Chapter Text
Lena Luthor didn’t think she could stand one more of her mother’s insufferable galas. And this time on a boat, of all places.
She stood in front of the mirror in her stateroom, smoothing out the folds of her deep-red satin dress. Her hair was up in a twist, accentuating the delicate strand of pearls at her neck. In the glow of the candlelight, she knew she looked every bit the high-society wife—exactly how her mother wanted her to appeal to Morgan Edge. Lillian Luthor had organized a gala in honor of Edge’s new partnership with Luthor Industries, but Lena knew the ulterior motive was to set Lena up with Edge. It made business sense, after all—strengthen the alliance and merger prospects between the two companies, all while quashing those pesky rumors about Lena that her mother was convinced were scaring away potential patrons from the family business.
The desire to be free of each other was the one thing that Lena and Lillian could agree on, but Lena would rather drown than marry Morgan Edge.
***
Lena tried to focus on the things she liked about the gala. The small but well-appointed ballroom was lovely, really—all velvet drapery and swirling dresses and stately ice sculptures. Tuxedoed waiters kept trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres steady against the slight sway of the ship, offering them to revelers. Men and women danced to the lively string band, and Lena leaned against a pillar on the outskirts, sipping champagne and tapping her foot gently to the music.
“May I have this dance?” Lena turned in surprise at the familiar voice, and laughed at the sight of her older brother, Lex, gallantly offering her his hand.
“You may,” she said, setting her champagne flute on the edge of the buffet table and following him to the dance floor.
As he began to lead, Lex leaned in and said quietly, “I’m shocked you aren’t dancing with Morgan Edge, Lena.” He tsked. “What will mother think?”
She paused to give his shoulder a playful nudge, shaking her head slightly as she resumed the dance. “Don’t you start with me, Lex. I could just as easily ask why you aren’t off seducing Eve Tessmacher this evening.”
“Hmm, yes. Miss Tessmacher bores me, I’m afraid. Perhaps we should set her up with Edge?” he winked.
“Now that really would solve everything, wouldn’t it?”
“Indeed,” said Lex. “Now, since I have your ear, I wanted to ask your opinion of the designs I left in your stateroom earlier, for improvements to the engine.”
Lex was one of the most brilliant minds in the world, Lena knew. He had even designed the ship they were on for this gala, arranged to celebrate its maiden voyage. The Luthor Luxury Liner had a sleeker, faster style than any other midsize passenger ship, a more streamlined hull, and was built of lighter metal throughout.
In addition to being brilliant, Lex was also one of the few people in Lena’s life who seemed to actually respect her opinion. They worked together well, coming up with new inventions or improvements to Luthor Industries’ workflow and holdings. Of course, Lex got all the credit. But Lena was glad for any opportunity to put her mind to work—if Lillian had her way, Lena wouldn’t be involved at all.
Lena and Lex had drifted back over near the punchbowl, and Lena was just starting to explain how they could increase the cargo load on their rail lines to the shipyard when Morgan Edge appeared, empty glass in hand.
“Now Lex, don’t you think you’ve monopolized your sister quite enough for tonight? Let’s save the industry talk for the cigar room this evening,” Edge said, clapping Lex on the shoulder. “Miss Luthor,” he acknowledged her with a slight bow while Lena busied herself with refilling punch glasses so he wouldn’t try to kiss her on the cheek, “I hope you’re not trying to avoid a dance with me this evening.”
“I must apologize, Mr. Edge,” Lena replied with a forced smile, handing him a glass of the bubbly pink punch. “I’m afraid the strength of the waves this evening has upset my stomach. I plan to retire to my stateroom in a moment.”
Edge raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his drink. “Mm, I would’ve thought you were made of stronger stuff, Miss Luthor. Well, perhaps you will join me for a drink above deck tomorrow evening. They say this storm will pass by tomorrow.”
Lena just gave a curt nod. “I’ll leave you two to each other, then,” Lena said, the corner of her mouth turning up slightly in response to Lex’s pointed glare. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
Though it was a convenient excuse, Lena hadn’t been lying about how the rocking of the ship was beginning to unsettle her. It seemed to have picked up tremendously in only the past ten minutes, and the waiters she hurried past were struggling to keep champagne flutes balanced on their trays. One tipped his entire tray in a great shattering of glass, eliciting gasps and murmurs from the partygoers and splashing alcohol onto the hem of Lena’s gown as she wound her way through the crowd and out into the corridor.
Once she’d made it to her stateroom, Lena locked the door behind her and leaned back against it with a sigh of relief. She’d intended to stay longer at the gala; she really had. But being in Morgan Edge’s presence had filled her with an overwhelming desire she could only describe as fight-or-flight, and she couldn’t very well punch him in the nose in front of an audience. She rested her hand against her abdomen, trying to calm the queasy feeling in her stomach that was either from the sound of Edge’s voice, the rolling ocean waves, or both.
