"Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live." - Norman Cousins

Wednesday, April 3rd, 1912

London, England

The ambient chatter and clink of silverware faded as Christine crossed the threshold between the living and the dead. She was the only member of the party to slip away, silent and unnoticed, to the den at the back of the hallway. There, an open coffin rested atop a long, clawed-foot table. She hesitated only a moment before stepping forward to peer over the casket's edge. With the cool indifference of a patron at a museum, Christine studied the corpse of the only mother she had ever known.

Death had relaxed Antoinette Giry's features into a serene, contented expression that seemed unnatural on a face that, in life, had been permanently etched into a scowl. She was too open; too vulnerable. It was as if an amateur artist had been commissioned to sculpt a wax figure of the ballet mistress, but failed in all respects to capture the essence of the woman she had once been.

"It looks nothing like her, does it?" said a voice behind her, as if reading her mind. Christine turned to see Meg leaning against the door frame, watching.

"Not like the woman I knew," she answered carefully. "But then, it's been many years since I saw her last."

Meg shifted her weight, her expression unreadable. "She asked about you, from time to time."

"I hope you gave her my regards."

"Of course."

A heavy silence fell over the room as Meg's eyes drifted over her mother's face and Christine's eyes drifted to the floor.

At last it was Meg who dared to speak, her voice tight with pain. "Toward the end, she… her – her mind wasn't what it used to be. Sometimes she could remember who she was, where she was. But other times…" She ran her tongue over her teeth, glancing sideways at the wall to hide the fact that her eyes glistened. "I remember that first morning, we had been talking normally, not about anything in particular. The weather, the Sunday news. And then all of a sudden she stopped mid-sentence, frowning at something over my shoulder. Out of nowhere she began to bark out orders at thin air. I listened, and I listened, and I thought, no… it can't be. She thought – she honestly thought she was the ballet mistress again, back at the Populaire. I was too stunned even to correct her. She spent nearly an hour lecturing those invisible little ballet rats. Terrible posture, abhorrent footwork, they would singlehandedly bring about the ruination of the art of ballet." Meg smiled, then, but it wavered and fell as quickly as it had come.

"She declined very quickly after that. Every day she would have entire conversations with people who weren't there. Ghosts. Papa, the baker down the street, Monsieur Reyer. There was no rhyme or reason to it. The doctor told us to prepare ourselves. The second stroke came three days later. After that she never came back. I was someone different every day, sometimes every hour. I figured eventually, through the process of elimination, she'd think I was myself – or at least a younger version of myself. I'd go in every morning hoping, but…" She pursed her lips, giving a little shake of her head. For a long moment she was quiet, her eyes glazed over. "You know, I could always tell in an instant when she thought I was you. The moment I stepped in the door, her face would light up with such… pride."

It was too much. Christine stood motionless by the casket, paralyzed by the emotional barrage. Chills curled up her spine, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. There was nowhere to go, nothing to say. She concentrated on her breathing, and hoped beyond hope that Meg would simply leave her alone and go back to the party.

Of course, it was not that simple. The ensuing silence pulsed with expectancy as Meg waited for words of comfort. Christine knew what her friend needed so desperately to hear: Your mother loved you more than anything, and certainly more than me. I was her pupil; you were her daughter. She was very proud of you. As seconds bled into minutes, she watched as comprehension dawned on Meg's face; gradually, incredulously, she seemed to realize that Christine had no intention of smoothing over the crippling fear that she was second-place in her own mother's heart. With a sentence, Christine could obliterate that demon forever; instead, she offered only silence. Hot on the heels of this understanding came the lethal stab of betrayal, and all at once, tears flashed to Meg's eyes.

"Unbelievable," she hissed. She took a half step toward Christine, drawing in a breath, as if to give voice at last to all the vile and vulgar thoughts that she had held back over the years. Christine closed her eyes, drawing her abdominal muscles tight in preparation for the onslaught she knew she deserved. Meg's fury was absolutely justified. In that one stretch of incompetent silence, forty years of friendship had been shattered irreparably. Christine tried to hate herself for her failure. She tried to ache for the loss of her only friend. But nothing, it seemed, would cut through the emptiness that permeated every inch of her soul.

