( chapter thirty-one ! )
"Sit up properly."
The fork feels heavy in my hand, smooth and cold, the silver reflecting the candlelight in little slivers. I straighten my back, pressing my shoulders down and keeping my chin level, just like I was taught. Across the table, Aunt Rosaline cuts her meat with clean, precise movements. Her knife barely makes a sound against the porcelain plate.
I glance at my own plate. The food is arranged neatly, no crumbs, no mess. I know better than to leave a mess.
"Elbows off the table."
I lower them immediately. My fingers tighten slightly around the fork, but I don't say anything. I don't sigh, don't fidget, don't react in any way that could make it seem like I'm resisting. I just fix it. That's how it works.
The dining room is large, too large for just two people. The ceilings stretch high, and the chandelier casts everything in soft, flickering light. The walls are lined with paintings—portraits, landscapes, things that look expensive and old. The air smells faintly of the lavender polish the maids use on the furniture.
It's quiet. It's always quiet.
The only sounds come from the soft clink of silverware and the occasional murmur of a servant refilling glasses before disappearing again. They move around the edges of the room like they aren't really there.
I push the food around on my plate, cutting small pieces but not eating them. I'm not hungry right now, but I know better than to leave food untouched.
Aunt Rosaline notices. Of course, she notices.
"A lady does not fidget."
Her voice is soft, even, but not unkind. Just a reminder.
I stop immediately, setting my hands in my lap for a moment before picking up the fork again, this time with more purpose. No hesitation.
There are a lot of rules. Some of them I knew before coming here. Some I didn't. A lady speaks clearly, but never too loudly. A lady does not slouch. A lady listens first and speaks when it is appropriate. A lady does not question the rules, she simply follows them.
I am still learning.
The silence stretches. My back is starting to ache from sitting so straight, but I don't adjust. Aunt Rosaline lifts her wine glass, finally meeting my gaze. Her eyes are sharp, assessing, but there's something else there—something thoughtful.
She takes a sip, then sets the glass down.
"You've improved."
It isn't praise, not exactly. More of an observation. But I can tell she means it.
I nod. "Yes, Aunt Rosaline."
She watches me for a second longer before turning back to her plate. I don't know what she's looking for when she does that—when she studies me like she's measuring my progress. I wonder if I meet whatever expectations she has.
I must be doing well enough. She hasn't corrected me in a while.
I chew a small bite of food, swallowing carefully.
The meal continues like that—silent, structured, careful. It's not bad. I've learned to find the quiet comforting in a way. It's predictable. I always know what to expect here.
After a while, Aunt Rosaline dabs her lips with her napkin and sets it down beside her plate.
"When we finish, you will practice the piano for an hour," she says. "Then, you may read before bed."
I nod again. "Yes, Aunt Rosaline."
She watches me again, tilting her head slightly.
"You don't have to be so stiff, Leah," she says after a moment. "You're doing well. You don't need to brace yourself for correction every second."
I blink.
I hadn't realized I was doing that.
I lower my shoulders just slightly, though I don't let myself slouch.
She gives a small, almost amused sigh, then lifts her glass again.
"Finish your food," she says, and that's the end of it.
I do.
No— I don't? The table is gone. Where has the table gone? And the walls. They're crumbling. What is—
Darkness.
A dull ringing hums in Leah's ears.
It isn't loud, nor is it painful, but it's persistent—something pressing at the edges of awareness, coaxing her back into wakefulness. The weight of her own body follows soon after like she had been drifting somewhere untethered and is now being gently set back in place.
The first thing she sees is lighting that is a tad bit too bright, lanterns swaying ever so slightly as the ship moves beneath her. The ceiling is unfamiliar, though the low, distant sound of creaking wood and shifting waves tells her everything she needs to know.
Still on the Campania.
Then movement—shadows shifting against the flickering light. A presence near her. Leah's eyes focus sluggishly, tracing the dark silhouette of a figure crouched at her side. The gleam of a button catches in the low light, the distinct cut of black fabric framing an all-too-familiar face.
Sebastian.
His crimson gaze meets hers the moment she stirs. His expression is unreadable, but there's a quiet scrutiny in his posture, as though he's cataloging every detail of her state.
"You return to us," he murmurs, his voice smooth but notably subdued.
Leah blinks slowly. There's an odd, weightless feeling still clinging to her, the afterimage of something old and distant lingering in her chest. Her limbs feel heavy, her thoughts slower than they should be.
A shift of movement catches her attention, drawing her gaze past Sebastian.
Ciel sits beside her head, eyes flickering between her and something else in the distance. His back is straight despite the tension in his frame, his expression composed but sharp. One hand rests over his ankle, fingers twitching minutely in a way that betrays discomfort. Even without speaking, it's clear he's in pain.
"You lost consciousness," he states flatly, his tone clipped but not unkind. "For a minute or two."
Two minutes.
It had felt like much longer.
Leah exhales, slow and measured. The weight of her memories is gone, but the remnants of it still press faintly at the edges of her mind, like the faded imprint of a dream she can't quite shake.
But she is here.
The past is behind her.
And the Campania still sways beneath her feet.
Feeling a dull pain in her arm, she glances down and notices a small graze made by Undertaker's death scythe. 'My head hitting the floor must have caused the unconsciousness..' Leah scrunches her nose as she tries to gather her thoughts. 'But why did I hit the floor? I was standing.'
Her questions are answered when her brain finally registers the noises mere feet away.
Loud noises. Excessively loud.
Leah draws her attention away from the pair above her to settle on the familiar blonde hair of her notorious butler. Her brain hardly has a moment to register anything before she watches Thomas' fist fly towards Undertaker with a startling speed, creating a crater-like hole in the wall when the attack is dodged.
The fight between Thomas and Undertaker is nothing short of monstrous. The ship rocks beneath the force of each clash, the groan of metal and the crack of splintering wood swallowed only by the howling wind and the unnatural sounds coming from the two combatants. It is not the refined battle of gentlemen nor the swift execution of skilled killers—it is raw, violent, an exhibition of power unhindered by restraint or reason.
