The Third-Class general room was alive with noise and movement, thick with laughter, music, and the sharp scent of ale and smoke. A lively band had gathered near an upright piano, driving out a fast, stomping tune with fiddle, accordion, and tambourine. Boots struck the wooden floor in rhythm as men and women danced without restraint, tankards raised, voices loud and unguarded.
Nathaniel placed a pint of stout into Rose's hand. She regarded it for only a moment before lifting it with a small, daring smile.
Nearby, Michael found himself attempting to dance with a little girl no more than five, who stood perched atop his shoes, gripping his hands as she directed him with complete authority. He followed her lead with surprising patience, earning delighted laughter from the child.
Nathaniel leaned slightly toward Carlisle, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Well now… who would have thought our good doctor kept such talents hidden?"
Carlisle's lips curved into a faint smile. "It would seem we are all capable of surprises."
Rose, close enough to overhear, let out a soft laugh, her eyes lingering on Michael.
As the tune came to an end, the little girl hopped down and darted away into the crowd. Rose stepped forward, her gaze fixed on Michael.
She dipped her head slightly. "May I cut in, sir?"
Michael inclined his head, offering his hand. "You may."
She placed her hand in his, though there was the faintest tremor in her fingers.
"I must warn you," she said, almost conspiratorially, "I do not know the steps."
Michael's expression softened, a quiet confidence in his gaze. "Then do not trouble yourself with them. Simply follow."
The music struck up again, faster this time, and he guided her into motion. At first, her movements were tentative, her posture careful, but soon laughter escaped her as she began to find the rhythm. Her steps grew lighter, freer, her earlier restraint melting away.
"Wait—stop!" she suddenly said, breathless.
She bent quickly, slipping off her high-heeled shoes, and without ceremony tossed them toward Nathaniel.
Nathaniel caught them with ease, brow lifting slightly in amusement.
Rose seized Michael's hand again. "Now—again."
They plunged back into the dance, faster now, the tempo rising. Her stockinged feet moved easily across the floor, her laughter bright against the music.
Nearby, Nathaniel watched them with quiet interest before glancing toward Hester. "And you? Will you not take to the floor?"
Hester lifted her drink, taking a measured sip before replying. "If I am asked properly, perhaps."
Nathaniel let out a soft chuckle. "Then the poor soul had best possess both courage and manners."
A faint smirk touched Hester's lips, though she said nothing.
___
Across the room, Jack and Fabrizio stood with tankards in hand, caught somewhere between dancing and watching the chaos unfold. Fabrizio nudged Jack with his elbow, nodding toward the far side of the room.
"Eh… you see them, no?" he said, lowering his voice. "That one—dressed all in black. She is more your kind, I think."
Jack followed his gaze, spotting Hester among the others. He gave a small shake of his head, though a smile tugged at his mouth. "You're imagining things."
Fabrizio scoffed. "I am never wrong about such things. Go on, ask her."
Jack hesitated. "She does not look the sort to be bothered."
"That is exactly why you should go," Fabrizio insisted, giving him a shove. "What is the worst she can do? Refuse you?"
Jack exhaled, then straightened slightly. "All right… all right."
He made his way across the room, weaving through dancers until he reached their table. For a brief moment, he simply stood there, then offered a polite nod.
"Miss… would you care to dance?"
Nathaniel's gaze flicked toward Hester, a faint, knowing smile forming.
Hester regarded Jack for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, after a brief pause, she placed her hand in his.
"With pleasure."
Nathaniel's smile widened just a fraction as he watched them go.
____
The music swelled, the room growing louder, wilder. A table overturned as a drunken man stumbled into it, laughter erupting around him. In the center of it all, Michael and Rose moved in perfect rhythm.
A space began to form around them as others stepped back, clapping along. Rose's cheeks were flushed, strands of hair escaping their pins, her laughter unrestrained. She moved with a grace that seemed almost effortless now, keeping pace as the music quickened.
Not far away, Fabrizio spun with a girl he had met only moments before. Neither understood the other's language, but it mattered little. He twirled her once, grinning only to be abruptly spun in return. His expression shifted to one of startled admiration as he realized she was stronger than he expected.
The tune rushed toward its end in a flurry of sound.
Michael stepped back with a small flourish, allowing Rose her moment. She dipped into a graceful bow, her posture instinctively refined despite the chaos around her.
The room erupted in laughter and applause.
Breathless and exhilarated, Rose joined the others at the table. Without hesitation, she reached for Nathaniel's cigarette and took a bold drag.
Nathaniel raised a brow. "Careful. You seem rather pleased with yourself."
Michael approached, a faint smile on his lips. "And how fare you both?"
Nathaniel gestured lightly toward Rose. "I cannot say what she intends, and I suspect she cannot say it either. Yet somehow, all is well."
Carlisle returned, setting down fresh pints before them.
Rose seized hers and drank deeply, far from the delicate sips expected of her station. She set it down with a small, triumphant lift of her chin.
"You imagine a lady of First Class cannot keep pace?" she said, a spark of challenge in her voice.
Michael watched her, amused, settling beside her.
As he did, his attention shifted. Hester approached, Jack at her side.
"Everyone," Hester said calmly, "this is Jack Dawson."
Jack offered his hand, first to Carlisle, who accepted it warmly, then to Nathaniel.
Nathaniel shook his hand, studying him briefly. "You may wish to mind yourself," he said lightly. "She is not easily impressed."
Hester's foot connected lightly with his shin beneath the table, earning him a brief look.
Jack smiled faintly, then turned to Michael, extending his hand.
"Jack Dawson."
Michael took it. "Michael Morbius."
______
Elsewhere, far from the music and laughter, the atmosphere shifted entirely.
Inside a cramped third-class cabin, five men gathered around a small table. The air was thick, heavy with quiet intent.
Bjorn tossed a folder onto the surface.
"This is the man you seek," he said. "His details are inside. His room as well."
One of the three men stepped forward, opening it carefully, scanning its contents.
Bjorn watched him. "We have fulfilled our part of the arrangement. Now you will fulfill yours."
The man, Sabas lifted his gaze. "When does it begin?"
Olaus answered, his voice low and precise. "On the fourth night of the voyage. At half past eleven."
He leaned forward slightly.
"You will begin below. The stokers, greasers. Remove them quietly."
Bjorn continued without hesitation. "While you do that, we will make our way to the bridge."
A brief silence followed.
"And then?" Sabas asked.
Bjorn's expression hardened.
"Then the ship meets its fate."
Olaus added calmly, "Once your task is complete… what follows is of no concern to us."
Sabas closed the folder slowly.
Then he nodded.