The wind whistled as Jack pushed open the door to the boatdeck. He had traversed the path from third class to first so many times that he could do it in his sleep, and he didn't pause an instant after closing the door behind him.

He made his way down the deck. It was cold as hell out, and the wind was biting. The boatdeck was now completely deserted. Lamps glowed dimly, and stars cluttered the sky. Jack was amazed by how many stars there were. There seemed to be not a cloud in the sky, and there was a sharp line at the horizon where the sea met the stars.

He hurried down the deck, glancing around at places he recognized. The railing where he'd taught Rose to spit. The deck chair where she'd looked at his sketches.

It was amazing how, only three days before, he hadn't even known she existed, and now his world revolved around her. She became the most important thing in his life, everything else fading in the background.

He'd never thought he could feel that way about anyone.

He jerked open a door and stepped inside, shivering and letting the sudden warmth seep through him. Then he opened the interior door and peered cautiously into the Grand Staircase.

It was completely empty, and silent. He figured the only people up at this time were the few men lingering in the smoking room, nursing brandies and finishing their card games. He was safe, so far.

B-52, Rose had told him before they'd parted. Just in case?

He walked slowly down the stairs, still amazed at the opulence around him. The staircase gleamed; it was freshly polished. It was beautiful to his artists eye, but also dangerous.

This world was an unforgiving one, and he was not familiar with it. The sooner he left it behind the better - but he was not leaving without Rose.

He found his way down the corridor and soon was standing before a door with the simple marking of B-52. He glanced down the hall, making sure he was alone, and then put his ear to the door, and listened.

***

Ruth had gone to bed, giving them a somewhat wry goodnight. She'd looked strained, her eyes shadowed, and the lines on her face deeper than when she covered them with powder. She'd told them both to get some sleep, that they all needed sleep, and things could be worked out in the morning.

Cal had sulked.

It was unbelievable to Rose how childish he was. Ruth had told him calmly and in a tone that needed no questioning that the engagement was off. She was sorry, she'd said, but Rose was not ready for such a committment and had certainly proven that with her 'rompings' around the ship with a 'strange boy.'

Cal had protested, then argued, then gotten angry, but Ruth had stood her ground. Before leaving she had warned Cal not to try anything stupid - she actually said that - and he had actually nodded, refilling his shot glass for about the tenth time.

Rose, physically worn out by the evening, had headed toward her bedroom when Cal stopped her.

"Rose."

"What?" she asked flatly, without turning around.

"Can't we even talk about this?" He was ever the gentleman, the alcohol making his tone smooth and almost pleasant, but she detected the undercurrents of anger, and was wary. She turned slowly and eyed him suspiciously.

"I'm very tired," she said, hand on the knob of her door.

"No doubt. You've been very busy during this crossing."

Rose didn't like his tone. She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a cool look, not deigning to reply.

He felt compelled to expand on that. Puffing casually on a cigarette, he regarded her through the smoke, then said, "You have behaved very childishly, Rose. But I suppose that's to be expected. You're a child." He sounded almost amused, as though she were a three-year-old whose antics he found endearing.

Rose lifted her chin. "I ceased to be a child many years ago, Cal."

He snorted. "Oh please. Now, Rose, don't think you can con me with your sob stories the way you've obviously conned that steerage rat. We both know that your father's death was tragic, but you have not been scarred for life."

"No," Rose agreed, her eyes flashing but her voice remaining calm, "I managed to hold myself together. I was very young, Cal, and my father -" her voice wavered as she remembered that her true father was someone else entirely - "was very dear to me. I grew up very fast. So don't call me a child; you have no right."

"No?" He leaned back against the couch, clearly enjoying this.

"No, I should say not." Rose gave him a narrow look. "You did not see me as a child last night, nor the night before, nor many before that, when you wished me in your room with you." Her voice held a challenge, and she felt no shame for discussing these forbidden things so openly.

Was his face turning red or was that her imagination? He stubbed out his cigarette and stared at her for a long moment. When he spoke, it was with bitterness and barely disguised resentment. "I see," he said. "So you are not a child, yet that's your excuse when - " he paused, obviously searching for the most delicate phrasing - "when I would like our relationship to be more than purely platonic. That rather contradictory, darling."

"Our relationship is nothing more than an arranged engagement, unwanted by myself; surely you know that by now!" She stared at him in disbelief. "You are a lot of things, Cal, but you are not stupid; you must have realized long ago that I do not nor will I ever care for you."

He winced slightly, and lit another cigarette. She saw that his hands were shaking a bit, and wondered why. "You never even tried to," he said, anger bleeding into his cultured voice. He did not meet her eyes.

"You don't let yourself be loved, Cal. You are too cruel and self-centered and when you do marry it will be for money, or beauty, or social standing, but never love. You don't know what that is. And I cannot commit myself to a lifelong relationship like that." As she spoke she realized that that was almost exactly what her mother had done; she'd committed to a relationship with a man she knew she would never love. Had she truly done it for her daughter? Rose was bewildered as the shock caught up with her, and unanswered questions reeled in her mind.

Cal was looking at the carpeting. She knew he'd never been spoken to like that before, and that he was uncomfortable discussing such things. Well, so was she. This was too much, too much for one night.

"I'm going to bed now," she said quietly. "We'll finish this conversation tomorrow."

His head snapped up, and he was suddenly furious. "No! Don't you dare leave; this discussion is not over, damnit!" He was holding his voice down for obvious reasons, but the venom in his words was apparent. Rose blinked, taking an involuntary step back.

"Yes, it is," she said, her voice trembling slightly. He looked so furious all the sudden; his temper roaring to life after the verbal abuse he'd been receiving, the alcohol he'd consumed fueling his anger. He stood, towering over her, and his face was bright red; she was not imagining it now.

"I will say when this conversation is over," he said slowly, advancing on her like some hulking monster from a nightmare. "Do you understand me, my darling Rose?"

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