Prologue: Come the Fall

[Dominic Chesterfield]

It was ten o'clock and and a strange, weary calm fell upon the room. It spread swiftly amongst the kitchen staff, a fever of relief, and with happy florid faces they succumbed, crashing into their seats. First, the pleasure of silence. Gone was the ceaseless clatter of metal upon metal, gone were the flatulent roars, no more was the snakepit hiss of searing oil and spitting steaks, or the doomsday drumming of doors. It was over, and they basked in the stillness of their accomplishment. Second, the pleasure of food. Ravenous from their exertions, the platoon of cooks descended upon their dinner plates like a flock of rowdy vultures to tear at the meat and lap away the wine. All of them, except one.

Dom was arranging the utensils; first in order of category, separating the prep tools from the serving tools, then in order of material type, and finally, of course, size. After all, who in their right mind would leave a medium silicone fish slice with a small stainless steel whisk? Next, the leftover tea towels, folded twice into eight inch squares and neatly stacked two inches from the table edge. One last inspection of the knives, his hair was corrected in the cleaver's reflection, and he was ready to join his colleagues. He carried to the table his meal, self-prepared; and his cutlery, Christofle silver; along with a tall glass of water, freshly-poured, room temperature; and laid them out with the dexterity of a head waiter. Using his sleeve, he wiped the rim of his plate, Versace bone china, then took his seat.

"A pleasure to have you with us, Your Lordship."

Saul Gerrard, the head chef, wore a small grin. He was a suave, square-jawed tower of a man, with thin lips, narrow eyes, and greying temples. He was the man that Hollywood forgot, gone soft around the edges from too many years as a patissier, and, much to the bewilderment of his subordinates, he'd taken a shine to Dom. His voice was melodic and soft, like lightly creaking wood, but still, in the fleeting silence between words, the echo of his barritone's bellow still haunted the room. He was at once warm and scalding hot. So, with that in mind, Dom gave him a safe nod of acknowledgement. The table was silent thereafter, and Dom draped his napkin into place, blissfully ignorant of the gaze of dozens bearing down upon him.

"You know, Dom, that really looks great, but why don't you try the shrimp ravio-"

"No... thank you."

"Why?" Saul promptly returned fire, delaying Dom's first mouthful an agonising moment longer.

"You know why. I've already-"

"Humour me."

There was a sharp clatter of Christofle silver.

"Because I have prepared this meal. Because I want to know whose grubby paws have been touching my food. Because I like to enjoy each of my meals comfortable in the knowledge that they have been prepared with the appropriate measure of precision, care, and... love."

It was a weak finish, he knew it, and the laughter confirmed as much. He exploited the reprieve to its fullest, however, and secured his first taste of pan-seared salmon. There was the silver lining. He wasn't kidding about the love. Conversation resumed in earnest and warmth. Spirits were high almongst the crew, they had survived the big night and were only nine days from home. And while the music played and people danced, swaying with the imperceptible churn and boil of the sea beneath their feet, the MS Atlantia charged onwards into the dark in search of brighter shores.

[James Bermondsey]

While the music played and people danced, Major Bermondsey sat and watched, his keen blue eyes flicking from joyous face to joyous face as his gaze swept the crowd.

He had never been one for dancing. In the past it had always seemed a fanciful and futile exercise, and such frivolous things had always been beneath him. Truth be told, save for what had been an at-the-time embarrassing and forced exception with a bridesmaid at his elder sister's wedding, he'd never even danced before - not properly, at any rate. Until now that hadn't concerned him in the slightest, but as he watched couples young and old stepping and twirling their way through waltzes and quicksteps, this time he did so with envy.

A hand smoothed it's way down the tailored trousers that hung over his senseless and immobile legs, willing some kind of feeling to manifest. The fingers of the other hand toyed with a napkin, within it clutched a desert fork he'd liberated from the dinner table. He contemplated his ritual, considered repeating the act of driving the cutlery into his thigh out of a desperate desire to feel something; his doctors and therapists had always queried the mysterious injuries and so of late he had ceased, but this cruise was bound to give him enough time to heal before they noticed.

