Michael offered his arm with quiet elegance, palm turned outward. Rose's eyes lifted to his, bright with anticipation, before she slipped her gloved hand through the crook of his elbow. Her touch was light, almost tentative, as though mindful of propriety yet secretly pleased. Together they stepped into the promenade, the soft hum of a hundred conversations drifting around them like warm smoke.
Rose leaned closer, not enough to alarm her chaperones, yet enough that Michael caught the faint scent of lavender. She nodded toward a lady in pale lilac standing near a gilded column.
"That is the Countess Rothes," she whispered, her voice barely above the murmur of the room. "A most agreeable woman. Devotes herself very earnestly to charitable pursuits."
Michael followed her gaze, inclining his head politely though the Countess was unaware.
As they moved further into the gathering, Rose slowed her steps. "Now look to your left, just beyond the potted palm." She tilted her chin subtly in that direction. "John Jacob Astor… and his wife, Madeleine. The richest gentleman aboard."
Michael glanced discreetly. Astor stood with the relaxed confidence of a man accustomed to admiration. Rose lowered her voice even further.
"Madeline is hardly older than I," she murmured. "And in a delicate condition. See how she conceals it beneath the folds of her gown? Entirely improper, according to society's more vocal critics. A scandal waiting to happen."
A tiny smile tugged at her lips, equal parts sympathy and mischief.
They continued down the grand corridor, passing the glitter of diamonds and the rustle of silk. Rose shifted closer again, gesturing discreetly toward another couple near the staircase.
"And there, Sir Cosmo and Lady Duff-Gordon." Her tone grew almost conspiratorial. "She designs the most risqué lingerie. Quite popular with European royalty, I hear."
Michael's brow arched slightly. "My, my. Are you a patron of her artistry?"
Rose nearly choked. Her face flushed a delightful shade of rose, and she gave his arm a soft, scandalized smack. "Absolutely not! Michael, you are impossible."
"Only asking," he replied mildly, the corners of his mouth curving.
As they approached the landing leading down into the dining saloon, the crowds grew thicker. Cal's voice carried before they even reached him, polished and boisterous as he conversed with Cosmo and Colonel Gracie. Ruth, meanwhile, was engaged in earnest discussion with the Countess and Lady Duff-Gordon, chattering about fabrics and the newest French fashions.
Rose angled Michael away subtly, so subtly that it could have been mistaken for a shift in pace rather than a deliberate escape. She directed his attention to a pair standing elegantly near the balustrade.
"Benjamin Guggenheim," she said softly. "And Madame Aubert. A companion… not his wife. Mrs. Guggenheim is at home with the children."
Michael gave a slow nod, understanding perfectly without comment.
Behind them, Cal entertained his male companions, who were eyeing Rose with evaluative interest as though inspecting a thoroughbred. Their words floated toward the group like drifting cigar smoke.
"Hockley," Sir Cosmo remarked, "she is quite splendid."
"Thank you," Cal answered, his voice a touch too proud.
Colonel Gracie chuckled. "Well, it can only be luck. I know him well enough."
Ruth turned swiftly at that, taking Cal's arm with affected sweetness. "Colonel, you are incorrigible. Mr. Hockley is a most enviable gentleman, I assure you."
Rose exhaled softly, rolling her eyes just enough that Michael caught it.
The group moved as a slow procession toward the ornate double doors of the dining saloon. The Astors approached at the same moment, and Rose paused gracefully.
"Mr. Astor, Mrs. Astor," she greeted, dipping her head in polite acknowledgment. "May I introduce Mr. Michael Morbius."
Astor shook his hand firmly. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morbius"
Michael said. "Likewise"
Madeleine inclined closer to Rose with a conspiratorial whisper. "Quite handsome, is he not? Such a pity we are both thoroughly spoken for."
Rose's cheeks warmed, but she made no rebuttal.
Ahead of them, the double doors opened to reveal the magnificent dining saloon, golden chandeliers suspended like floating constellations, the orchestra beginning another graceful waltz under Wallace Hartley's baton. Gentle laughter mingled with the soft clinking of glass.