Lena decided to turn in early, unsettled by the weather and hoping she could sleep through the worst of it and wake to clear skies. The wind even mostly muffled the sounds of music and laughter from the gala several decks below. Instead of sleeping, though, she found herself thinking back over the way Lex had designed this ship–the thickness of the hull, the height of the decks, the weight of the cargo. Even for mild storms, she’d pointed out, the ship lacked some of the characteristics that could keep it steady on the waves. But Lex had argued that his modifications for speed and appearance had not cut any corners in seaworthiness. And finally, she had acquiesced that he knew far more about ship design than she did—given that he had apprenticed with maritime engineers as a teen, and she had not.
***
Climbing the twisting flights of the lighthouse stairs while balancing two buckets of water hadn’t exactly gotten easier while Kara had been living here, but at least she didn’t spill this time. She winced as the thin metal handles of the heavy buckets dug into her fingers while she nudged open the wooden door of the living quarters with her foot. Jonn glanced up from his leather chair by the fireplace and chuckled at the sight of her, quickly rising to help.
“I’ll never understand why you insist on carrying so much at once, instead of just making two trips,” he said, taking one of the buckets from her and hoisting it onto the counter in their little kitchen.
“You know me better than that,” Kara said with a laugh. Jonn was an old family friend—he’d been the lighthouse keeper on National Point for as long as she could remember, and often visited her father at the pub he ran on the mainland. Although her father had passed away years ago, Kara still saw Jonn during his visits to the mainland. One time, he had mentioned he could use a helping hand at the lighthouse—now that he was in his sixties, his knees weren’t what they used to be—and Kara had sprung at the chance.
They settled into a familiar dinnertime routine together, peeling carrots and potatoes for their stew, and cutting thick slices of crusty bread. Kara loved the coziness of the kitchen level of the lighthouse. Located near the top, just below the light room, it was small and round and sparsely furnished, but was kept warm by the fireplace and quickly filled with the hearty, comforting scent of the bubbling stew. The table and chairs were handmade of sturdy oak by one of Jonn’s good friends on the mainland, and Kara and Jonn kept the floors well-swept and the pantry tidy.
As they settled in at the table together with their dinner, a gust of wind rattled the small round windows. “You were right,” Kara noted as they both glanced up at the sound. “Sounds like that storm is coming in after all.”
When Jonn had mentioned his prediction that morning that a spring squall might pop up later, Kara had internally scoffed—the day had started so bright and clear; the first warm, sunny day they’d had in weeks. But she respected the old man’s experience and instincts, and had dutifully helped him polish the light’s glass and clean the surrounding windows with rags and vinegar. It wouldn’t be Kara’s first storm at the lighthouse–she’d already gotten used to the way the wind could howl around them; the way the fog settled thick over the rocky outcropping. She loved the way the light bore through the fog, and the way it felt to see the dark shadow of a ship alter its course away from the dangerous cliffside toward the safety of the harbor.
Already the little lighthouse felt like home. She had never quite felt like she fit in on the mainland—always longing for something more than the typical life path of the people there. She had often found her gaze drifting out toward the lighthouse, and the sense of purpose, adventure, and self-reflection it seemed to promise.
After they cleaned up from dinner, Jonn went up to the light room, and Kara settled into the leather chair by the fire to sort through the letters that had arrived with the new supply delivery. Although they could, of course, see the little town on the mainland from the top of the lighthouse, they rarely paddled over to it. They couldn’t carry many supplies in their little boat anyway. Instead, one of the local sailors delivered monthly supplies, fuel, fresh water, and mail.
Kara set aside a small stack of letters for Jonn, and eagerly tore open her own letter from her sister, Alex, a boundary-pushing woman herself who had stuck by Kara despite her strange pursuits. In it, Alex wrote of the more interesting nights waitressing for some of the town’s quirkier residents. She also mentioned that Michael, a farrier who had been attempting to court Kara for the better part of three years, kept pestering Alex about when Kara would give up this “folly” of working at the lighthouse.
Kara knew Alex found Michael just as annoying as she did, but it still put a sour feeling in her stomach to be reminded of him. It seemed like everyone else in town thought that she ought to take him up on his courtship—she was twenty-three now, after all. Kara knew she wouldn’t be able to make excuses much longer about why she didn’t want to marry him. Truth was, she wasn’t even quite sure herself. She just knew that she valued time alone more than time with him—time that she spent feeling more like a sounding board for his ego more than anything else. Of course, the townspeople didn’t approve of her lighthouse work either, but at least this way, she could listen to the waves instead of to disapproving whispers.
She tucked Alex’s letter into a leather pouch where she saved all her correspondence, and resolved to get Michael out of her mind and focus on the evening’s chores.
The rain had begun to fall harder while she’d been absorbed in her mail, and what sounded like small hail was pelting against the windows now. Kara slipped her arms into a wool cardigan and hurried up the winding metal stairs to the top floor of the lighthouse, where Jonn was adjusting the light to turn in a wider rotation.