He sighed, and slipped the napkin-wrapped fork into his pocket. He knew what would happen; that was the curse that befell every sick or injured physician. He knew his own diagnosis, and understood exactly how his body would - or in this case wouldn't - react. He'd seen the x-rays, the MRIs; read the blood-work; gone over all the test results. An injury like his didn't heal itself on it's own, and any kind of intervention was too risky for any sane surgeon to perform. What he had given for his country - what had been lost; taken - was gone, never to return.

He turned towards his only companion at the otherwise deserted table, his gaze lingering on the dancers until the absolute last moment. "I know Lizzie sent you to look after me, but you don't have to be here all the time. You should go; make the most of the fact that you're on an all expenses paid cruise."

The smile that replied looked like it had been stolen from angels; of all the people that James knew, Matilda was the only one who managed to look at him without pity in her eyes. "I'm here to spend time with you. It's the last chance I've got before university, and given how you feel about Americans, I'm not exactly expecting you to come visiting all that often."

James grunted. "The logic behind studying English in America escapes me," he muttered, though he couldn't quite fight the hint of a smile that stumbled out beneath his words. It was exactly the kind of gripe that Matilda knew and, for some reason, loved.

The Major allowed the smile to linger for a moment. "Even so, that shouldn't stop you from having a good time. I heard loud, thumping music with absolutely no tonal or melodic merit coming from one of the function rooms down the hall, which presumably means that it's what passes for cool with you young people these days." He shrugged. "Who knows. Perhaps that boy you were eyeing up by the pool yesterday will be there."

Matilda's ears flushed a deep shade of scarlet, and she suddenly seemed extremely interested in the contents of her glass. James pressed his advantage. "I'll make it an order if I have to."

"I'm not a soldier," Tilly bit back; "And neither are you," tumbled out before she'd had the opportunity to halt her verbal momentum. A twinge of horror tugged at the corner of her eyes.

James' smile faltered, but only slightly. "No," he admitted, "But I am still your uncle. Don't make me invoke the ancient rites of Uncle Jimmy Says."

Tilly unleashed a theatrical sigh, eyes rolling to match. "Fine." She made a show of retrieving and checking her purse. "Just promise me you won't get drunk and, I don't know, go all seventies rock star and drive your wheelchair into the pool, okay? That kind of thing isn't considered cool any more."

"I guarantee nothing," he replied with a smile, jerking his head towards the door to give Tilly one last shove towards leaving. At last she complied, weaving her way through the tables that littered the back half of the ballroom.

Just before she passed out of earshot however, James couldn't help one final jab. "Make sure you've got a condom handy," he called, loud enough for the occupants of surrounding tables could hear, "Just in case you meet that nice boy."

Once again Matilda's ears reddened, and James felt a sense of satisfaction wash over him. He couldn't dance; couldn't walk; couldn't fight, or serve his country; but at least he could fulfil his obligation as an uncle and be as embarrassing as any given situation could possibly allow. From that, in spite of everything else that plagued his mind, he took some small solace.

[Genesis]

Genesis Jones allowed herself to be spun around the dance floor, her blue dress flaring out at her knees before she was snagged comfortably by her partner's arms. She laughed, breathlessly, clutching at his shoulders as they moved to the music, and considered that she might have had one too many drinks. Her parents were somewhere nearby with her little sister, probably gazing into each others eyes over glasses of pinot noir.

They were celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary - a few months late. Genesis had been born about seven months into their marriage (she'd done the math when she was fourteen, naughty naughty Mom and Dad!) and her sister, Exodus, hadn't come along until seventeen years later. A wonderful accident, Mom had said.

The cruise was a family vacation a long time coming. She'd been neck deep in law texts for what seemed like forever, and was quite enjoying the break. The parent-funded break with her own room and a view. The ship was going to stop at few Caribbean islands over the next week before turning and heading slowly back to port.

And in the meantime, she was going to enjoy dancing with handsome strangers.