Whatever Meg had intended to say, she seemed to think the better of it at the last moment. Instead, she let out a single, heartbroken sob, and smacked something down onto the table beside her mother's casket.

"Here," she spat, her voice dripping with venom. "This is for you. From my mother, with love."

The tap of her retreating footsteps announced her departure as she stormed away, leaving Christine alone with the dead. Only when the room was entirely silent again did Christine dare to open her eyes and look down with trepidation at the thing Meg had left for her.

It was a shoebox, wrapped in brown paper and secured tightly with twine. A small piece of paper had been attached, and written on it in Madame Giry's hand was a single line: For Christine, in the hope that she might finally understand.

Christine's eyes drifted slowly, heavily, to the corpse's face. Her lungs cramped, viselike, for want of release – in laughter, in tears, she supposed it didn't matter; she would do neither. Instead, she swallowed, held the box in white-knuckled hands, and walked away.

She paused only once, in front of a crackling fireplace. For a moment she considered burning the box, and whatever misguided good intentions Madame Giry had sealed within it. At last she decided against it, if only for the time-being; she could not bring herself to destroy the heirloom in Meg's house. She would get rid of the thing later, or bury it deep in storage so that she would never have to see or think of it again. Nothing good or beneficial could come out of the understanding Madame Giry hoped to enlighten her with postmortem. Christine was years beyond the realm of help.

Supper that night was nearly unbearable.

Christine and her husband Walter had planned to stay late once the rest of the funeral party had dispersed, in order to help clean up and keep their friends company during this difficult time. Walter and Meg's husband, John Woodmore, had been the best of friends just as long as the two women; they were international business partners, with John operating the London-based leg of their textile empire, while Walter worked out of Georgia, where his family had owned and operated several booming cotton plantations for generations. It had been through the matchmaking efforts of John and Meg that Christine had been introduced to her second husband in the first place, and so the couples had fallen organically into a pattern of social visits over the years. Each time Walter came to London on business he would bring Christine, so that she could visit with Meg while the men worked, and vice versa. For a while, the couples were virtually inseparable; they were together more often than not. They traveled leisurely around Europe and New England, even once venturing to Egypt to see the great pyramids.

Everything changed when John and Meg had their first grandchild. Their daughter moved into a home just down the street to be close to them, and suddenly the entire world shifted on its axis. Almost immediately the excuses came flooding in: they simply couldn't make it to Atlanta this week, little William was cutting his first tooth, and they couldn't very well miss such an important milestone! With subsequent grandchildren, the list of excuses grew exponentially longer – Eleanor had a violin recital, Henry was home with the measles and refused to take medicine from anyone but Grandpapa. The more of themselves they poured into their budding family, the less time they seemed to have for fraternizing with old friends, and so a distance had grown between the couples over the past few years.

In all honesty, Christine hadn't been terribly bothered by it, and Walter was able to carry out the majority of business via telegram; and so, aside from the occasional twinge of nostalgia, life carried on without so much as a break in stride. Until this trip, Christine honestly couldn't remember the last time they had seen the Woodmores in person. It had been months, certainly, if not years. What had struck her most sharply about this trip in particular was that it was the first time she and Walter had opted to stay in a hotel rather than in John and Meg's guest quarters; this, more than anything, spoke volumes about the unfortunate plunge their relationship had taken in recent years.

Evidently, Walter had arrived at the same conclusion, and was much more perturbed about it than Christine, for he had made a point to spend as much time with John during their time in London as he possibly could. The two men fell into their old patterns easily; brandies and newspapers, political banter, cigars and late-night card games – effortlessly, they picked up the pieces of their friendship and carried on as if they had never parted. They were having almost a shameful good time, considering the circumstances; neither of them seemed to pay any heed to the fact that Christine and Walter had come for a funeral. The men even went so far as to book passage back to America together on a ship out of Southampton the following week – the latest and greatest from the White Star Line; a luxurious cruise that promised the opportunity to mingle with the best and brightest of high society. The men had been practically salivating with excitement as they pored over the newspaper, reading the rumored first-class passenger list. John was already packed and had his bag waiting by the door, and even told his grandson, William, that he would have to make the next rugby match. All of the plans were in place; they would take the train to Southampton together on Tuesday, stay overnight at the South Western Hotel overlooking the dock, and board the RMS Titanic on Wednesday morning.

