Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

September, 1985

Waves crashed on the sand in a ceaseless ballet, the blue color of the sea blending with the sky on the horizon. On the beach, a little girl with long, light hair tried to hold them, but white foam always slipped between her small fingers, and she tried again, still hoping for a different result. Further away, other children cried as the ocean flooded their sandy castle's moat and ruined an entire afternoon's work, while their parents watched with amusement as they begged them to do something.

Sitting in a rocking chair, an old lady drank her tea. It was surprisingly warm for September, and she intended to savor the sea spray wafting up to her front steps and the light breeze stirring her gray hair until the last moment.

"Holly, sweetheart!" She called. "It’s time to go home!"

The little girl raised her head and ran to the house.

"Look what I found, Granny Erina!" She grinned as she handed her a shell.

"That’s great, but you should dry yourself before you catch a cold."

The old lady rubbed her hair, and the child protested for a second before running inside the house, missing the shadow looming over her elder’s light eyes.

"Dad, look!"

Tightening her shawl over her shoulders, Erina closed the door behind her and headed for the living room, where Holly, kneeling on the couch, recalled her afternoon to a man in his forties. He turned his head when he heard her footsteps.

"Grandma, do you need help to clean? It wasn’t too cold outside?"

"Joseph, come on!" She rinsed her teacup under the faucet. "I’m not made of glass."

She glanced at the abandoned files on the living room table before shifting her attention back to her dishes, the shadow of a smile floating on her lips. But as she opened a cupboard, the television playing nothing but white noise in the background, a word made her heart skip a beat, and she clenched the cup. On the cathode ray tube screen, bluish images of dishes, bottles of wine, or even part of a railing appeared. The old lady pursed her lips.

"Still talking about this cursed ship? Don’t journalists have anything more important to report?"

Joseph whipped his head. "Come on, Grandma! It’s not any ship. We’re talking about the Titanic, after all."

"Well, I’m tired of hearing about it. Turn the television off."

"After the report ends. They were talking about the new sonar they used to find it. Maybe one day, they could use it to locate the plane Fa-"

"Joseph, I told you to turn it off," Erina ordered, her hand clutching her shawl.

On September 1, 1985, off the Grand Banks of Newfoundland, Robert Ballard and his team discovered the wreck of the Titanic, over seventy-three years after it sank in the dark waters of the Atlantic Ocean. At a depth of nearly four thousand meters, a boiler first emerged from the darkness, and then, as if awakening from a deep sleep, the bow rose before them with all the elegance that characterized the Edwardian era. This moving vision captured the hearts of viewers worldwide, but for its survivors, it was a ghost returned to haunt them. Soon, the stern was found, separated from the first piece by over eight hundred meters, thus confirming the testimonies of dozens of survivors who had seen the ship break in two, long refuted by others.

And very quickly, the interviews began.

"It was a very dark, moonless night. My father helped us get into a lifeboat, my mother and I, and that was the last time I saw him."

"The most horrible thing for me wasn’t the sinking, but the screams when the ship disappeared, and the remaining passengers found themselves in the water. It didn’t last long, but I can’t forget the silence that eventually returned."

With a sigh, Joseph ran a hand through his brown hair dotted with grey strands and stood up to grab the remote. But just as he was about to press the button, an old woman appeared on the screen. She had white curls, and her hazel eyes shone with emotion as she handed reporters a black-and-white photo of two little girls with their parents.

"This is me, on the right." She explained as she pointed to one of the girls. "I must be seven years old in this picture, and my sister nine. We took it shortly before boarding the Titanic. You see, it was a very special occasion! My father had found a butcher job in the United States, and it was the beginning of a new life."

"What class were you traveling in?" A journalist with warm eyes asked her.

"In third class. It may not have been the luxury people associate with the ship, but it was more than enough for us."

Her gaze darkened when the journalist asked her if she had any memories of that terrible night of April 14, 1912. Like so many others, the promising travel had ended with heartbreaking farewells, and only a widow and her two children had inscribed their names on the Ellis Island register.

But that wasn’t what had struck her most about that night.

"When we got to the deck, most lifeboats had left, and people started to run around." She explained. "We got into a boat, and I remember thinking my father was very well-mannered because he was the only gentleman who didn’t push to get in."