[Dr. Karl Janus]

It was a riot of color and forms in motion, a dizzying whirlwind of chattering voices, pounding feet, and throbbing instruments. Karl had no ear for music, and the confidence and dexterity that served him so well in the operating room deserted him on the dance floor. But where he faltered and fumbled, Ellie soared. She was, as in all things she did, a fountain overflowing with life, with electricity, with the joyful abandon he could never find in himself. Resplendent in her sparkling red gown, her face aglow beneath the wisps of soft, brown hair that had worked their way free from her elegant Asian bun, her lithe body swaying and twisting in ways that thrilled and captivated him, she was well worth enduring the press of unfamiliar bodies, the screeching, pounding music, and his own ineptitude. She even managed to elevate his own clumsy efforts to something resembling mediocrity, but if anyone cared to watch them, they'd be mad to spare more than a moment's glance at him.

A thundering avalanche of drums signaled the end of the song, and Ellie went spinning into his arms and came to rest at the last cymbal crash pressed tight against his chest, short of breath and smiling up at him as if the two of them were the only ones in on the joke. Around them, several other guests turned and applauded as if it had been a performance. The joke was on them, then. Karl was as much a spectator as they were, and no less in wonder.

Ellie offered them a few gracious "thank yous" before she tugged Karl by the crook of his arm away from the dance floor. The band had begun another tune, a ponderous, lilting thing that had couples drawing close together and turning slowly in place, but that simply wasn't Ellie's speed. "I need a drink, Karl," she said into his ear. "And you need several."

Karl laughed. "I've already had several," he replied. "Sorry, darling. This is as disinhibited as I get."

She lifted her head to kiss him on the corner of the mouth. "If I believed that, I wouldn't have married you."

At that he held her a little tighter, simultaneously warmed by her affection and chilled by the thought that she might reconsider her decision. The treasonous notion had slithered up from his hindbrain every time he woke to find her curled up next to him in bed, or when he'd fingered his gold wedding band while he followed her through the shops of Curaçao. It was childish, he knew, a lack of trust that bordered on disloyalty, a weakness that he despised. But still it lurked in his darkest thoughts like a wild animal following the scent of infirmity: It can't last. She's too good for you.

As they navigated the dining room tables, he leaned down and spoke into her hair: "You're too good for me, you know."

Ellie laughed like a schoolgirl. "Of course I am. But you could score some points with a back massage." She swung her hip into his. "Or something."

He smiled wanly and plucked a pair of champagne flutes from a passing porter as the dancers spun on behind them.

[Amelia Murray]

“Hello? Earth to Amelia? We're going to be late.”

Amelia Murray blinked. The mirror in front of her reflected another young woman standing just behind her, peering over her shoulder. In a backless jade-green gown, Amy Paterson looked simultaneously breathtakingly beautiful and completely over-dressed within the close confines and intimacy of the cabin. Her dark hair fell in curls over her shoulders, just skimming her collar bone. Her lips, smiling, were a dark rich red.

“When have you ever been punctual? Besides, we're already late.”

Looking back at her own image, Amelia adjusted the shoulders of her own dress. Again. Still not convinced.

“Fashionably late, for now – but it won't stay that way for long.” Amy sank onto the bed, setting down her half-empty glass of wine on the bedside table. She tilted her head, sympathetic. “Look, if you're not feeling up to it...”

“No – it's not that – it's just –” Her lips flattened into a thin line. What was it? Something she'd eaten, perhaps? That was just grasping for excuses. There were just only so many dinner functions that she had the strength to attend before it became a chore. Both of them knew that, deep down, but for Amy's sake Amelia was willing to pretend otherwise. The cruise had been Amy's idea, paid for her parents. As much as Amelia wanted to just collapse in their cabin with a book and a cup of tea, she knew that would only make her feel guilty.

“It'll be fun, I promise.” Standing once more, Amy slid an arm around Amelia's waist and kissed the back of her neck. “And if it's not, we'll sneak out and go skinny dipping in the pool.”