Thomas moves like something not bound by human limitations. His body jerks and twists, dodging with a precision that should not be possible. His limbs snap forward like a beast lunging for a kill, his strikes erratic but calculated, as if he is thinking beyond mere instinct. He does not fight like a swordsman, nor an assassin—there is no refinement, no measured grace. It is something worse.
His movements are unpredictable, violent. There is a moment where he lurches forward, his body contorting unnaturally, and he grabs Undertaker by the wrist before the scythe can fully swing downward. The force alone cracks bone.
There is no hesitation, no faltering. A lesser man would recoil, would second-guess inflicting such damage on a whim. Thomas does not. He is grinning.
Except—he has no lips to grin with anymore.
Leah watches with wide, unblinking eyes. There's something wrong. Something deeply, terribly wrong.
At first, she thinks it's the disorientation from what she'd just witnessed in her unconsciousness, the lingering haze of memories long locked away fogging her vision. But no—no, the moment her gaze lands on Thomas, she knows it is not a trick of her mind.
Because that thing is not Thomas.
Or rather, it is him—but it is not the face he wears, the one she has grown accustomed to, the one that fits seamlessly into the world as if he belongs. This face—if it could even be called that—was something else entirely. One she has seen before.
There is no flesh, no recognizable features beyond the gaping pits where eyes should be, the rows of jagged teeth bared without lips to conceal them. His entire form seems in flux, shifting between something half-formed and something wholly inhuman, as though he cannot decide what shape to take. It is a horror, an abomination against nature, against logic. The only things that remain intact are his legs, eerily human amidst the chaos of his warping body.
The worst part isn't even how he looks. It's how natural it seems. How effortless it is, as though Thomas has no problem with showing his true self
Leah sits up and grabs the railing beside her, fingers digging into the metal. "Do you see that?" she asks aloud, voice steadier than it has any right to be.
Beside her, Ciel tenses. Sebastian remains unnervingly composed. Neither of them immediately respond.
Leah's gaze doesn't waver. "Tell me you see it."
Ciel is the first to speak, though he does not meet her eyes. "See what?" His voice is careful, measured, betraying nothing.
Leah lets out a breath, sharp and exasperated. "That." She gestures toward Thomas, who is currently dodging Undertaker's scythe with unnatural, fluid movements, his form flickering between something solid and something nightmarish. "You're telling me you don't see that? You're right there, Ciel."
Standing there with a frustratingly neutral expression, Sebastian tilts his head. "Perhaps you are still disoriented from your fall, My Lady," he suggests, smooth as ever. "Head injuries can play tricks on the mind, especially when one is abruptly awakened."
"Oh, don't patronize me, Sebastian," Leah's head snaps toward him, disbelief clear in her eyes. "That is not my mind playing tricks on me. That is not normal."
Ciel exhales through his nose. "Leah—"
"No, Ciel," she cuts him off, her grip on the railing tightening. "Do not insult my intelligence by pretending you do not see what is right in front of you." her gaze flickers between them, sharp and searching.
Ciel says nothing.
Sebastian only offers the faintest of smiles, utterly unreadable. "Perhaps, My Lady, it is best not to dwell on things beyond comprehension."
Leah almost laughs. Almost. Because that is such an obvious deflection. A weak, flimsy attempt to make her question herself, to cast doubt on her own perception. But she is not so easily fooled.
Her eyes return to the fight, to the way Thomas moves, to the way Undertaker grins despite facing something that should not be.
"No," she murmurs. "I don't think I will."
She doesn't look away. Not this time.
Thomas lunges again, his body twisting mid-air in a way that is distinctly wrong. Undertaker narrowly dodges, but just as he pivots, Thomas moves faster—his hand clamps around the edge of the death scythe, not caring for the gash it carves into his palm.
There is no flinch of pain. No reaction at all. Only the slow tilt of his head, as if fascinated by the blood dripping from his own hand.
Leah feels something cold settle in her stomach.
"He is not human," she states outright, the words falling from her lips like stone. "I know he is not human."
Shifting slightly, Ciel tries to gather his thoughts. It is minute, barely perceptible, but she catches it. He knows. He has always known.
Sebastian, ever composed, only offers a slight tilt of his head. "That is quite the bold claim, My Lady."
She clenches her jaw. "Bold? No. Obvious," Leah gestures toward the fight, toward the grotesque display of Thomas in his truest form. "Look at him. That is not a man. No man moves like that, no man looks like that beneath his skin."
Ciel's fingers curl slightly at his side. "You are jumping to conclusions."
Letting out a short, incredulous laugh, Leah fights the urge to throw something. "Am I?" She turns her gaze fully onto him now, eyes sharp despite the slight disorientation still gnawing at the edges of her mind. "Then tell me what you see, Ciel. Look me in the eye and tell me that is an ordinary man fighting before us."
Ciel does not answer.
Sebastian hums. "Perhaps it is merely a trick of the light."
"Enough," Leah's patience snaps like a thread pulled too tight. She whirls back toward the fight, gripping the railing with white-knuckled fingers. "You may think me ignorant, but I am not blind," she takes a breath, steadying herself, then speaks again—deliberate, clear. "If you insist on feigning ignorance, then allow me to say it plainly: Thomas is something else. I know not what, but I know what he isn't."
She meets Ciel's gaze again, her own unwavering. "And so do you."
For a moment, there is only the sounds of the fight, the battle continuing without pause. Undertaker laughs as he dodges another strike, his grin wide, amused despite the state of things. He knows as well.
Ciel's lips press into a thin line. He is weighing his response carefully, as he always does, but Leah knows the truth. She sees it.
Sebastian, on the other hand, only smiles. "My Lady," he says, tone ever-polite, ever-unchanging, "some questions are best left unanswered."
Leah exhales slowly, staring at him, searching his face for any sign of wavering. There is none.
She clenches her fists at her sides.
"Perhaps," she says at last, "but I am not one to leave questions alone."
With that, she turns her attention back to Thomas, watching as the molten black of his form flickers, and shifts, the nightmare wearing his skin more real than it ever should be.
"St—" Ciel tries to speak.
Leah doesn't bother to look at him. "If you lie to me again, I shall slap you."