She looked down at her picture.

"And yet, amid this chaos, I noticed two young men standing a little back. It was very dark so I couldn’t see much, but I still remember how they hugged each other like it was the last time."

A weight pressed on Erina’s chest, and she sat on the couch before her legs faltered.

"Wait, Joseph."

On the television, the old woman continued, "I had never seen them before. I didn’t know their names nor in which class they traveled, but I could tell from the way they seemed to whisper to each other how much they cared for one another. Maybe they were brothers or friends traveling together... Anyway, seeing them made me realize that my father’s smiles had been to comfort us and that the situation was way more dire than I thought."

She paused and looked down at her hands, marked by the years.

"I never saw them again." She sighed. The two young men. "But I often wondered what happened to them. Had they survived? Or had they sunk to the bottom of the ocean like so many souls that terrible night?"

"You never tried to find them?"

The old woman let out a sorrowful laugh.

"You know, there were so many people on that ship, and all I knew about them were their faces half-hidden by the darkness and the color of their hair, blond and dark. Compared to that, finding the wreck was a piece of cake."

She glanced a last time at her picture and added, "But whatever happened to them, I hope they are both at peace now."

The journalist thanked her, and the report transitioned to a loud advertising page that Erina barely heard, her hand clutching her chest.

"Grandma! Are you okay?"

Joseph gently grabbed her shoulders, and her lungs started filling again.

A tear rolling down her cheek, her mouth stretched into a thin smile, and she whispered in a slightly shaky voice, "Joseph, I’d like to talk to these journalists."

"I still can't believe that family survived the most famous shipwreck in history!" Joseph exclaimed as he parked his car in the parking lot of the television studio. "Why didn't you tell me anything?"

Sitting to his right, Erina clutched her purse on her lap. "It's not a pleasant memory."

This answer didn't seem to fully convince him, but he got out of the car and opened the door to let his grandmother out. She grabbed his arm with a smile, and they headed towards the entrance of the building.

"Hello, we have an appointment…" They announced at the reception.

The wait wasn't long. They had barely settled into the waiting room when the elevator doors opened to reveal a young woman in her thirties, her ponytail swaying with her steps.

"Hello, how are you?" She smiled as she extended her hand. "I'm Claire Nichols."

Erina looked at her and squeezed her hand. She seemed as warm in the flesh as she did in the interview.

"If you would follow me."

She led them to the second floor where, at the end of a corridor, she ushered them into a library where three other people were waiting for them. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath their feet, and they approached to greet them.

"So this is Dave, our cameraman, Julia on lighting, and Mike on sound. But make yourself comfortable, Mrs..."

"Oh, you can just call me Erina." She sat on a soft armchair.

A small wooden coffee table separated her from the armchair where the journalist would sit when the interview began. To her left, the shelves were filled with books that Erina could almost smell, and on the covers of several, she saw the four chimneys of the one nicknamed "The Unsinkable". To her right, a camera was pointed at her. Erina swallowed.

"Would you want a cup of tea, Mrs. Erina?"

The old lady jumped.

"Yes, thank you." Her heart pounding, she grabbed the steaming cup.

She raised it to her lips and inhaled its scent. Verbena.

Sitting at the back of the room, Joseph crossed his arms and turned to Claire before lowering his voice. "Hey, nothing against you, but my grandmother isn't young, and she's already been deeply affected by the loss of my two grandfathers in recent years, so... go easy on her, okay?"

"That's what we intended, sir-"

"My grandson always worries too much about me," Erina shook her head, a twinkle in her eye. "I'm stronger than I look!"

Placing her cup of tea back on the table, she turned to the reporter and adjusted her clothes.

"We can begin whenever you're ready."

The team exchanged surprised glances. Then everyone took their seats, and Claire looked at her cards one last time before sitting down opposite Erina.

"Mrs. Erina, before we begin, I wanted to tell you that your testimony should be broadcast in a few days, after we do some editing."

"That's fine, I trust you."

She glanced at Joseph, who gently squeezed her hand before leaning against the wall next to Dave, who turned the camera on.

"It's rolling!"

Erina closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting her memories wash over her. The wind in her long blond hair and the sun warming her skin. A tune masked by the sound of conversations and silver cutlery. The smell of fresh paint, like the promise of a great adventure on this ship of dreams.