Michael escorted Rose forward, their steps perfectly in time.
______
While Rose and Michael drifted into the gleaming dining saloon, Nathaniel lingered near the lower end of the grand staircase, observing the room with the calm attentiveness of a man accustomed to secrets. Hester stood at his side, a silhouette of black silk and quiet poise, her butler positioned discreetly behind her.
Nathaniel lifted his glass slightly toward her. "Well then, Miss Frumps," he said in a low tone, "what did you perceive?"
Hester's lips curved into a knowing smirk. She accepted a passing waiter's offer of wine with effortless grace, lifting the glass to study its color before answering.
"You know, professor," she murmured, "such insight will cost you a considerable sum."
Nathaniel chuckled under his breath. "I expected as much. Now speak."
She swirled the wine, letting its scent rise before she finally answered, eyes glinting.
"The Hyde you seek… it is aboard."
Nathaniel's posture sharpened. "Where?"
"Third class." She sipped delicately. "Hiding in plain sight, as monsters often do."
A shadow flickered across his expression, worry mixed with fascination. Yet he pressed on.
"And Michael?" Nathaniel asked quietly. "What did you see of him?"
Hester played at innocence. "Whatever could you mean, Professor?"
He gave her a pointed look. "I know you looked at him too. I'm not senile yet."
She laughed "Very well. If you insist." Her gaze drifted to the dining saloon doors, where Michael had disappeared moments before. "That man is a magnet for misfortune. Trouble will find him… or he will find it. Perhaps he will pull the Hyde straight to you."
Nathaniel exhaled a slow breath. "I suspected as much."
Their conversation paused abruptly. Footsteps approached, deliberate, unnaturally synchronized. Nathaniel looked toward the staircase just as a small entourage descended.
At the front was Carlisle, composed and immaculate, his expression one of polite restraint. Behind him came four others.
The first woman possessed skin as pale as polished moonstone, her black hair cascading like liquid ink over a gown equally dark. The men behind her were no less striking, one with aristocratic features and a blue tuxedo, another with piercing blue eyes and a mane of shoulder-length black hair, and the last, blond and sharp-featured, watching everything with cool precision.
Nathaniel straightened subtly.
As the group reached the base of the stairs, the man with the long black hair stepped forward—Kraven—and his eyes fixed immediately on Nathaniel with disdain that barely passed for civility.
"Well," Kraven drawled, "I did not expect to find a hound wandering among proper company."
"Quite right," Nathaniel said. "Though I suppose it is no worse than finding someone clinging to power he never earned."
Kraven stiffened, jaw tightening, ready to retort but the pale woman lifted one gloved hand, halting him with the effortless authority of a queen.
"That will do," she said. Her voice was smooth, velvet over steel.
Then, turning to Nathaniel, she inclined her head. "Good evening."
Nathaniel returned the gesture. "Lady Semira, a pleasure"
She turned her attention toward Hester, studying her with curiosity. "And who," she asked Nathaniel, "might this be?"
Nathaniel gestured elegantly. "Miss Hester Frumps. A student of mine. Brilliant, troublesome at times, and invaluable tonight."
Hester dipped her head with practiced grace. "A pleasure," she said, though her eyes never lost their edge.
The Semira lingered on her a moment longer, then hummed quietly. "I see."
Carlisle stepped forward then, his demeanor warm in contrast to the others. "We should take our seats," he said to the group. "It is nearly time."
The entourage began to move toward the dining saloon, their steps silent despite the polished floors.
As Carlisle walked past Nathaniel, he slowed, speaking quietly enough that only the professor could hear.
"Where is he?"
"Already inside," Nathaniel replied.
Carlisle nodded once calm, but a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes. Anticipation, perhaps.
_____
The table glowed beneath the soft constellation of chandeliers, silverware shining like polished moonlight. Conversation floated gently across the room like warm smoke, mingling with the restrained strings of Hartley's small orchestra.
Michael found himself seated opposite Rose, whose eyes drifted toward him more often. To her right sat Caledon Hockley, straight-backed, confident, and already watching Michael with a calculating glance. On Rose's other side was Thomas Andrews, kind-eyed and earnest, always ready with a polite word.
