Read Chapter 16: The Middle of the Night

The night air had turned bitter cold, sharp as a blade against Élodie's cheeks. Around her, the boat deck churned with frantic motion—officers shouting, ropes creaking, steam hissing from the vents. She pressed herself against the rail, watching Louis and Rose disappear over the side in Number 8, their small faces pale in the lamplight.

Tom stood beside her, his broken arm cradled against his chest, his good hand gripping the rail with white-knuckled intensity. He swayed slightly, and Élodie caught his elbow.

"You should sit down," she said.

"No time." He nodded toward the remaining boats. "We need—God, where's the old man?"

William Hargrave had collapsed against a deckhouse wall, his face the color of ash, a steward fanning him with a folded newspaper. Even from ten feet away, Élodie could see the tremor in his outstretched hand.

"Tom." Her voice was low, urgent. "Your arm. The blood."

He looked down. A dark stain had bloomed through his sleeve, spreading from his side where his broken arm pressed against his ribs. When he moved, she caught a glimpse of torn fabric—not from the stairwell.

"What is that?"

"Nothing." He straightened, grimacing. "Just a scratch."

Élodie stepped closer, and before he could pull away, she lifted the edge of his coat. The wound was not a fresh cut. It was an old scar reopened, a jagged line running from his ribs to his hip, weeping fresh blood through badly-stitched skin.

"My God." She pressed her palm against it. "When did you—"

"Two years ago." His jaw tightened. "My brother's accident. The machinery on the boat—it caught me. He tried to save me from the winch, and the cable snapped." He paused. "He didn't make it. I did. With this."

Élodie's hand remained on his side, feeling the warmth of his blood through his shirt. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Because there's nothing anyone can do now." He met her eyes. "Because we're on a sinking ship, Élodie. A broken arm is just a broken arm. But if I'm seen as worse than that—unfit to move, to carry children—they'll leave me behind, and I can't leave you to do this alone."

She looked past him. On the deck, the last of the collapsible boats was being cleared. Already, the ship's bow had dipped noticeably lower in the water. The slant beneath their feet was unmistakable.

"Marie is still below." Élodie's voice cracked. "She said she would not leave until she found her husband."

"And she said she would meet us here." Tom's face was tight with pain. "She didn't."

A sound rose from the ship's heart—a low, metallic groan, as if the whole hull were being twisted in a giant's grip. The deck shuddered. On the far side of the boat deck, a wave of water crested over the rail, washing across the planks and knocking two passengers off their feet.

Élodie grabbed Tom's good arm. "We need to go."

"Agreed." He looked at his broken arm, his bloodied side, and then down the narrow staircase leading to the middle decks. "But we're not going up."

The staircase was already half-flooded. The water had risen past the first landing, dark and glassy, carrying debris—a child's shoe, a stack of letters, a white tablecloth that floated like a ghost. The electric lights flickered, some already dead. What remained gave the corridor a sickly amber glow.

Élodie went first, her skirt soaked to the knee. Tom came behind her, his boots scraping on the wet metal stairs. They could hear the passengers still on the upper decks—screaming now, the frantic slide of feet on tilting boards—but below, the corridors were strangely quiet.

"Marie!" Élodie called into the gloom. "Marie, answer me!"

Silence. Then, from somewhere down the hallway, a faint sound. A sob, quickly stifled.

"Did you hear that?" But Tom was already moving, pushing past her through the waist-deep water.

The mailroom door stood open. Inside, mailbags floated in the murk, swollen with letters to people who would never read them. Marie knelt at the far end, fully submerged to her chest, her hands reaching beneath the mailroom's sorting table. Her husband's body, heavy in the water, refused to move.

"Marie." Élodie splashed toward her, dropping to her knees beside her. "Marie, you must come. The boats—"

"I know." Marie's voice was raw, scraped clean. "I know the boats are leaving. I know he'll be at the bottom of the sea either way." She lifted her head, and her face was wet with tears and sea spray. "But I thought—I thought if I could bring him up, if I could put him in a boat with his arms crossed like a proper burial—I could say goodbye. They would not even let me say goodbye."