"I'm ready."

Claire Nichols smiled and leaned toward her.

"Mrs. Erina, why don't you start by telling us a little about yourself? How old were you when you crossed, who were you traveling with..."

The old lady nodded.

"I was born in 1891 in London, and was to celebrate my twenty-first birthday the summer following the travel. At that time, people still called me Erina Pendleton, and I traveled second class with my father."

"Were you visiting family?"

"No, we had both found jobs and planned to settle in America for a while." She paused and added, "And then, in the end, circumstances made I never left."

Claire smiled at her before continuing, "Tell us about the Titanic. What was she like?"

"As luxurious as her reputation suggests. I remember dining on the first night, and several of us second class passengers pestered those poor waiters, thinking we'd accidentally walked into the first class restaurant! Yes, it was a stunning ship, and everything seemed to have been carefully designed to please the passengers."

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

"But I'm not here to talk about myself."

"Yes, that's what you told me on the phone."

"To tell you the truth, I didn't think I'd ever talk about it, but... when I saw your report on television, I thought I couldn't take this secret to my grave. And, well..." Her eyes began to shine. "Times have changed. I believe that people will be more open to the story I want to share with you than they would have been in 1912. The story of two people who are very dear to me."

Erina glanced at Joseph and turned to the camera.

"I know who the two young men on the deck were. Their names were Dio Brando and Jonathan Joestar."

Little by little, her wrinkles filled in and her hair returned to its former color. She stood by the railing, watching the waves roll across the blue surface of the ocean. Beside her, a young man with golden hair stared intently at the horizon, determined not to miss the sight of the Statue of Liberty. On the other side, a second man watched the other two with large, warm blue eyes, holding the hat pressed down over his brown curls with one hand. Their laughter still echoed through the library when Erina snapped out of her thoughts and took a deep breath.

"It all began with a letter..."

Chapter Text

"No, it has to be a mistake…"

Posted in front of a small, rusty mailbox, a young man turned and returned the short letter in his hands. He couldn’t wait. As soon as he had glimpsed the emblem made of a lion and two stylized Hs on the envelope, his breath had hitched in his throat, and he had torn the seal before even thinking of going home. And yet, his heart had stopped after the first lines.

The signature, Hugh Hudson Academy, burned his eyes, and he crushed the letter in his fist before running up the stairs and slamming his flat’s door behind him. The walls shook, and paint chips fell from the ceiling. Whatever. Dio kicked a wooden table, and the bed creaked under his weight as he collapsed.

His gaze fell on the books piling up on his desk. Literature, arithmetic, Latin… How many all-nighters had he pulled studying the heavy volumes, with only a small oil lamp as his light source? And for what? The marks he got at the entrance exam the previous month, almost full in every subject, were still pinned on the wall, from where they seemed to mock him. He reread the letter.

"These filthy liars…"

Anger rumbling in his chest, Dio heaved a long sigh to keep his fist from leaving another dent in the wall. It was unfair. Oxford, Cambridge, of course, he never even considered Eton… All asked for tuition fees way over his income, but in the past year, Hugh Hudson Academy had announced offering a scholarship to the best-ranked candidates at the entrance exam. How naive had he been to think the tide was beginning to turn! Grades didn’t matter, maybe the scholarship had been offered to a middle-class man…

Dio furrowed his brows. In the end, nothing opened more college doors than having blue blood flowing through your veins, and he could use all the ink he wanted, his own stayed irremediably red.

He rolled on his back and counted the yellowish, damp spots on the ceiling. Seven. When he moved in, there were only two. To his left, he pushed a piece of wallpaper that he had already reattached a few times with his fingertips. The more he stared at the spots, the more the walls seemed to close on him, shrinking his visual field and pressing on his chest.

Was that really all he could pretend to? A mediocre, low-rent flat in a crumbling building? The muffled voices of other tenants rhythming his nights, and a musty smell that never completely disappeared with perfume?

The picture of a lady with hair as fair as his caught his eye. This place seemed bigger since his mother was gone, her existence reduced to a torn picture in a frame. She, too, believed he deserved better.

The ticking of a pocket watch pulled him from his thoughts, and he sat up straight. Blast, already six o'clock! He had to hurry if he didn't want to be late for his meeting with Lady Canterbury.