“The wind is really howling,” Kara said, as Jonn stood to toss his wrench back in the tool bag.
He glanced over at her. “Sure seems like it’s going to be a rough one. I haven’t seen any ships, so I hope they all had seasoned captains who saw this coming.”
Kara nodded. “Anything I can do? Are we good on fuel for the night?”
“We should just keep watch, I’d say. Should be good, but we don’t want to chance the light going out on a night like this. Want the first shift?”
Kara could tell he was tired—she was too, but not in the bone-aching way that Jonn had written all over his face. “Of course. I’ll wake you at about one o’clock?”
Jonn took one last glance out over the water, then nodded, satisfied that all was safe for now amid the wind and hail. “Yep, that’s good. Wake me sooner if you see anything.” He started slowly down the stairs, gripping the handrail tightly with each step.
Kara settled into the sole armchair in the light room and pulled her sweater closer around her. Every few minutes, she picked up the little brass spyglass on the end table next to her and scanned the horizon, following the path of the light as it slowly turned through the cutting sheets of rain. It was chilly here compared to the warmth of the fireplace where she’d been reading her mail, but the heat from the big lamp helped a little. She knew that if she stepped out onto the lighthouse balcony, the strength of this storm’s wind up here might just fling her sideways over the iron railing. Despite the way the gales rattled the windows and gave a slightly swaying feel to the upper levels of the lighthouse, she felt secure here inside its thick stone walls.
***
Lena had given up all pretense of sleeping and was instead hunched over her porcelain washbowl, willing herself not to vomit as the ship lurched and swayed. It was worse here in her stateroom than it had been in the ballroom, which was nestled in the belly of the ship, and Lena briefly considered returning. Vomiting was almost worse than the gala, but not quite. She wasn’t in the mood to hear Lillian’s admonishments.
Lena began to be aware of a feeling even more unsettling than the nausea; a heaviness in the air, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. She sat up straight with alarm. Electricity. Had Lex accounted for lightning in his design of the ship? Surely he would have installed a Franklin rod.
Just as her mind began running through the details of such a design—connecting a sharp metal rod to a metal keel with a wire, ideally copper—a burst of white light flashed through the porthole, so intense that Lena reflexively closed her eyes. It was followed immediately by a great thundering crack and a shuddering that seemed to reverberate through the walls of the ship and the wooden floorboards of her stateroom. With a gasp, Lena grabbed onto the headboard of her bed, holding it as tight as she could as the ship leered violently sideways, her traveling trunk skittering across the floor and dumping clothes and shoes everywhere; bottles of lotion and perfume falling off the dresser and shattering, releasing a delicate waft of rosewater.
Lena swallowed a scream as the ship righted itself, her fear of going out on the deck and possibly getting struck by lightning herself warring with her fear for the state of the ship and the other passengers, and her need to get the hell out of this claustrophobic room.
The next crack of thunder sounded fainter and farther away, so Lena took the chance to run barefoot to the door of her cabin and fling it open. The Luthor staterooms were at the highest level of the ship, and she hoped she would be able to see if there had been any damage.
Her long cotton nightgown was no match for the driving rain and hail that awaited her on the upper deck, and it clung wetly to her legs, almost tripping her, as she ran to the rail of the ship. Despite the rain, a metallic burning odor filled the air. Lena reached for the railing of the balcony, gripping it so tightly that she could feel every muscle in her arms aching and straining, as the ship began to heave sideways again with a low groaning sound like the swing of a rusted gate. This time, the ship didn’t right itself.
Clinging to the cold metal railing and squinting her eyes against the darkness and rain, Lena desperately scanned the balcony for Lex, Lillian, or any of the other passengers who might have also retired to the staterooms early. But the flashes of lightning illuminated only the massive cresting waves and black smoke. And then Lena saw it: the great gaping maw of the broken ship, a smoldering gash torn through its midsection that ocean water was rushing into.
Lena just stared. Her heart was pounding so hard she was afraid it might give out. No one had made it out on the decks. Lena’s eyes went to the lifeboats tied along the lower deck, but the ship had tilted so far now that it was almost vertical. If she let go of the railing, she would fall.
And then just faintly, between the thunder and the driving rain, Lena could hear something else. As she strained to listen, she realized it was faraway screams from the decks below. But the sound that would haunt Lena forever was the silence when they stopped.
Lena would remember only a series of images from the moments that followed: kicking her way back to the surface after the icy plunge into the ocean; struggling to pull herself onto a floating plank of the broken ship, her hands slipping and scraping on the wet wood and her lungs burning; clinging to it and gulping for air as the waves tossed her about like a rag doll; and her makeshift raft banging into a little rock islet, barely twenty feet across, that she crawled onto.
Lena stood on that rocky ledge, swaying with pain and exhaustion. Closer to the shore, the light from the National Point Lighthouse slowly turned.