Read Chapter 38: The Reward and the Price

The rain in New York came down in sheets, washing the coal dust from the air and turning Broadway into a river of gray umbrellas. Jack stood under the awning of the Bankers Trust building, his new wool suit—purchased with the last of his hidden cash—clinging to his shoulders like a second skin. He had been dry for exactly four days now, ever since the Carpathia had docked and the world had swallowed them back into its busy, indifferent throat.

Margaret stood beside him, her arm linked through his, her face pale but composed. She wore Catherine's coat, the one that had saved her life, though she had told Jack she would give it to the Scotland Yard office as evidence in the morning. The matron—Crane's sister, whose real name was Eleanor—waited on the other side of Margaret, her hat pulled low against the drizzle.

The bank's doors opened and a thin man in wire-rimmed spectacles gestured them inside.

"Mr. O'Leary," he said, his voice clipped with the efficiency of a man who balanced ledgers in his sleep. "Miss Fairweather. Mrs. Crane."

Eleanor stiffened at the name but said nothing.

They were led past marble columns and brass teller cages to a private office on the second floor. A fireplace crackled against the damp, and a glass of sherry sat on the desk for each of them. The bank president, a florid man named Mr. Hollingsworth, stood and shook their hands with vigor.

"Extraordinary circumstances," he said, seating himself behind the desk. "Extraordinary. We received the contents of the safe-deposit ledger two days ago, relayed through the British Consulate. The list of boxes—the ones Crane's men emptied over the past year—matched our internal audit down to the penny."

Jack allowed himself a small smile. He still felt the weight of the locket against his chest, the confession tucked inside, but he had copied the burner list onto waterlogged paper and pressed it into Eleanor's hands before they had even been pulled aboard the Carpathia. She had passed it to the investigators within an hour of stepping onto dry land.

"The board has voted to issue a formal reward," Hollingsworth continued, sliding three envelopes across the desk. "Ten thousand dollars, divided equally among you. For the recovery of the property ledgers and the identification of the conspiracy."

Ten thousand. Jack's throat tightened. It was more money than he had ever held, more than he had ever stolen in a single score, and it came with no blood on it.

"Thank you, Mr. Hollingsworth," Margaret said, her voice steady. "We're grateful."

The president nodded, cleared his throat, and looked at them with something approaching reverence. He had read the reports. He knew what they had survived.

Outside, the rain had softened to a mist. Jack tore open his envelope, counted the bills inside, and exhaled slowly.

"Moran's estate," he said to no one in particular.

Eleanor touched his arm. "You owe him?"

"Twelve hundred." Jack shook his head. "He fronted me the ticket. Staked my passage on the confidence game of a lifetime. I told myself I'd pay him back or die trying."

"And you did," Margaret said softly.

"Nearly didn't." Jack looked at the money in his hand, then at the wet street beyond the awning. "But yes. I did."

They parted outside the bank. Eleanor was to meet with the British consul to arrange her testimony in absentia against her brother's empire. She had not spoken of Crane since the sinking—none of them had—but her jaw was set with the determination of a woman who intended to see justice served even if it meant burying her own name.

"Mrs. Crane," Jack said, catching her before she turned down the street.

She stopped.

"I meant what I said on the boat. Your brother's crimes are not yours."

Eleanor looked at him for a long moment. "No. But I will spend the rest of my life making sure the world knows them."

She walked away into the mist.

Jack watched her go, then turned to Margaret. The street was quieter now, the umbrellas thinning as the lunch rush ended.

"There's a museum," he said. "The Metropolitan. They have a collection of Irish antiquities on loan from Dublin. The heirlooms I lifted from that estate were bound for a private buyer in Philadelphia, but I never sold them. I was too superstitious." He reached into his coat and produced a small velvet pouch he had kept dry through the sinking in an oilskin wrapper. "I'd like you to come with me. To return them."

Margaret's eyes widened. "Jack. That money—it's not yours to give away."

"Neither were those heirlooms." He shrugged. "And I've got enough left after Moran to keep me in soup and lodging for a month. Maybe two if I eat cheap."

She laughed, the first true laugh he had heard from her since the night the ship went down. "You'll eat cheap and hate every bite."

"Likely."

They walked uptown together, past the brownstones and the new electric streetlights, past the crowds of people who would never know what it meant to hear the sound of steel screaming as it broke. The museum was quiet on a Tuesday. The curator, a stooped man with spectacles on a chain, received them in his office with barely concealed shock.

"You found these?" he said, turning the torc in his hands, his fingers trembling. "We thought these were lost forever."

"Lost at sea," Jack said. "But the sea gave them back."

The curator did not ask how. Jack could see the question in his face, the desire to know, and the decision to let it rest.

"That was good," Margaret said as they walked down the museum steps into the pale afternoon light. "What you did in there."

Jack stopped and turned to face her. She wore Catherine's coat still, too long in the sleeves. Her hair had been pinned up, but a strand had escaped, curling against her cheek.

"I did a lot of bad things to get to that moment," he said. "But that was the first good one I could pay forward."

Margaret studied him. "What will you do now?"

"Moran gets his twelve hundred. I'll bring it to his widow tomorrow. And then—" Jack looked out at the city, so vast and indifferent, so unlike the clean gray sea he had almost died in. "And then I don't know. I've spent four years running from who I was. I'd like to meet who I am."

Margaret was quiet for a long time. The traffic clattered past. A newsboy shouted the latest about the Carpathia survivors, the inquiries, the name of the ship that would never be forgotten.

"I'll be here," she said finally. "I plan to find work. Bookshops, maybe. Something quiet." She looked at him with a fragile smile. "Something that isn't a ship."

"You ever think about returning to London?"

"When the inquiries are done. Perhaps." She looked down at her hands. "The sea and I aren't friends anymore. But I'd like to cross it again someday. Without it trying to kill me."

Jack laughed, and it felt strange and good in his chest. "We could take a ferry. A small one. Just to prove we can."

"Maybe we will."

He reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were cold, but they curled around his without hesitation.

"Margaret," he said. "We might have died together on that water. We didn't. That means something to me."

"It means everything to me," she said.

He leaned in and kissed her, a brief kiss on a wet New York street, under the pale winter sun. She pressed her forehead to his.

"You'll find me," she said.

"I'll find you," he agreed.