The thought of canceling crossed his mind, but he reluctantly got up and headed for the cramped bathroom. His ritual never changed: after a quick bath in lukewarm water and rubbing his skin until it was red, he spent long minutes cleaning his face, diligently following the advice he had read in women's magazines. Then he headed for his wardrobe, which stood like a sore thumb in the middle of the flat. The imposing piece of wooden furniture was filled with clothes that seemed to have been hidden there by a noble heir.

"Let's see..."

Dio quickly moved the hangers. The evening's rendezvous was informal, so a dark lounge suit and a matching vest would do. Then the routine could start again. He returned to the bathroom to get dressed and took out a small makeup case to apply a little powder on his cheeks and pink on his lips. The trick was to use enough to enhance his beauty without the Edwardian eye noticing, which he saved for clubs of a different style.

Then he would add a final touch by combing his hair and spraying rose perfume down his neck and wrists. A gift from Lady Canterbury. Satisfied, he left the room and grabbed his violin case and a red rose from the vase on the table. Its colour always made his amber eyes stand out. He placed it in his jacket pocket, took his keys, and left the flat.

Lady Canterbury liked being taken care of. As the only daughter of a declining noble family, she had been married off at a young age to Lord Canterbury, the son of an earl who had more eyes for hunting and horse racing than for his wife. For proof, the man had died of a heart attack five years earlier, but the atmosphere in the grand Victorian house remained unchanged.

Lady Canterbury had all the makings of an Edwardian upper-class lady. Curvy, with red curls she wore in a Pompadour and hazel eyes, she never went out without a large hat and hundreds of dresses piled up in her cupboards on the pretext that they were out of fashion. Dio met her in the tea house where he worked in the afternoons. She was alone, staring at passers-by and wearing a gold ring on her ring finger, and he had brought her tea with his best smile.

"Your order, madam."

She came back the following week and the next. And again. Then he'd seen her at the restaurant where he worked in the evenings, and this time, she'd wanted to see him again in a more intimate context.

Dio exited the carriage and climbed the few steps leading to the entrance. No sooner had he knocked than Lady Canterbury opened the door with a smile on her face.

"Dio, at last! I've been looking forward to seeing you. How are you?"

Forcing his cheeks to stretch his mouth, he took her gloved hand and pressed his lips to the soft fabric.

Lady Canterbury always gave her employees the day off when he came. It had to be said that, apart from their class differences and the fact that she was a widow, their age difference would have made the aristocrat the subject of the rumours she so much enjoyed. His lover could have been his mother! In fact, her only son was twenty-three, a year older than Dio.

She sat on a sofa and invited the blond to taste the pastries prepared by her chefs. As usual, he would comply, and she would tell him about her week, the latest rumours, and the solitude that had turned her house into a prison. This evening was no exception.

"Oh, Dio! Come and sit next to me, I need to tell you..."

Lady Canterbury wasn't difficult to please, a simple nod and a few well-placed questions were enough to stay in her good graces. Filling his rumbling stomach with lemon cakes, he listened as she recounted her troubles with Countess Victoria and the rumour that Lord Kent had been seen leaving one of those gentlemen's clubs that all respectable people should avoid. Usually, Dio would have listened carefully. It didn't matter if they were just rumours, they often said a lot about the person involved, the one spreading them, and what the British upper class felt necessary to hide behind whispers. Knowledge was power, especially for those born without a silver spoon in their mouth. Tonight, however, his mind was elsewhere, trapped in the few lines of Hugh Hudson Academy's letter.

"Every time I see you, I think, How does he always manage to look more attractive? That jacket looks great on you."

Dio snapped out of his thoughts and flashed her a smile. "I wouldn't want to be at odds with a woman as ravishing as you, madam."

"Smooth talker!" She laughed and playfully slapped his arm.

Then, leaving her hand on his shoulder, she leaned towards him and sniffed. Her jasmine scent tickled his nostrils.

"I love that perfume!"

"I think of you every time I wear it."

Tucking a greying lock behind her ear, Lady Canterbury laughed loudly and pulled a small box from beneath a cushion. "In that case, I hope this one will bring a similar feeling."

Dio pulled the ribbon to undo the knot and lifted the lid, revealing a beautiful bottle.

