Chapter 38
Asoft voice cut through the fog, calling her name.
Gradually, Emmeline’s senses awakened, painting the world around her, even with closed eyes.
The warm brush of a blanket across her chest. The herbal, zesty smell of tea wafting past her nostrils.
The murmur of voices and clinking of metal in the far distance. And a comforting hand, holding hers.
She opened her eyes, and the blurry streaks of white and gray cleared into the sight of bare white walls and a door with a porthole, a single ray of sun finding its way through. She was lying on a bed, and Theo sat next to her, his lips spreading into a smile when she turned her head to him.
“Welcome back,” he said. “Careful, slowly—” He helped her as she attempted to rise into a sitting position.
He poured a cup of tea and pressed it into her hands; she gratefully wrapped her fingers around the warm porcelain.
The terrible, numbing cold was gone from her bones, but she still clung to the teacup as if it could chase away the memories, too.
“What happened? Where are we?”
“We’re on the ship Carpathia,” Theo said.
He looked well enough—tired, with shadowed eyes and unruly hair, but some color in his cheeks, and wrapped in a warm blanket, himself.
“They came to rescue us. Pick up everyone …” He looked down, gulping.
“Everyone they still could. They’re taking us to New York. We’re three days out, they say.”
“Three days …”
“You’ve been sleeping for most of the day.” He absentmindedly rubbed her hand. “But you’re all right. Everything is going to be fine.”
She made a few sips of tea. The still-fresh memories of last night threatened to unleash, but she steeled her mind against them. She couldn’t risk being swallowed by the horror again, not right now. She wanted a moment to breathe. To live.
“Would you like to come out on deck, stretch your legs? Don’t worry, the air is quite pleasant.”
She nodded, and he helped her up. Her legs buckled, but she quickly regained her balance.
It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon outside, so foreign and bizarre after what felt like decades of darkness and cold.
People swarmed the deck: people of all ages and walks and life, but with those distinctions between them washed away.
Small children in worn-out jackets, men in flat caps and bowler hats, elderly women in silk dresses and rows of pearl necklaces—they were all the same, huddled in blankets and nursing their cups of tea and bowls of soup.
Some sat together in groups, others walked around, calling names and hugging their family members.
“There’s so few,” Emmeline whispered. The decks were full, yes, but the ship was smaller, perhaps half the size of the Titanic.
How many people did they rescue?
“Emmeline,” an exhausted but relieved voice called.
She turned and scanned the crowd, stopping at the unmistakable curly red head. “Mother!”
“Emmeline!” Her mother rushed to her, blanket swirling away, and locked her into a hug. More shouting of her name followed, and Brendon and Tristan smacked into her, one on each side.
Her mind dam broke, and emotions swelled into her chest, mouth, eyes; unabashed, tears ran down her face as she held her family close. “Mama,” she squeezed out.
“Oh, my darling.” Mother kissed her cheeks and her nose and brushed her hair. “I was so worried.” Her eyes watered, but she smiled as she looked at her. “Thank goodness you’re all right. Is your father still inside?”
Emmeline blinked. “I thought he was with you.”
Mother’s smile paled. “Where?”
“In …” Emmeline’s chest grew heavy. “In the boat. I asked an officer. He told me you all got into the boats.”
Mother’s mouth kept turning downwards, and her lip trembled. “He got us in the boat, but he … he stayed on the ship. To look for you. But you’re—if you’re—if—if he—”
The heavy ball in Emmeline’s chest tightened, squeezing out every bit of air, filling her lungs again with ice as shouts from last night echoed in her head.
Women and children only—no men in the boats—they wouldn’t let Theo in with her—if Father was still there—the screams, the scramble for safety, the low groan of the ship as the lights went out—
When she returned to the present, Mother was looking at her, eyes wide. Only a peeping “No” escaped her.
Emmeline shook her head, but the dizziness didn’t stop.
Papa.
She couldn’t even properly cry. Her throat closed up until only mewling hiccups came out. She pulled her mother close, dug her fingers into her hair, and lost herself in sorrow.
The day of Carpathia’s arrival in New York was gray and dreary, but there was little good mood to be spoiled by the rain, anyway.
Emmeline experienced the world as if she weren’t a part of it anymore.
The drops of rain on her cheeks felt foreign.
The solid metal railing of the gangway felt foreign.