A look of surprise crosses Ciel's face. "What?"
"I said, if—"
There is a chorus of screams that erupts through the room, drowning out the sentence that Leah fails to complete. If Leah was not gripping the railing in this very moment, she would have been knocked off of her feet and fall into the depths. The front of the Campania is tilting upwards.
She can feel the lack of solid ground beneath her and she tries to keep her hold tight, but her palms—sweaty from panic—are beginning to betray her.
However, her focus isn't on her failing hold on the railing, but rather the flash to her right followed by a deafening scream. Leah, against her better judgment, glances down just in time to see Stoker plummet to his death, their eyes locking for a brief moment before he is no longer in view.
Her eyes widen in horror at the sight, knowing she can end in the same way, but Grell's words in the distance are the main thing to unsettle her.
"Ryan Stoker, born August 24th, 1854. Death by falling accident on April 20th, 1889. No special remarks."
'Only 34..? Dead before my eyes?'
The ship shudders violently beneath Leah's feet, and her fingers—slick with sweat, aching with strain—threaten to slip from the railing at any moment. The Campania lurches as though possessed by some vengeful force, the bow tilting ever higher, sending furniture, bodies, and debris tumbling into the growing abyss below. Leah clings to the railing, her fingers slipping against the sweat-slicked wood, her heart hammering wildly.
She dares to glance downward once more. The dark water yawns below, a vast and merciless abyss, swallowing the wreckage of fallen beams and shattered glass. It calls to her with a terrible certainty—if she falls, she will not surface again.
Screams fill the air—some distant, others terrifyingly near—yet they barely register in her ears over the pounding of her own heart. Her limbs tremble, weakened by terror and exhaustion, and despite her every effort, her grip begins to fail her.
Then, in a cruel instant, the railing jerks away from beneath her grasp.
A sharp gasp catches in her throat as her body pitches backward into empty space. The ship, the sky, the chaos—everything spins into a nightmarish blur. Cold wind tears at her skin, and for a brief, breathless moment, all she knows is the sickening sensation of freefall. The same sensation she has felt before. The same sensation she has subconsciously craved.
'This is it,' she thinks distantly. 'I am going to die.'
The thought is fleeting.
A hand seizes her wrist, yanking her sharply from her descent. The force of it nearly dislocates her shoulder, and the breath is torn from her lungs in a choked gasp. Her body dangles precariously over the abyss, the dark, churning waters below taunting her with their inevitable embrace.
Dazed and breathless, she lifts her gaze and nearly recoils. The face that looms above her is not entirely human.
It is Thomas, and yet not Thomas. His usually perfect disguise is fractured in a different way than moments ago, his features caught somewhere between human artifice and something altogether wrong. His eyes, darker than pitch, gleam with something cold and unreadable, his pupils thin and sharp like a beast's. The angles of his face are sharper than they ought to be, his cheekbones too pronounced, his skin too smooth—too unnatural.
"Must you always attempt to die in such dramatic fashion?" he vents, utterly unbothered by the chaos around them.
His expression is as impassive as ever, betraying no strain, no urgency, as though holding her life in his hands is a matter of no great consequence.
She exhales shakily, her fingers instinctively curling against his grip as if testing the reality of it.
"I truly do not wish for your face to be the last thing I see before I perish," she mutters, her voice hoarse but laced with familiar bite.
Thomas regards her with something akin to amusement. If demons were capable of such things.
"How ungrateful," he muses, tilting his head slightly. "Most would consider themselves fortunate to be rescued at all. And yet, you choose to quibble over aesthetics?"
Leah glares at him, though the effect is somewhat diminished by the fact that she is still very much dangling over certain death. "It is not a matter of mere aesthetics," she retorts. "I should prefer not to be met with such an unsettling visage in my final moments."
A slow, measured blink. "Then I suggest you survive, My Lady."
With effortless strength, he lifts her from the abyss, setting her unceremoniously onto the tilting deck. Leah stumbles, her legs still trembling from the ordeal, but she quickly regains her footing.
She exhales sharply, composing herself before leveling him with a wary look. "You are slipping," she remarks, eyeing his imperfect disguise. "I was under the impression that you prided yourself on maintaining appearances."
Thomas dusts off his sleeves, entirely unaffected by the surrounding catastrophe. "How observant of you," he drawls. "Though I must say, I find it rather rude to comment on one's appearance in a moment such as this."
Leah scowls. "Your face is what prompted my comment, I assure you."
"Would you prefer I abandon my current form altogether?" he asks, his tone that of a man offering an idle suggestion. "I could if it pleases you."
Leah blanches at the implication.
"You shall do no such thing," she snaps.
Thomas hums in mock contemplation. "A pity. I do so enjoy eliciting a reaction from you."
Before she can muster a retort, another violent tremor shakes the ship, sending more wreckage tumbling into the sea. A great metallic groan reverberates through the air, a grim reminder that their time is dwindling.
Leah steadies herself, her breath evening, her resolve rekindling. She will not die here. She refuses to die here.
She casts a glance toward Thomas, who remains infuriatingly composed, as though he is simply waiting for her next move.
"We need to get off of this ship," she declares, lifting her chin.
Thomas does not sigh—he never does—but there is an air of quiet exasperation about him nonetheless.
"I had anticipated as much," he says, stepping aside with an exaggerated gesture. "After you, My Lady."
Leah does not waste another second.
She grips the torn remnants of her chemise and begins to move, her footing precarious but determined. The ship may be sinking, and the world around them may be chaos, but she will see this through. And Thomas, ever the shadow at her side, follows without a word.
Leah presses forward, her breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts, each step a battle against the treacherous angle of the ship's tilting deck. The Campania groans beneath them, its dying breaths manifesting in the screech of twisting metal and the cacophony of screams that fill the night air. Water is swallowing the lower levels at an alarming rate, the weight of the ocean dragging the grand vessel into its depths.
She barely notices the cold anymore, barely registers the splintered wood cutting into her bare feet, or the way her limbs tremble from exhaustion. Her mind is fixed on one singular goal—finding Ciel.