"Madam! How can I ever thank you?"

He sprinkled a few drops on his wrist and inhaled the delicate woody scent. This perfume had been expensive, he could tell, and that made it even more exquisite.

"Oh, you know very well how..." She batted her eyelashes.

With a wry smile, he kissed her hand again and gently led her towards the bed. Here too, every step had been rote learnt, ingrained in him after more than two years of rehearsal. Lady Canterbury lay back on the bed, spreading her legs to give him room, and he leaned over to kiss her. As his lips met the tender flesh of her neck, his hand removed her gloves. She shivered. Then she slid his jacket off his shoulders, and he closed the distance between their bodies. He could feel the warmth of his lover and her urgent breathing. Next step. As he kissed her collarbone, he ran his fingers down her back, moving gently up her dress and tugging-

"Wait, Dio."

His heart skipped a beat, and he stared at her, eyebrows furrowed.

"Have I done something wrong, madam?"

"You're not your usual self. Is something bothering you?"

His jaw almost dropped. He was sure his performance was flawless, so how...?

"Nothing serious, don't worry."

"I insist. You can tell me anything, you know."

And she patted his hand with that air that people who solve all their problems with money have. But the thing was, money was indeed his problem. So maybe...

"Alright. To tell you the truth, I received a rather... bothersome letter this afternoon."

"Really? What kind of letter?" She asked, her eyes shining.

"Not the kind you're presuming. You remember I took the entrance exam for Hugh Hudson? Well, they turned me down."

She raised an eyebrow. "There's nothing to get out of those old institutions! I mean, if they didn't take you, who did they choose?"

Dio spun to face her, his heart pounding.

"But I suppose this means I get to keep you all to myself for a bit longer." She stroked his hair.

His stomach knotted. Of course, what did he expect? That she'd offer to pay his school tuition? So he pressed his lips together and forced a smile. "Yes, you're right."

His eyes fell successively on the porcelain statuettes above the fireplace, the oak coffee table, and the red velvet sofa. The dressing table full of bottles from the finest perfumeries in England and France, and the precious pearls adorning Lady Canterbury's neck. In this room was enough to pay for everything he desired, but that wealth remained out of reach. Getting rid of the aristocratic woman wouldn't change that.

"Well, what a coincidence!" She exclaimed as she lay back on her cushions, her legs tangled in the crimson fabric of her dress. "I also received a rather annoying letter this morning..."

She sighed loudly and glanced at Dio.

"Who dared put you in such a state?" He calmly stroked the back of her hand.

Inside, he was seething.

"My son. You remember Will, don't you?"

"Of course, how's his business in New York?"

"Oh, never better. His wife is expecting their first child, and he would like me to visit."

She picked up the letter from her bedside table and handed it to him.

"Can you believe it, Dio? Months without any news, and I have to make the crossing? I don't trust these boats. What if I get seasick?"

But Dio was no longer listening. Instead, his eyes roamed furiously over the piece of paper, which, after long and trivial anecdotes, mentioned that William Canterbury intended to send money to his mother so that she could join him in New York in April on the maiden voyage of the Titanic!

Dio had heard about it. Everyone had heard about it!

The latest ship from the White Star Line showcased her elegant silhouette and four smokestacks in advertisements and newspapers. It was considered the largest and most luxurious liner ever built, and every day, the news reported that a new celebrity had purchased a first-class ticket. His heart raced. All of the British and American upper class, from the nobility to the nouveau riche, all gathered in one place for an entire week. Dio didn't believe in fate, but he believed in his luck, and when a door closed, he had to seize the next opportunity.

"Maybe it's not so bad." He replied in a voice that didn't betray his inner turmoil. "Besides, you don't have to travel alone. I could come with you."

Lady Canterbury raised her head, her eyes wide.

"Dio!" She placed a hand on her chest. "I can't, it would be indecent..."

"Come on, you know I can be discreet. We'll have a separate cabin, and I'll pretend I don't know you, except in the safety of your room."

Playing with the pearls on her necklace, she lowered her head.

"When we get to New York, I'll disappear. I'll take the opportunity to do some sightseeing. And we'll meet again on the way back." Dio came closer and whispered, "If you like, I could even pretend to be your son during the crossing."

"Dio, I don't know..."