Around them gathered the luminaries of the ship: Molly Brown, vibrant and unpretentious; Colonel Gracie, stiff and military; Ismay, who has a smug smile; Countess Rothes with her delicate laugh; Benjamin Guggenheim and Madame Aubert in quiet sophistication; and the Astors, elegant and luminous.
Ruth sat nearest Michael, posture flawless, chin lifted, as though she herself had designed the cutlery and expected praise for it.
It was Colonel Gracie who began.
"Tell us more about yourself, Mr. Morbius. I hear you have recently been honored with an award."
Glasses shifted, heads turned. Cal leaned slightly, smiling with an air of indulgent condescension.
"Yes, Mr. Morbius," he drawled, "do enlighten us. I understand you have made something of a name for yourself… in the scientific circles."
Rose's eyes narrowed when she heard the tone.
Michael placed his napkin with deliberate care before answering.
"A modest recognition, Colonel," he said. "A commendation from the Royal Society of Medicine for my contributions to hematology. Nothing so grand as those present might imagine."
"Oh, do not be so humble," Molly Brown cut in warmly. "A man ought to take pride in his achievements. Especially when he earned them."
Ismay sniffed primly. "Science is well and good, though I cannot say I understand a word of it."
"And yet you insist upon benefitting from it," Molly murmured dryly, taking a sip of her champagne. Several guests hid a smile.
Cal, undeterred, folded his hands.
"So you are a doctor," he said. "How… admirable. I imagine your work offers a comfortable living. Though perhaps not quite on par with, say—" His hand drifted casually over the diamond pins on his lapel, "—the steel industry."
Rose stiffened slightly, Thomas Andrews cleared his throat with discomfort. Ruth gave a thin smile of agreement.
Michael's response was a soft thing, almost mild.
"I would not dream of comparing myself to the likes of you, Mr. Hockley," he said gently. "After all, men of your vocation craft the ships… while men of mine ensure the passengers survive the voyage."
A few soft coughs of laughter escaped around the table. Even the Countess hid a smile behind her fan.
Cal's jaw tightened, though his expression remained politely composed.
Thomas Andrews chuckled kindly. "Well put, Mr. Morbius. Though I do hope my ship makes your services entirely unnecessary."
"I hope so as well," Michael said with a faint smile.
Countess Rothes leaned forward slightly. "Dr. Morbius, is it true you trained in Europe? My husband mentioned something of the sort."
"Yes," Michael replied. "I spent several years in Geneva, then in Paris. The continent has much to teach, if one is willing to see beyond the surface."
"And what brought you to America?" asked Madame Aubert.
Michael hesitated only briefly. "A desire for… new opportunities."
Rose's gaze softened, noticing the way he avoided certain words, certain truths.
Colonel Gracie shifted the conversation. "Your complexion has improved since yesterday evening, if I may remark upon it. You looked rather pale earlier."
Michael inclined his head. "I appreciate your concern, Colonel. I suffer from an ailment that troubles me on occasion. The sea air, it seems, has done me a kindness today."
Cal raised a brow. "An ailment? I see. And yet you seem quite capable this evening."
"Some burdens," Michael answered calmly, "are easier carried when one is among pleasant company."
Cak lifted his wine, voice smooth.
"Tell me, Mr. Morbius, do you possess family in America?"
"No," Michael answered. "My parents passed some years ago."
Ruth offered a sympathetic expression. "So young to be without family."
He gave a respectful incline of his head. "We all lose something in life, Mrs. Bukater. The challenge lies in what we make of what remains."
Andrews nodded approvingly. "A wise sentiment indeed."
The table murmured agreement.
_______
[Fun Fact: According to the documentary Fang VS. Fiction, there was a real life Corvinus Clan around the same time as Vlad the Impaler, and that there were stories circulating about members of the clan becoming Vampires and Werewolves, as well as other things. According to history, the most memorable head figure of the real life Corvinus Clan was Matei Corvin/Matthias Corvinus (King of Hungary).]