Her gaze sweeps the wreckage, desperate, searching—until at last, she sees him.
Some feet away, near the crumbling remains of the main deck, Ciel is in Sebastian's arms, looking impossibly small against the butler's dark silhouette despite his tall stature. Even at this distance, she can see the pallor of his skin, the stiffness of his posture. Her heart seizes in her chest. He is alive, but not well.
Sebastian, for all his effortless grace, is clearly occupied. He is fending off Undertaker, whose deadly scythe gleams under the dim light of the sinking ship, its razor edge tearing through steel as though it were parchment. Ronald Knox and Grell Sutcliff flank him on either side, their weapons raised, poised for attack.
Leah moves to run to them—but her body does not follow. An iron grip clamps around her waist, unyielding as steel.
She gasps as her feet lift from the deck, her body hauled effortlessly into the air. Arms, inhumanly strong, lock around her, binding her in place.
"Unhand me at once!" she snaps, writhing against her captor. She knows who it is before she even looks.
"Do not struggle, my lady," Thomas intones, his voice infuriatingly calm as he hoists her closer against his chest. "You will only exhaust yourself further."
Leah thrashes, kicking her legs, clawing at his arms, but it is as effective as fighting against stone. He does not loosen his hold, does not so much as flinch under her blows.
"We cannot leave him!" she cries, twisting to look back at Ciel. "Put me down this instant—"
"No."
It is a single word, spoken without room for argument, but Leah refuses to accept it.
"I command you—"
"My apologies, Lady Barrett, but your command is of little consequence to me at this moment."
The ship shudders violently beneath them, a deafening crack splitting the air as Undertaker's scythe arcs downward, its edge slicing clean through the deck.
Then, with an earsplitting groan, the Campania begins to split in two.
A fresh wave of screams erupts as the ship's great steel spine fractures, jagged seams of ruin tearing through its body. The bow and stern begin to break apart, the force of the split sending a massive tremor through what remains of the deck. Leah watches in horror as the wooden planks beneath Sebastian and Ciel crumble, their footing giving way.
Sebastian moves swiftly, leaping upward with inhuman agility, landing on a piece of falling wreckage as though he had merely stepped over a puddle. Leah's struggles intensify when she catches another small glimpse of Ciel.
"Please!" she cries, voice raw. "We cannot leave him—"
Thomas exhales in something like exasperation, though his grip on her does not waver. "If you truly believe that demon of his will allow him to perish here, then you give him far too little credit."
Leah's breath catches in her throat, but she doesn't notice Thomas' choice of words in the moment. She looks back once more, her heart hammering against her ribs. True enough, Sebastian is not floundering. He is holding Ciel securely, his expression as composed as ever, his crimson eyes gleaming even amid the chaos. Even as Grell and Ronald close in, even as Undertaker looms above them with his accursed scythe, the butler remains poised.
Sebastian will not let Ciel die here, but Leah cannot shake the terror. The overwhelming need to be there, to see him safe with her own eyes.
"I must—"
"You must do nothing but survive, My Lady," Thomas interrupts, tone clipped. "I do not have the luxury of entertaining your stubbornness this night."
Then, with unceremonious ease, he jumps.
Thomas propels them to the surface with little effort, his grip on her still impossibly strong, as though he does not even register the cold.
Leah gasps, coughing violently, her body wracked with shudders. Her chemise clings to her like a second skin, her hair plastered to her face.
The Campania looms above them in its death throes. The once-grand vessel is fully breaking apart now, its remains being claimed by the hungry sea. Flames lick hungrily at the wreckage, casting eerie, flickering light against the night.
Thomas moves without hesitation.
Leah barely has time to brace before he jumps—but it is not a desperate plunge into the water below. No. He soars with inhuman precision, his feet landing deftly on a toppled section of railing. His balance is unnatural, impossibly steady as the world crumbles around them.
Then, without a moment's pause, he is moving again.
Leah clutches at him instinctively as he bounds from wreckage to wreckage, his strength and speed making a mockery of gravity. He leaps onto a half-fallen mast, dashes across its length with ease, then uses the momentum to propel them onto an upturned section of the hull. The motion is impossibly smooth, his steps so light it is as though he is merely walking over cobblestones rather than the ruin of a sinking ship.
Leah should be terrified. She is terrified. But not of the way Thomas moves, not of the sheer inhumanity of his grace. No, her terror remains fixed on the boy left behind, the boy who—
She twists her head, seeking him out through the smoke and chaos. She catches a glimpse—just a glimpse—of Sebastian. Still standing. Still holding Ciel. Still fighting.
Sebastian is not overwhelmed. He is not faltering, not struggling. Even now, with Undertaker's scythe slashing through the air and Grell Sutcliff cackling like a madman, Sebastian is composed.
Ciel is safe, for now. But she is not.
A deafening crack sounds above them. Leah's head jerks upward—just in time to see a massive beam plummeting toward them. Thomas reacts in an instant.
He twists, pivoting sharply, his grip on Leah tightening as he kicks off from the shattered railing beneath them. He lands on a tilted stretch of flooring just as the beam crashes into the wreckage where they had stood mere seconds before, sending splinters and shards of glass flying in all directions.
But even Thomas is not immune to physics.
The impact sends a tremor through their makeshift foothold, and before he can make his next move, the deck collapses. A gaping void swallows them as the planks beneath their feet give way, torn apart by the ship's final, shuddering breaths. A sharp cry escapes Leah's throat as the deck vanishes beneath them, the world tilting into a dizzying blur of motion. They plummet through the open air, past shards of wreckage and plumes of steam, down toward the unforgiving ocean below.
Leah barely has time to scream before the cold hits her like a hammer. The moment they hit the water, every thought in Leah's mind is ripped away, replaced by the sheer, unbearable shock of it. The temperature is a brutal, suffocating force, seizing her lungs, and wrenching the breath from her body. Her vision darkens at the edges, pain lancing through every limb as if her very blood has turned to ice.
The ocean is not just cold—it is deathly.