Élodie looked at the body. The man's face was peaceful, his eyes closed. The mail sacks had saved Marie but taken him.

"Marie." Tom's voice was gentle, almost a whisper. "Please."

Marie bowed her head, then nodded once. "Pull me up."

Élodie helped her stand, helped her climb over the flooded threshold. They started back down the corridor, but the water had risen to shoulder height now. The exit stairs were ahead—they could see the light from the boat deck spilling down—but the current had turned inward, pushing against them like a river in reverse.

"Hold onto me," Élodie said, gripping Marie's hand. "Don't let go."

They fought their way up. The water pulled at their clothes, their ankles. Tom went first, using his broken arm as a hook against the rail. Élodie could see white bone glinting through the wound, and she bit her tongue to stay quiet.

At the top of the stairs, they emerged onto the boat deck—or what was left of it. The sea had crept over the bow, turning it into a ramp that descended into blackness. The remaining lifeboats had been lowered. A crewman shouted numbers into the dark. Women and children in the last boat, their voices rising like gulls in the storm.

Élodie scanned the deck. William Hargrave was still there, slumped but alive, supported by a steward. The old man caught her eye and raised a trembling hand.

"Your children are safe," he called. "Both of them. I watched them row away."

Élodie's heart cracked open with relief. "And you?"

He shook his head. "I am beyond boats, I think. But I am not beyond hope." He glanced at Tom. "Take her and go."

But Tom did not move. He looked at Élodie, then at Marie, then back at the water surging over the bow.

"There's another collapsible on the starboard side," he said. "They're still loading it." He turned to Marie. "Do you want to live?"

Marie's face was hollow. She looked at the sea, dark and endless, and then back at the mailroom below.

"I do not know." Her voice was barely audible. "I do not know what I would do with a life without him."

"Then live for him," Tom said. He looked at Élodie. "We go to the starboard boat. Together. All of us."

Élodie started toward him, but the deck tilted sharply beneath her feet. She stumbled, caught herself on a ventilation shaft, and looked up just as the ship's bow plunged deeper into the water.

A wave, enormous and black, rose over the side. It crawled across the deck like a living thing, taking chairs, boxes, a trumpet that spun in the dark and vanished. Élodie threw herself flat, grabbing Tom's coat, grabbing Marie's wrist. The water slammed over them, dark and cold and heavy, and when it receded, they were coughing, gasping, on a deck that now leaned at a terrifying angle.

Marie was gone.

Élodie scrambled up, searching the dark water for a sign of her. "Marie! MARIE!"

Nothing. The water was still, glassy, hungry.

Tom struggled to his knees, his face white with pain. "The starboard boat—it's still there. We can make it."

"Not without her." Élodie's voice broke. "I promised her, Tom. I promised her she would not be alone."

Tom's good arm circled her waist, pulled her close. His cheek pressed against her hair. "We'll search through the last boat," he said. "And if she's not found, we stay."

Élodie looked at him. "You would stay?"

He smiled, blood and salt on his lips. "I told you already. I'm not leaving you to do this alone."

Behind them, William Hargrave called out—a weak, urgent sound. The steward holding him was pointing at something in the water, floating near the bow.

Élodie followed his gaze. There, bobbing on the black tide, was a small red ribbon, tied in a bow.

Louis's ribbon. The one he believed would lead him home.

And beneath it, half-submerged, was a crumpled piece of paper—clutched in a hand wearing a mailroom manager's glove.

Marie's hand.

Élodie grabbed for it, stretching out over the rail, and caught the ribbon, the paper, and the pale wrist. She pulled. Marie's head broke the surface, gasping, eyes wide with terror.

"I saw him," Marie gasped. "I saw my husband in the water. He told me—" She choked. "He told me to go back."

Élodie held her tight. "Then you're coming with us."

Marie nodded, exhausted.

But as they turned toward the collapsible, the paper in Élodie's hand caught her eye. The writing was smeared but legible.

*I am not Marie.*

Élodie looked at the woman beside her, the woman who had wept for her husband, and said nothing.