Author's Note: Can you believe it? We've reached the end. My dear readers, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, from the heart of my soul, thank you for sticking with this tale for as long as you have. You're the ones who kept me writing. You're the ones who made me pick up my pen (er, keyboard?) after nearly six years of not going anywhere near these characters. Thank you also to those of you I haven't heard from—my traffic meter tells me there are quite a few of you, so thanks for taking the time, and I hope you enjoyed the ride. And I do hope the epilogue gives all of you a decent sense of, well, closure. It's nowhere near the same vein as my previous Titanic-related epilogue, but feel free to envision eternal boning, navy coats on the floor, and sweet sarcasm. They deserve it so much. Writing them again was so much fun, and Ellen's a character I'm sad to part with.

As a final disclaimer: Ellen is mine, the story is mine, and plagiarism kills kittens, or something. Some of the dialogue and cinematic elements belong to that rascal James Cameron, and the Titanic and anyone involved now belong to the ages.

Once again, thank you. I'm done writing in the Titanic realm, though it will always have a place in my heart. For now, I offer you a final enjoy and review. It's been wonderful, lovelies. Now go into the world, and write, and be brilliant.

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Epilogue: Lightoller
April 21, 1912
6:15 PM

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Charles Lightoller has always hated cigarettes, but nonetheless he was halfway through one, staring blankly out at the dusky, darkening sky. "Sodding hell," he said absently, in a cloud of smoke.

Bert Pitman managed a smile, staring down into the busy street outside the Waldorf. It wasn't yet dark enough for the gas lamps to come on. "Quite," Pitman agreed, propped against a pillar. He was smoking, too— the cigarettes were his. "How long have we been here today?"

"Let's see." Lightoller balanced his cigarette in his lips, reaching for his pocket watch. As he clicked the gold lid open, he briefly remembered doing the same thing two weeks ago. He'd been waiting impatiently for Ellen Wallace in a conference room that was now five miles below the surface of the North Atlantic. "It's a quarter past six," he said. "Nearly nine hours now."

Pitman grunted, shifting. "I've had about enough Senator Smith," he said. "Bloody American politicians."

Lightoller blew a stream of smoke into the night. It was comforting, in a way. "As if ours are much better."

"Ah, good evening, gentlemen."

Both men straightened as a portly, graying man stepped onto the terrace. It was Lord William James Pirrie, his face was drawn with loss—loss of his nephew the shipbuilder, his niece the junior officer, the ship and the souls that went with it.

Two weeks ago, Lightoller would have immediately smushed out his cigarette and stood at attention. Now he couldn't quite summon the heart. "Sir," he and Pitman said.

"At ease," Pirrie said quietly. "Mr. Lightoller, I was wondering if I might have a word."

Pitman nodded and excused himself. Lights studied Lord Pirrie, thinking that usually the head of Harland and Wolff shipbuilders was jovial, warm, and one of the sharpest, most astute men he'd ever met. Now Pirrie moved slowly, as though every step pained him. He looked wan—clearly he hadn't been sleeping. Lights knew Pirrie had stepped off the boat from England that morning, and headed straight for the hearing, which he'd been sitting in on ever since.

"Mr. Lightoller," Pirrie started, "I should thank you. You're a bloody hero."

Lights felt uncomfortable. Others had tried to tell him the same, but he'd only done his duty. There was no heroics in that. No heroism in surviving, when he wasn't sure what got his half of his friends first—the drowning, or the cold. "What can I do for you?" he asked, suddenly glad to have something to do with his hands. He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette.

"I wanted to ask about my niece, Ms. Wallace," Pirrie said.

Lights resisted a frustrated groan. Since everyone had stepped off the Carpathia and onto Pier 54, he'd been bombarded with questions from countless people as to whether or not he, Lights, had witnessed their relatives' final moments. It was exhausting, harrowing, and slightly nauseating. Lights had spent his first night back on land retching over a basin in his complimentary hotel room, overcome with it all, realizing that he could never, ever forget the death that surrounded him that night.

Now Pirrie, of all people, wanted to know about his niece? Lights had no idea what happened to her. He remembered her hesitation at leaving him, her quick kiss on his cheek, but then he'd turned away, lest he thought too hard about how she shouldn't have refused a lifeboat. He remembered hoping dearly that he'd get the chance to work with her when it was all over, but at that point he had to get the ruddy collapsible down.

"That's not what I meant," Pirrie said, seeing the look in Lightoller's eyes. "I simply. . ." He sighed. "There's no delicate way to go about it. We wanted Ellen to be the measure of whether we should open similar jobs across the industry. I simply wanted to know whether you thought she performed her duties well and admirably."

Lightoller inhaled on the cigarette. The far end of it glowed.

"I understand you didn't have much to go on." Pirrie looked away, down at the street beneath them. The lamps had finally come on. "She wasn't even your charge yet. But anything you could tell me would be helpful."

Lights had to think about it.

He wasn't sure if he could honestly say. He'd seen her doing her duties well enough, and promptly, so there was that. But Ellen was an anomaly. He hadn't expected to like her, much less find out that she wasn't a stupid, skirt-swirling twit interested only in marrying off to a sailor. She was genuine; she was as insecure about her new job as the rest of them. She cursed more frequently than he did, which was impressive. And somehow she'd captured the heart of a man who hadn't truly given his away in years. How could she be the standard to which the White Star Line held itself?

"I don't know, sir," he said at last. He breathed smoke from his nose. "She performed her duties admirably, as far as I saw."

Pirrie studied him. "Indeed?"

"Quite. But she. . ." He sighed, shifted, sucked on the cigarette again. This was going to become a habit if he wasn't careful. "She was different, sir. From other women. I don't know if you'll find another like her. She fit in with us because she—well, she was one of us, for all that she was a woman. It took time, yes. Even I wasn't convinced at first. We expected a dimwit who didn't know the first thing about the business, but she was. . ." He felt helpless. He never prattled. "Well, she was brilliant, I thought."

Pirrie was smiling sadly. "It will be hard to replace her."

Lightoller wasn't sure he wanted anyone to replace her. "I would think," he said. He ground out the cigarette butt on the railing.

"She was terrified, you know," Pirrie said, shaking his head. "She wanted the job, because she wanted to help women have a more prominent role in maritime industries. But she expected it to be hell. From what I can tell, you helped make it less so."

Lights, and Will. He remembered the way he'd caught Will looking at her over the tops of his cards. The blush that flamed in her cheeks when he'd mentioned Will being mad for her, as she and Lights loaded Collapsible B. "I think she was happy," he said finally. "If there are more women like her, by all means—bring them aboard."

Pirrie smiled, clapped him on the shoulder. "Thank you, Mr. Lightoller," he said. "And thank you for all you did for the passengers. I'd best be getting back."

Pirrie moved away and Lights turned back to the street, hands in his pockets, eyes closed. In a minute he, too, would have to go back inside, no doubt for another round of questions that he was already sick and tired of answering. But for now, out here on the dusky terrace, he had a moment. He could think of his friends laughing together over hands of poker and cups of coffee, finally all getting along. He could think of seeing his wife in just a few weeks, her amber curls and bright gray eyes sharp in his mind; his fingers in his pocket were curled around a strip of paper with her latest telegram. He could remember the serene joy he'd felt in walking along the Titanic's new decks at night during his rounds, salted sea wind breezing over him.

Lights breathed deeply, opened his eyes, the glow of the street lamps below. Here, on the terrace, above the lamps, there was at last a bit of peace.