The breath is ripped from her lungs, the sheer force of it like a thousand needles piercing her skin all at once. Every nerve in her body burns with the shock of it, the chill sinking into her bones, into her very marrow. The weight of her sodden chemise and corset drags her downward, the current greedily pulling at her limbs.
She does not know how long she is submerged. Seconds? An eternity?
'No—no, no, no!'
Her arms flail, her legs kick, but it is uncoordinated, useless. The cold has stolen her strength, her mind too numb to recall how to even attempt to stay afloat.
Then—air.
Thomas wrenches her from the depths, his grip locking around her arm before she can fully sink. With one powerful motion, he pulls her against him, securing her in his grasp as he surges upward.
The air tastes of salt and fire as they break the surface, Leah gasping, choking on the water she had inhaled. Her body convulses, wracked with violent tremors, her limbs heavy and unresponsive.
"Absolutely insufferable," Thomas mutters, his tone one of rare irritation.
Leah has no response. She is too cold.
Thomas, of course, does not falter. His eyes scan the water with sharp, calculating precision before they land on something in the distance—something small, something floating.
A lifeboat. Half-submerged, listing at an awkward angle, but intact.
Without hesitation, Thomas moves, cutting through the water with powerful strokes. Even with Leah weighing him down, his speed is unfathomable, his strength unhindered.
Leah is barely conscious when they reach the boat.
She does not feel Thomas hauling her over the side and does not register the moment he deposits her onto the wooden planks. She only dimly registers the weight of his coat being draped over her shoulders, the warmth of it a pitiful barrier against the brutal chill.
"Breathe," Thomas instructs, his hands pressing against her back as she coughs up seawater. "You are not dying yet."
Leah wheezes, her body shuddering violently. "C-Cold—"
"Yes, I imagine so."
The lifeboat creaks beneath them, half-submerged, swaying with the gentle pull of the tide. Smoke curls in thick, acrid plumes from the Campania's remains, its once-grand form now a sinking ruin in the distance. Voices still echo faintly across the water—screams, cries, the desperate thrashing of those who have not yet succumbed to the ocean's merciless grip.
But here, in this fragile scrap of wood adrift in the wreckage, there is only the bitter bite of the wind, the rhythmic lapping of water against the hull, and the quiet, measured breathing of the one standing above her.
Leah does not speak. She cannot.
Her body is ruined by the cold, every limb leaden, her lungs still raw from the saltwater she'd inhaled. The weight of Thomas's coat over her shoulders does little to warm her, though she clutches at it instinctively, fingers trembling as she curls into herself.
"Pathetic."
Thomas's voice, though soft, carries the sharp edge of disapproval. He crouches beside her, the boat barely rocking under his weight as he rests an arm over his knee, peering down at her with that same unreadable expression he always wears.
Leah manages to lift her head just enough to glare at him, though the effect is pitiful at best. She is still shaking, barely able to keep herself upright. Her hair clings to her skin in sodden, tangled locks, her chemise soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to her frame and doing nothing to preserve what little body heat she has left.
Thomas exhales sharply through his nose. "What a distasteful sight."
Leah scowls. "Do shut up."
His brow twitches. "Oh? You still have your tongue. I half-expected it to have frozen clean off by now."
She would hit him if she had the strength. Instead, she curls further into herself, her breath coming in slow, ragged gasps. The cold has settled deep within her, a weight pressing against her ribs, making each inhalation a struggle.
Thomas, to his credit, does not allow the silence to linger for long. "You look wretched," he murmurs, more to himself than to her.
Then, as if unable to help himself, he reaches forward. Leah lacks the strength to recoil as his fingers brush against her cheek, his touch featherlight yet firm, tilting her face ever so slightly toward him. She knows this routine—has known it for years. Thomas is always looking at her, always studying her, his scrutiny as methodical as it is inevitable.
She should be used to it by now and yet, under the weight of his gaze, she still feels like some delicate thing pinned beneath a needle.
His thumb ghosts over the curve of her cheekbone before sliding lower, following the damp curve of her jaw. His lips press into a thin line as he takes in her appearance—the water-darkened strands of hair sticking to her face, the raw pallor of her skin, the way her lips have taken on a faintly bluish tinge from the cold.
Something flickers in his expression, too quick to name.
The leather of his gloves creaks as he reaches for her hand, peeling back the coat just enough to expose her fingers. He turns her wrist slightly, pressing his thumb into her palm, checking the sluggish return of blood to the surface. His frown deepens.
Leah, exhausted and aching, mutters, "What's wrong now?"
Thomas doesn't answer. Instead, he takes her other hand, repeating the same assessment before exhaling through his nose.
"Unacceptable."
"Pardon?"
He tugs the coat back over her hands, covering them completely. "Your circulation is poor."
"Well, I am anemic," she rasps, only half joking.
He shoots her a sidelong glance. "Yes. I am well aware."
He has been aware since she was a child. Has been watching her since she was five years old and caring for her since she was eleven, quietly noting each time she bruised too easily or grew lightheaded too quickly, or turned unreasonably pale in the winter months.
She is breakable. More so than some others. It has always irritated him.
Leah swallows, shifting slightly, but the movement sends a fresh wave of exhaustion crashing over her. Her eyelids feel heavy.
Thomas reaches out again, fingers brushing against her cheek. She jerks slightly at the contact, but his grip is already shifting, his knuckles ghosting against the side of her throat as though checking for her pulse.
Another pause. Another slow, careful observation.
His gaze flickers back up to hers, unreadable. "You're colder than you should be," he mutters, more to himself than to her.
Leah lets out a weak laugh. "Terribly sorry to disappoint."
His fingers twitch. Then, after a moment, he pulls back, shifting to sit more properly beside her.
For a while, neither of them speak. The boat rocked gently, the sounds of distant chaos growing fainter. The cold air bites at Leah's skin, but the exhaustion creeping through her bones is worse.
Thomas is the one to break the silence.
"Your father would have me hanged if he saw you like this."
Leah lets out a weak, humorless chuckle. "Father doesn't care enough to have anyone hanged."
Thomas hums. "A shame. I'd quite like to see someone swing."
Leah huffs a breath of amusement, but it is cut short by the sharp shudder that wracks her body. She curls in on herself, gritting her teeth against the discomfort.