Her beloved city, even—the same harbor she’d sailed from before—was a complete stranger.
To Theo, she was grateful for all the careful support he’d given her in the past days.
He gave her space to grieve with her family, but when she turned because she needed another shoulder to cry on, he was always there.
He didn’t push, he didn’t press, he only held her close and let her tears soak into his clothes.
As for her mother … Her beautiful, always graceful, always elegant mother had never looked so small and frail as when they left the ship and felt the solid ground beneath their feet once more.
The harbor was bustling around them: reporters, photographers, emergency medical personnel.
Despite the grim weather, it was loud and alive, but none of that life reached Emmeline.
Mother stopped a few steps off the gangway and stared into the distance, eyes glazed over, the one hand on her stomach clenched into a shaky claw.
Tristan, holding her other hand, looked up at Emmeline, his hazel eyes big and red and so scared, but all she could give back was the mirrored sadness.
All of her strength, to console them and herself, had been leeched out of her.
Papa was gone, and it was all her fault.
He went back to look for her. His awful, horrible, rebellious daughter, who wished he wasn’t her family, who wished to be free of him, who wished he were gone.
And now he was, and she was lost. She could never tell him how wrong she’d been and how very sorry she was.
She could never hug him and kiss him again.
Why did she even make it out? Why did she deserve to live, but he didn’t?
Theo stepped next to her and lay a hand on her shoulder. She wrapped her fingers around it, and they all stood there: Tristan, Mama, Brendon, she and Theo, a line of sad statues in bedraggled, mismatched clothes.
“Well, that’s not much of a welcome committee,” a teasing woman’s voice sounded from behind them. A tinge of recognition broke through Emmeline’s muddled mind, and she turned, as did the others, perhaps trying to figure out what acquaintance had found them.
Two people stood a few feet away, avoiding the rest of the disembarking passengers.
Emmeline quickly took in the woman, wearing the strangest outfit of a shirt, pants, and an oversized coat.
Recognition finally struck as she raised her eyes to her aunt’s familiar face—and then everything faded into the background as she beheld the man next to her.
Her mother let out an inhuman cry of relief, and Emmeline thought she’d collapse then and there.
But then she yelled, “Will!” and picked up her skirts and ran into Father’s arms. He cried out, too, and hugged her and twirled her around once, before Tristan and Brendon joined them with their “Father!” and “Papa!” and slammed into him, nearly pushing him off balance.
Emmeline swallowed the painful lump in her throat, blinking repeatedly, asking every force in the world for it to be true. And as moments passed and he was still there, she finally allowed herself to believe it. She had no idea how—and frankly, it didn’t matter—but Father was alive and well.
Finally, her brothers unglued themselves from him, and with the last slew of kisses, Mother also detached herself from his embrace. Father looked at Emmeline and smiled, and all of her doubts and fears of him still hating her were forgotten. She ran and wrapped her arms around him.
“Emmeline,” he whispered into her hair. “My darling.”
“Oh, Papa. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She squeezed him tighter. “I’m sorry for what I said. What I did. I didn’t want to—”
“Hush, now,” he said. “It’s all right. I’m sorry, too. I overreacted.”
“No, I overreacted. I love you. I was angry. I didn’t mean all those things …”
“See, it only takes one disaster to make rebellious teenagers and overprotective fathers reasonable,” Aunt Emily said.
Emmeline raised her head from Father’s shoulder and beamed at her. “Auntie! How are you here? I thought you couldn’t leave the house.”
“Let’s say I got better,” Emily said with a mischievous grin. “It’s a long story—which I will have to tell at some point because your, uh, powers are involved as well—but we’ll talk about that later.”
“Oh, yes,” Father said. “We have plenty to talk about.”
Emmeline shook her head. Did they know? How? “I still don’t understand. How are you two … Papa, how did you get to New York before us? And how did you get off the ship?”
Father shot a side glance at her aunt. “Emily saved me.”
“Well, you also saved me,” Emily said back. “It was a mutual saving.”
“But I couldn’t have saved you if you didn’t save me first—”
“You know, technically, it all started because of Emmeline, so we could say she saved us …”
Mother looked at Emily. “You came to the ship. You saved him?”
Emily waved her hand. “We were literally just discussing—” She was cut short as Mother hugged her and, based on Emily’s gasp, nearly knocked the wind out of her. Emily patted her back. “There, there, Lady.”