"And when you think about it, it will be very exciting to have to hide amongst all those people. A sort of forbidden love, like you read about in novels..."

When her cheeks took on a rosy hue, he knew he had her.

"It's... Your presence would indeed make this trip more pleasant."

Bingo. Burying his head in the crook of her neck, he formed a toothy grin and picked up where they left off.

The Renault CB's tires crunched on the gravel as it rounded the corner. Unaffected by the tremors, a young man opened the window, and a broad smile illuminated his face as the imposing silhouette of Sternhurst Hall appeared between the trees. After making one final turn, the car drove through the metal gate and stopped in the courtyard, near the fountain. Servants approached to open the door, but they were too slow: grabbing the handle of his suitcase, the young man jumped out of the car and hugged the old butler before doing the same with the petite maid.

"Henry! Margaret!" He cried. "I've missed you all so much!"

"You too, Master Jojo." Henry laughed. "The manor isn't the same when you are away."

Beside him, Margaret tucked a few strands of hair back into her bun and lowered her head to hide her flushed cheeks. She had only been working for the Joestar family for two years, and the previous nobles she had served only addressed her when necessary.

"I hope the journey from London wasn't too exhausting for you."

"Oh, you know, I had a book, so it was fine. The hardest part was the last few miles. As soon as we get near Liverpool, I swear the car slows down."

"Let me carry your luggage, Master Jonathan." Another servant offered, soon greeted like the others.

But before he could protest, barking drew his attention to the wide open front door, and a flash of black and white jumped at him.

"Danny!"

Paws resting on his shoulders, the Great Dane licked his face vigorously.

"Stop it!" He laughed. "I missed you too..."

"He's been like that all morning. You'd think he understood you were coming home."

Jonathan paused. Dusting off his clothes, he raised his eyes to the man in the navy blue suit standing in the doorway. His brown hair was greying, and he sported a moustache, but his blue eyes sparkled like Jojo's, who ran up the stairs to join him. He stopped in front of him, his lips pressed together. Then the man spread his arms, and Jonathan embraced him with a deep sigh.

"Father, it's so good to see you again."

"Likewise, Jojo." He patted his back. "But if you keep squeezing me so tightly, you may well end up breaking something."

Cheeks flushed, the young man jumped back.

"Excuse me," He rubbed the back of his neck. "I’ve had trouble gauging my strength since we resumed training..."

"No harm done. But you must be exhausted after your trip! I'll let you rest, and we'll meet for dinner."

Jonathan nodded and whistled for Danny. His bedroom was on the second floor of the mansion. It was the only room occupied in the hallway, with his father's suite on the opposite side. An arrangement that had so often allowed him to sneak out during the night and into the kitchens in search of a snack.

He pushed open the door, and his heart squeezed. He couldn't help it, it happened every time he came back for a school holiday. His suitcase was already in one corner, but otherwise, nothing had changed since his last visit: the sheets on his four-poster bed were drawn, with three pillows in the middle. A few novels were lying around on his bedside table, and his mother's portrait was still waiting for him in a frame on his desk. On his bookshelf, an old stuffed elephant that had lost one of its button eyes, a small model airplane, a monkey skull, and a few fossils. And books. So many books that he'd had to stack a few on top of each other to make them fit.

Jonathan turned away and opened the window. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply. Nothing like the smell of forest and flowers to flush his lungs of London's pollution! It was perhaps what he missed most in his room at Hugh Hudson Academy. Closing the window, he removed his jacket and placed it on his leather armchair by the fireplace.

This room was too tidy, and it was time he reclaimed it for himself.

At eight o'clock, Jonathan joined his father in the dining room, which had a pleasant smell of a wood fire. George Joestar, dressed as usual in a dark suit, was already seated at the table, and he raised his head before lowering his eyes to his son's chest. Taking a seat to his right, Jonathan tightened his tie and turned his attention back to the other thirteen eternally empty chairs. The sight had always made him smile, and George must have felt the same to demand that their meals be served at the same time as soon as he was old enough to hold cutlery.

"So, how are your studies going?" He took a sip of the red wine that the servants had just poured.

"We haven't got all the marks from the December exams yet, but I got top marks in Egyptology."

"That's great news, Jojo!"