Thomas watches.
And then, with the same casual ease as before, he moves closer. Just enough that the cold, biting wind is blocked slightly by his presence. Just enough that she can feel the barest hint of warmth radiating from him.
Not much. But it is something.
Leah, too exhausted to question it, simply lets her eyes drift shut.
Then, with a quiet sigh, he withdraws his hand, resting it against his knee as he regards her with something dangerously close to irritation.
"I have spent over half a decade ensuring you remained untarnished," he says, voice deceptively mild. "Yet, time and again, you insist upon making a spectacle of yourself."
Leah exhales weakly, half-laughing despite herself. "Forgive me for my negligence."
Thomas does not laugh. Instead, he tilts his head, considering her. "You are cold."
A wry, humorless smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Astute observation."
He hums, unamused. Then, with a practiced ease, he reaches for the collar of his coat and adjusts it around her, pulling it tighter so that it fully covers her trembling frame. The gesture is more functional than comforting, but Leah does not fail to notice the precise way his fingers work—the deftness, the familiarity.
Thomas has been tending to her since she was eleven years old. He knows her habits, her flaws, the way she holds herself when she is unwell. He knows that she dislikes being cold, that her body is prone to weakness, that her blood itself is thinner than it should be.
He knows her better than he should and still, he watches. Even now, even in the aftermath of disaster, his gaze lingers on her with something unreadable, something that has always unsettled her in ways she cannot name.
"Your hands," he murmurs, glancing at the fingers still curled weakly against her lap. "Show me."
Leah does not move. Thomas does not ask again. Without ceremony, he takes one of her hands in his own, turning it over with meticulous care.
His thumb presses against the center of her palm, trailing along the chilled, damp skin before moving to her fingertips. The slight pressure coaxes the blood to return to the surface, though it takes far longer than it should. He frowns.
"I ought to be insulted," he says dryly. "All these years under my care, and yet you still allow yourself to fall into such a state."
Leah exhales shakily. "You are only acting like this because you know I don't have the energy to fight back."
His grip tightens ever so slightly.
"Yes.. I am, aren't I?" he releases her hand with a quiet sound of disapproval and straightens, rising to his full height as he turns his attention back to the water.
Leah watches him through half-lidded eyes, exhaustion settling deep in her bones. She cannot bring herself to respond to him, cannot find the words to counter his usual sharp-edged remarks.
She is so tired. Until she notices movement.
Leah's sluggish eyes drift toward the water, her breath catching as she spots it. A figure—small, barely distinguishable against the wreckage—clinging to a lifebuoy.
Ciel.
Thomas follows her gaze, his expression unreadable. Then, after a beat, he exhales.
"Well," he muses, standing. "It appears your precious earl has survived after all."
Before Leah can fully react, Thomas is moving again, steering the boat toward the boy drifting in the water.
And, somewhere beyond the ruins of the Campania, another dark shape emerges—Sebastian, cutting through the water with unnatural ease.
It is not over yet. But for now, against all odds, they are still alive.
Leah can't do much other than watch as Thomas steers them in the direction of the pair, giving Sebastian a chance to launch Ciel onto the lifeboat. The boy coughs out water just as she did minutes ago and she doesn't get the chance to crawl over and aid him before Sebastian emerges from the side.
"Please wear this," he says, peeling his coat off. "I'm sorry I can't prepare any hot tea for you. Please bear with it for a while."
His face appears oddly sympathetic, to Leah that is. She has always seen him keep the same smile.
Ignoring this, Thomas glances back at the group of people mere feet away fighting for their lives against the water. "How kind of you to join us," he turns back to Ciel and Sebastian, not bothering to warn the fellow demon of the corpse behind him.
Leah tries to speak, perhaps even to warn Sebastian, but she can't prompt anything to come out of her throat. If she was able to, she would be speaking to Ciel by now. 'I cannot wait for this to be over..' For now, she settles on sitting beside her fiancé, trying to offer nonexistent warmth.
She watches as Sebastian swiftly kicks the corpse in the head, effectively 'killing' it.
"They can move in water?!" asks Ciel incredulously.
Sebastian, still in the water, breathes a sigh of annoyance. "They don't need to breathe, so I guess they can't drown either."
"Then—" Ciel is cut off when a hand clamps over her mouth.
In the sudden silence, they can all hear and see the bubbles beneath the water's surface and if it is possible, color drains from Leah's face.
"Just kill me now..."
The heads of dozens emerge, another horror to add to the night. Thomas, without another word, simply grabs a paddle and gets himself into stance. He buys time for Sebastian to get himself onto the boat, but strangely, Thomas has stopped facing the corpses.
"Please do forgive me for this, My Lady."
"Huh?" Leah's brows furrow in confusion and she doesn't even have a chance to turn her head.
A slap sounds through the air and Ciel shouting follows, but Leah hears none of it as she drifts in and out of conciseness before her brain settles into quiet.
"What is wrong with you?!"
I don't remember how I got here.
One moment, I was walking down the hall, the next—I wasn't.
The door is locked. I know because I've tried it. My fingers twist the handle again and again, even though I already heard the click, sharp and final, as the lock slid into place.
It's not the first time this has happened.
The room is small, but it feels too big. No windows. Just a bed, a dresser, and the flickering candle on the nightstand. The air smells stale, like dust and something faintly bitter, like the rooms in Barrett Manor that no one uses anymore.
The bed is high, the dresser taller than me, the shadows in the corners stretching longer than they should. I press my palm flat against the wood of the door and realize how small my hand looks against it. I don't like that. It makes the room feel even bigger, like it could swallow me whole.
Someone is on the other side.
I know because I heard them. When I knocked the first time—before I tried the handle—there was something. Not a sound, not a movement, just... a presence. A weight in the air.
Waiting.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
My voice barely carries in the quiet, but I don't bother raising it. I already know no one will answer.
I knock again, harder this time. "I want to go out now."
Silence.
I sigh through my nose and step back, rolling my fingers in the fabric of my nightdress. The candle flickers, casting shadows that stretch and shift against the wallpaper. The patterns blur if I stare too long, like they're moving, breathing.