That was, until the four of them sat down to supper together that night.

John and Meg came to the table belatedly, and Christine could tell at once that they had been quarreling. John's face was scarlet, with bulging veins at his temples, and Meg had telltale smudges of mascara on her lower lids that she hadn't managed to wipe completely away.

The couples went through their salad and soup courses without saying so much as a word before John broke the silence by clearing his throat. "I'm sorry to say that I have some very unhappy news to share with you, dear friends." He pursed his lips into a white line and dabbed them with his napkin, visibly stalling for time, as if hoping that if he waited long enough, he wouldn't have to make his dreaded announcement. When it became apparent that nothing would prevent it, he finally continued, "Much as it pains me to say so, I'm afraid we won't be able to join you on the trip back to America next week."

"What?" Walter cried at once, his voice flying up an octave. He dropped his fork with a clatter for theatrical effect, and then demanded, "What do you mean 'can't go'? Since when?"

John shot a look at Meg that went completely unnoticed, as she was suddenly very interested in the contents of her dinner plate. With a miserable sigh, he conceded, "Sorry, old boy. You know how badly I'd like to be there. Personal matters, you understand."

Suddenly remembering the circumstances of the day, Walter backed down with an extremely reluctant, "Of course, yes, I understand. Absolutely. Yes. I know this must be a – an incredibly difficult time for you both." He took a moment to process this new information, chewing a large bite of sirloin. "Well, that's a darn shame. A darn shame. I guess we'll just have to bring you along next time, then, eh, Johnny? Maybe we'll try to make it out for the Gigantic launch. That's sure to be even bigger."

"Quite right," said John, visibly cheered. "That's an excellent idea. We'll plan for it."

Across the table, Meg sniffed, and took a long, deep drink of her chardonnay.

Christine pushed the potatoes around her plate, and said nothing.

"Have a wonderful trip!" John called from the porch, trying his best to put on a good face. Even from the end of the drive, though, it was impossible to miss the slump of his shoulders as he waved them good-bye. "Be sure to send a telegram once you reach New York."

"And you're sure you can't come?" Walter tried one last time, leaning out the car window. "We don't make launch for another week. Who knows, maybe Meg'll change her mind."

"I'm afraid she's quite set on staying here, old boy. You understand, I simply don't have the heart to push her at a time like this." John shrugged miserably. "But I shall expect a full, detailed recollection when you return. Keep a notepad by your bed at night, if you must. I want to know absolutely everything."

"Sure, sure I will. Every last detail, I swear it."

"I shall hold you to it! Good-night, dear friends. Bon voyage!"

"G'night, John!" Walter ducked back into the cab with a theatrical sigh as the driver turned out onto the street. He cast a quizzical glance at Christine, who sat at the opposite end of the bench, staring vacantly out of her window.

"Aren't you going to say good-bye?"

She shifted her weight, refusing to meet his gaze. "I did, inside."

"Well, I didn't see it. Seemed like you barely said two words all night. What's the matter with you, anyhow?"

Christine had the good sense to remain silent. When her husband was on the offensive, there was never a correct response. Instead, she shrugged diffidently and tried for a subject change.

"It's too bad Meg and John won't be joining us."

Fortunately, Walter accepted the bait enthusiastically, as it was a subject fresh on his mind. "You know, I wasn't going to say any of this in front of them, but if you ask me, it was bad form for her to pull that death card on him like that. I don't pretend to know what her problem is, but something else is going on with her, you mark my words. From what I hear, she wasn't even that close to her mother in the first place. The old bag lived in Paris, and they barely spoke until she lost her taw and near burnt her whole flat down. It was out of Christian goodness that John even bothered to take her in. Now, I don't mean to be crass, but I reckon it's a blessing in disguise that the old lady finally hit the bone orchard. Now maybe those two can finally get back out into the world and live again."

Unflinching, exhausted, Christine merely rested her forehead against the window pane and made a noncommittal noise of assent. She never once turned to look out the rear-view window as Meg's beautiful house disappeared behind them.