Thanking him, Jonathan looked down at his steaming plate and took a bite, a gentle warmth spreading through his chest.

"Anyway... I'm more worried about my Archaeological Analysis exam... I've got an essay due soon in that subject, so I'd like to do as well as possible to compensate."

But if he had to be honest, there was one piece of news that was almost as important as his report card, one that almost made him jump out of his seat. A few days earlier, the head of the archaeology department had announced to the senior class that the famous William Zeppeli would be coming to present his work in early May.

"At Hugh Hudson?" George wiped his mouth with his napkin.

Jonathan took a few bites of meat and nodded. "Yes!" Glancing at his father, he swallowed his food before resuming, "You remember? His discoveries in Central America are fascinating! This talk could be the opportunity to ask him for an internship next year."

"Next year..." George repeated, a faraway look on his face. "Ah, time flies. It feels like just yesterday that you were starting university."

Jonathan gave him a knowing smile. "What about you, Father? How's business these days?"

George straightened.

"Pretty good. I've been able to sign a few trade agreements with our German competitors, but to tell you the truth, I'm a bit worried about these strike rumours..."

"A strike?"

"The miners. Lord Byron has heard that they're planning another strike for March. These are just rumours, of course, but if it happens, we could have a coal shortage. Can you imagine that, Jojo? All British transport would be affected: trains, ships... This would create major delays in the delivery of our goods, both import and export, and-"

Jonathan could already feel a yawn coming, and he just kept nodding until the servants cleared their plates. His eyes lit up again as they placed a magnificent chocolate cake in front of them, and he helped himself to a slice.

"Anyway." His father said. "Trade is all about the unexpected, and the Joestar family has always managed to keep the business afloat. Let's stay positive. Besides, there's no point in boring yourself with this when you've only just got home."

This warmed Jonathan's chest. At least, until his next words made his heart race.

"Actually, I'm glad you're here because I'd rather tell you in person." Eyes sparkling, he revealed, "In April, we're both going to New York. But not with just any ship: on the Titanic!"

Jonathan's stomach tightened, and, running a hand over the back of his neck, he asked, "Father, that's really kind of you, but wouldn't it be better to travel this summer, after my graduation?"

"The date wasn't chosen at random. It's not every day you get to see the maiden voyage of-"

"No, no! I understand that, but... The Inter-University Rugby Cup will also take place in April, and we had already planned to train every day, even during the holidays..."

George sighed.

"I understand, Jojo, but this trip is really important. Some notable figures will be passengers, and it could be a golden opportunity to create new relationships."

A shiver ran up Jonathan's spine.

"The American market is becoming increasingly important, so we have to be ready, and you know what they say: the best deals are always made over a glass of Brandy. Nothing like it to teach you the ropes!"

"I don't think-"

"You'll see, it's not as complicated as it looks. Maybe you'll even manage to sign your first contract!"

Mouth dry, Jonathan looked down at his plate. "You already know how I feel about trade, Father..."

The old man gave him a knowing smile. "Of course, Jojo. But don't worry, I can still run the family business for a few more years."

His son opened his mouth to protest, but he raised a hand in front of him.

"I've been thinking about it, you know. You could start as a representative. Currently, our business is mostly in common markets, but we could extend our activity to foreign crafts! All you'd have to do is go and see foreign artisans and sign new contracts. I know people who'd be willing to spend a lot of money on authentic Chinese porcelain or Egyptian jewellery."

"Father..."

"And you could even travel. Isn't that what you wanted? If we're really going into this business, I'll need you to find me products from all over the world, but you'll have free rein over the destination."

"Father, I don't know-"

"I know the trip dates are a bit inconvenient, but it's worth it. And how long has it been since we've traveled together? It'll be a chance to make up for lost time..."

Jonathan's head was buzzing, and an iron fist was squeezing his chest. All around him, the walls of the living room were closing in on him. He jumped to his feet.

"Excuse me, Father."

Without looking at George's disapproving look, he left the table, climbed the stairs, and slammed his bedroom door behind him. When Danny saw him, he raised his head and licked his hand, but Jonathan passed by without looking at him. He collapsed into his desk chair and took his head in his hands.

"He'll never accept it, will he?"