I don't know how long I'll be in here this time.
Sometimes it's minutes. Sometimes hours.
I press my back against the door, tilting my head up to look at the ceiling. There's a faint stain in the corner—water damage, maybe. I never noticed it before. I wonder how many other rooms in this house are like this. Empty. Half-forgotten.
I wonder if anyone even remembers I'm here.
It wouldn't be the first time they didn't.
I drop my gaze back to the candle. The flame flickers and the shadows stretch again, reaching like long fingers into the corners of the room. Everything feels bigger than it should, or maybe I'm just too small.
I press my lips together and take a breath, slow and steady.
"I'll be good," I say after a moment, my voice quiet but even.
The presence on the other side lingers. I can feel it. Like the way you know someone is watching you, even when they aren't looking.
Then—footsteps.
Soft. Measured. Retreating.
I don't move. I don't rush back to the door, don't knock again. I just listen as the sound fades into the distance.
I am alone.
And the door is still locked.
I push away from the door and walk to the bed. The blanket is stiff, tucked in too tightly at the corners. The whole room feels like that—like it's waiting for someone who never came.
I climb onto the mattress, sitting with my knees to my chest. My feet don't quite touch the edge.
I don't lie down. I don't think I'll be able to sleep.
I just watch the candle.
The shadows stretch with every flicker.
I close my eyes.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Wait.
It won't be forever.
The early morning air is brittle with cold, the salt-scented wind laced with the faint acrid tang of smoke. The lifeboat rocks gently on the dark, endless sea, its passengers hunched beneath threadbare blankets, shivering, whispering prayers or nothing at all. The rescue ship looms ahead, a monolith of safety in the bleak expanse of water. Lantern light spills over the deck, flickering shapes moving against the glow as crew members prepare to receive the survivors.
Somewhere amid the gentle sloshing of the waves, Leah begins to stir.
It is slow at first—just the faint twitch of her fingers against the damp wood beneath her, a sluggish inhalation that tastes of brine and cold. Her head pounds, a deep, aching throb behind her eyes, and for a moment, she cannot remember why.
Then, the memories return in a disjointed, staggering rush.
The ship—sinking. The screams. The corpses. The locked rooms.
Thomas. The bastard struck her.
Her eyes snap open.
The world shifts dizzily around her, the sky an abyssal black overhead, the boat swaying just enough to unsettle her already fragile sense of balance. She exhales sharply, struggling to push herself up onto her elbows.
"Leah."
Ciel's voice is firm but lacking its usual sharp edge.
She blinks, the blurred shape beside her resolving into his familiar figure—drenched, disheveled, but unmistakably him. His blue eye is sharp even in the dim light, scanning her face with an intensity that makes her shift uncomfortably.
"Are you well?" he asks, a note of urgency threading his usual measured tone.
Leah inhales, pressing a hand to the side of her head where the ache lingers, her fingers brushing over the sore spot where Thomas's fist connected. Her jaw tightens.
"That bastard," she mutters under her breath.
"I told him it was unnecessary," Ciel says, irritation flickering beneath his words. "But Thomas is rarely inclined to listen to reason."
"Unnecessary?" Leah repeats sharply, still disoriented but growing more irate by the second. "He struck me on the head, Ciel. I should throw him into the sea and see how he fares!"
A faint sound of amusement cuts through the cold.
Thomas is sitting further down the boat, utterly at ease, one arm draped over his bent knee. His clothes, like everyone's, are soaked and disheveled, but his expression is composed, eyes gleaming in the dim lantern glow.
"To be fair," he drawls, "you were terribly in the way."
Leah pushes herself upright fully now, dizziness be damned, her glare sharp enough to cut. "I was in the way?"
"You were rather in the way," Sebastian interjects smoothly, standing at the edge of the boat with his usual practiced poise. The demon is not in much better condition than the rest of them, though his damp clothes do little to diminish his air of unsettling elegance. "Though I will say, it was a rather violent solution."
Leah exhales sharply through her nose.
"It was effective," Thomas remarks, entirely unbothered.
"I detest you," Leah hisses.
He smiles faintly, tilting his head. "No, you do not."
She does not dignify that with a response. Instead, she turns back to Ciel, who, despite his usual efforts to maintain an impassive front, looks more relieved than anything else. She does not miss the way his hands are curled into the fabric of his coat, the tension still lingering in his posture.
Leah exhales, some of the heat of her anger cooling. "I am fine," she tells him, though she is not certain if the words are entirely true.
Ciel watches her for a long moment, then nods. He does not entirely believe her, but he does not press.
Sebastian, however, hums in vague disapproval. "A rather poor lie, Lady Barrett," he observes.
Leah shoots him a withering look. "Stay out of this!"
"Forgive me," he says smoothly, though his smirk suggests he does not mean it.
"She will recover," Thomas says idly. "She has survived worse."
Leah's glare sharpens once more. "You seem awfully comfortable for someone who has just struck his own mistress."
Thomas blinks at her, feigning mild confusion. "You are awake, are you not?"
"You are intolerable."
"And yet, you tolerate me."
Leah resists the urge to launch herself across the boat and throttle him.
Ciel sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "If you two intend to argue, wait until we are aboard the ship."
Leah huffs, pressing her fingers to her temple once more, attempting to rub away the ache. The night's events weigh on her, the remnants of her unconscious state clinging stubbornly at the edges of her mind. The memories she had seen—those dimly lit rooms, the locked doors—linger, unwelcome and intrusive.
But she swallows them down. It does not matter now.
The rescue ship is close. The voices above are clearer now, calling for survivors, and preparing to bring them aboard. A rope ladder is lowered, and crew members begin helping people up one by one.
Ciel rises to his feet first, steady despite the rocking of the boat. He glances at Leah once more before offering a hand.
She hesitates only a second before taking it, allowing him to pull her up. His grip is firm and grounding.
Sebastian steps onto the ladder first, moving with effortless grace despite the instability. Ciel follows shortly after. Leah lingers for a moment, casting another glare toward Thomas.
"You will answer for this," she informs him.
