He finds her sitting near the bow of the ship as the sun is just starting it's descent in the sky. Her mirror is held in her lap, a sight that surprises him after so many days of seeing her without it, and as he comes closer he notices that there are tears in her eyes. Concern fills him immediately as he settles himself beside her. "What's the matter, love?"
She seems somewhat startled to be caught in such a state, jumping a little at his presence and hurrying to wipe her eyes. "Oh," she whispers, more to herself than him. "I…I just wanted to check in…"
"Has something happened?"
She looks miserable, almost guilty, but somehow detached at the same time. "It's the flu…Spanish flu, from what I was able to overhear." The words mean nothing to him, but he says nothing as he lets her contunue. "My mother contracted it, and Lavinia, and…I'm afraid Lavinia has died."
It takes him a moment to remember who Lavinia is, trying to recall the conversation they'd had of this mysterious—to him, anyway—illness striking her home. "I'm sorry, love," he says softly, running his hand down her back. "Were the two of you close?"
She shakes her head. "Not really," she admits. "I think we were only friends because of Matthew, to be honest. But I do feel terrible for not being there for her…for any of them."
"You mustn't blame yourself, love," he's quick to say. Killian Jones knows a thing or two about blaming yourself for the death of loved ones, and the last thing he wants is to witness Mary travel down that slippery slope. "It probably would have happened with or without you there—"
"Oh, I know that," she said immediately, trying to calm his worries. "It's just…I suppose it's difficult to imagine life going on without me like this. I wish so terribly that I could be there for the others and Matthew, but at the same time…I can't help but wonder if it's better that I'm not there. I can let him grieve her in peace."
"Mary…" Killian sighs, wrapping his good arm around her and pressing a kiss to the top of her head, warm and sweet-smelling from the sun. "I don't know this Matthew of yours, but something tells me he's been mourning your loss much longer than he will hers."
She doesn't say anything for a moment, and he releases his grip on her long enough to reach into his coat and pull out his flask. He holds it aloft towards the light of the setting sun, a silent salute to a woman he did not know and never will. "To Lavinia." He takes a pull from the flask and hands it off to her.
"To Lavinia," Mary echoes, taking her own sip in tribute. She hands the rum back to him and settles back into his embrace. "You don't have to stay here with me, you know. I don't mind."
He smiles against her temple, breathing in the scent of her. He knows that every day they get closer to Regina's castle is one day closer to potentially having to say goodbye, and he doesn't want to miss a moment with Mary until then. "I'm not going anywhere, love."