haven't a large crowd, we're letting anyone board."

"Agree," I nodded, not willing to watch another couple tear at each other as they were pulled apart. "Good thinking."

"Aha!" We turned to see a wealthy gentleman in an overcoat approaching, two well-dressed women on his arms. "May we get in, sir?"

"Please do," Murdoch said, waving at the boat. "Plenty of room."

I was helping the women in when a stout, mustachioed man marched straight up to Murdoch and started complaining. "This is absurd," he snapped. "You're terrifying the passengers. How could you possibly believe those boats are any safer than the ship? Just whose orders are you following?"

Murdoch wasn't about to take a verbal pummeling. He simply smiled. "Go ahead and come aboard, if you like."

The man glanced at Murdoch, then me, then the crewmen—and tried to jump in. Except instead of a jump, it was a half-hearted skip. He ended up rolling over the edge of the boat so awkwardly that I couldn't suppress a giggle, and even Murdoch laughed at that, coming to stand beside me as the man fell into the bottom of the boat. "That's the funniest thing I've seen all night," he said.

I hadn't realized exactly how much I'd needed to hear that laugh, but I grinned back, a flicker of hope surfacing. I think I might be in love with you, too, I wanted to say, but I couldn't summon the courage. "We have great timing, you and I," I said finally.

"We have terrible timing," he argued, sobering up a bit. "We could have been doing this for days."

"Yes, or we could have said nothing at all, and we'd still be wondering."

"That's true." He kissed my forehead. I'd stopped caring whether anyone saw anything, and he seemed to have been on the same page.

We'd no sooner gotten that boat mostly full when an ensemble of Lightoller, Mr. Wilde, and the captain came up to us. The look on the captain's face reminded me of the dazed look I'd seen on Murdoch's face earlier. He was in shock. "Mr. Murdoch," Lights said tersely, "Miss Wallace. Come with us?"

Murdoch and I traded glances. "Mr. Edkins, take over for a moment," Murdoch told one of the crewmen, and I followed the senior officers as they stepped away.

"Where are we going, then?" Murdoch asked Lightoller. Another flare rocket shot into the sky from the wheelhouse.

It was Wilde who answered as the flare popped overhead, sparks and smoke streaking downward. "Arms locker," he said. "We've got to get the officers guns if we're to keep these crowds under control."

"Is that really necessary—" Murdoch began.

"If you want to get as many passengers off this ship alive as you can," Captain Smith spoke up, looking back, "then yes, Mr. Murdoch. It's necessary."

Murdoch looked at me doubtfully and I shrugged, just as unconvinced. But we knew better than to argue, so we followed behind them in silence, our gloved fingers tangled tightly at our sides.