Thomas tilts his head, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "I look forward to it."
She exhales sharply before stepping toward the ladder, gripping the rope tightly as she begins her climb. Her limbs protest, exhaustion settling deep into her bones, but she does not falter.
The moment she steps onto the deck, she is met with warmth—not true warmth, but the mere presence of more people, of life. Survivors huddle together, wrapped in blankets, whispering or weeping or simply staring ahead in stunned silence.
Ciel is beside her, his presence familiar, grounding.
Leah exhales, glancing toward the far side of the ship.
She expects nothing. Her family was on the ship. She had assumed them dead. Then she sees them.
Her breath stutters.
She does not care about her parents—not now, not ever—but Daniel. Anna. Her legs move before she can think.
"Leah!"
Anna's voice, small but sharp with shock, and then Leah is there, arms wrapping around her in an embrace so tight it knocks the breath from both of them.
Daniel is beside them in seconds, his arms joining the embrace, warm, solid.
"Bloody hell," he mutters. "You look a state."
Leah exhales a laugh, shaky and barely there. "Speak for yourself."
He squeezes her tighter.
Then, a faintly awkward cough sounds from behind them.
"We are present as well, you know."
Leah barely glances over her shoulder. Her mother stands with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her gown damp, strands of hair having escaped their usual meticulous arrangement. Her father, standing beside her, is no better off—his coat still dripping, his face set in an expression that is meant to be firm but wavers at the edges.
Daniel releases her first, though his hand remains firm on her shoulder. Anna is slower to let go, fingers gripping tightly to Leah's arms as if afraid she might disappear should she let go completely.
Their parents wait as if expecting something—some acknowledgment, some declaration of relief or gratitude. Leah has none to give.
She has spent too much of her life in rooms with locked doors and muffled voices, in places where love was measured in expectations and obligations rather than warmth or affection. She has spent too long watching from the periphery as Daniel received the attention, the devotion, the concern she was never granted.
It is Daniel she thought lost. Daniel, she grieved. Daniel, she ran to. The fact that her parents survived? It is incidental. She does not address them.
Instead, she exhales, focusing her attention back on Daniel and Anna. "You are well?"
Daniel huffs, ruffling her already hopelessly tangled hair. "I have the misfortune of still breathing if that is what you mean."
Anna manages a quiet, weary laugh. "We are well enough," she assures her, though her hands still clutch at Leah's sleeves. "We made it onto a lifeboat early—one of the few not entirely overfilled. The crew on this ship found us before dawn."
Leah nods, some of the tension in her chest easing. "Good."
Their parents remain standing there, uncertain. Perhaps waiting for her to speak.
She does not.
Instead, she leans back against the railing, arms crossed, exhaustion weighing heavy on her limbs.
And then—
"Leah!"
She has barely a moment to register the voice before a blur of yellow and lace barrels into her.
Leah inhales sharply as Elizabeth Midford throws her arms around her with alarming force, her usual enthusiasm only slightly dampened by the night's events.
"You are alive!" Elizabeth exclaims, her grip tightening to an almost unbearable degree. "I thought I would never see you again after you ran away! I was so worried!"
"Elizabeth—"
"I saw you come aboard just now, but you went straight to your family and ignored me completely!"
Leah sighs, attempting to speak over the girl to be heard. "Elizabeth, I'm glad—."
Elizabeth finally releases her but steps back only marginally, bright green eyes scanning Leah up and down with clear scrutiny. "You look dreadful," she declares, though she does not sound unkind. "Your hair is ruined."
"Yes, well," Leah mutters, shoving damp strands back from her face. "I nearly died. Numerous times."
Elizabeth clasps her hands together, tilting her head. "How terrible.."
Exhaling through her nose, Leah tries to blink back the bleariness in her eyes.
Ciel appears at Leah's side then, looking no less exhausted than before. Elizabeth immediately turns her attention to him instead, fussing over him with an ease Leah has never known how to mimic.
"You must be freezing," Elizabeth insists, grasping his hands between hers. "You must change into something warm as soon as possible—"
"Elizabeth."
"—and Sebastian will prepare you something hot to drink when we make it to land, will he not?"
Sebastian inclines his head smoothly. "But of course, my lady."
Leah shakes her head faintly, gaze shifting across the deck. The surviving passengers are still gathered in clusters, some clutching each other in tight embraces, others staring blankly ahead as if unable to process that they still exist at all. Crew members move among them, distributing blankets, and murmuring reassurances.
A few feet away, a man fiddles with a large, box-like device, setting it up on a stand. Leah furrows her brow, tilting her head.
"Is that...?"
"Ah." Sebastian follows her gaze, smiling faintly. "It would seem the crew wishes to document the moment for posterity."
"With a camera?"
"Indeed."
Leah exhales. "It is rather macabre, do you not think?"
"Perhaps," Sebastian concedes, "but history is often so."
It is not long before the man—a photographer, apparently—begins organizing a group of survivors before the camera, adjusting the stand and instructing them to hold still.
Elizabeth clasps Ciel's arm. "We must be in it!"
Ciel sighs. "Must we?"
"Of course! It is a moment in history!" says the man.
Leah arches a brow. "I would rather it be forgotten."
Elizabeth shakes her head, dragging both Ciel and Leah forward. "Nonsense!"
The photographer waves them closer, gesturing for them to settle amongst the gathered survivors. Leah finds herself wedged between Ciel and Daniel, Elizabeth standing beside them with barely contained excitement.
Sebastian and Thomas stand slightly behind, both somehow managing to look composed despite their disheveled state. Thomas, predictably, seems the least interested in the entire affair, gaze flicking upward toward the dark sky rather than at the camera.
"Hold still now!" the photographer calls. "And do try to look pleasant!"
Leah snorts softly but does not argue.
The flash ignites, bright and brief.
When it fades, the moment remains—preserved in silver and shadow, in light and dark.
A record of survival.
A record of continuing.
The morning is still bitter, the sea vast and endless, but there is warmth here—fleeting, imperfect, but warmth nonetheless.
Leah closes her eyes and exhales. The nightmare is over. For now.
"Worst night of my life."