In reply, the old Great Dane put his head on his lap. Jonathan sighed. His gaze turned to the portrait on his desk of a woman with dark eyes and a radiant smile, the same as Jonathan's, according to his father. Brown curls cascading over her shoulders, she held a sleeping baby in her arms.

"Mother, what should I do?"

But tonight was not the night he would finally hear his mother's voice, and the picture remained as silent as all the other times he had sought her opinion. His eyes fell on a small globe, and a sad smile passed over his tired face. Although the servants always kept it clean, it was covered in a fine layer of dust, just as it had been when he had found it in Mary Joestar's study after stealing the key from his father. With his fingertips, he stroked the little crosses drawn in ink on its surface. Vienna, Moscow, Tokyo, New York...

"You would have been on my side, wouldn't you?"

Not far from the frame was another, smaller one. In the photo, which was almost identical to the one on George's bedside table, his parents posed smiling in their wedding outfits. Their eyes sparkled, and their love was evident in the unconventional way his father held his mother's hand. He looked so young, and Jonathan found it hard to believe that this young man struggling to keep a straight face for the picture was the one who had told him so many times about the importance of good manners.

He would have loved to meet this young man.

With a sigh, he got up and lay down on his bed, his dog at his heels. As soon as he closed his eyes, he saw the light dancing in his father's eyes at dinner, and his heart sank. It would have been easier if he had simply ordered him to come...

Jonathan shook his head. His mind was made up: in the morning, he would try again to convince George to postpone the trip.

If he didn't, he would regret it for the rest of his life.

Chapter Text

Dio got out of the carriage with his arms full of packages, and he pushed open the door to the building before the coach could ask him for another coin. He hurried up the stairs and reached into his pocket for his key.

"Dio? Got a minute?"

The strong Cockney accent startled him, and he turned towards the opposite flat, where a woman in her fifties stuck half of her face in the doorway. Her coarse blonde hair had long since lost its shine, and dark circles were visible under her green eyes.

"Miss Moretti," He said. "It's been a long time since I've seen you. Or heard from any of your clients, for that matter."

"No..." She lowered her eyes. "Since I caught this, I had to stop working."

Dio frowned at the sight of the rashes devouring her left cheek.

"I told you to quit before it was too late! There are plenty of places looking for—"

"I know, I know..." She whispered, hiding behind the doorframe. "Anyway, Mrs. Bertrand's looking for you. Just thought I'd tell you."

He rolled his eyes. "For her rent? Don't worry, she'll get paid on time."

"She was at my door yesterday. She was furious."

Dio froze. Then he raised an eyebrow, his hands clenching around his packages. Damn it, the money he’d been setting aside for his new life was slipping away again.

"That old hag will get paid tonight," He growled. "Not once late in ten bloody years, and she dares treat me like one of those piss-soaked drunks renting the basement!"

Miss Moretti gave him a sympathetic smile and asked, "You been alright, love? Every time your door opens, I hear you running down the stairs like the devil’s on your heels."

How could he explain that he had barely more than a month to get everything ready before he left? Just this week, he had spent two mornings at the tailor's choosing the perfect fabric for suits to add to those he already had. Being out of fashion was out of the question. This trip was the perfect opportunity to impress even the most stuffy first-class passengers, so what if it meant spending a little more than he should have? And at least the clothes he had just picked up had been a good deal. Who would suspect that the fabric used was less expensive if the cut was identical?

"Don't worry about me, Miss Moretti."

A smile and a door slam ended the conversation before the woman could open her mouth. But the day wasn't over for Dio, and once the packages were stowed away, he hurried to the bathroom to get ready.

Whenever you walked past the white stone façade of Café Debussy, you could always hear music playing through the windows. Historically a middle-class hangout due to its location near the bank and London's shopping streets, word of mouth had recently attracted a more bourgeois clientele, eager to discover a simpler restaurant. It was this growing reputation that prompted the manager to completely overhaul his establishment, from the staff to the menu. And to increase his prices, of course.

While couples dressed in their finest clothes waited to pass through the large green-painted doors, Dio took a smaller entrance, hidden in the darkness of an adjacent alleyway. Here, no peaceful music, but an orchestra of knives, pots, and tin frying pans beating time without ever stopping. The kitchens were teeming with men with tense faces and sweaty foreheads, their immaculate aprons blending in with the white tiled walls.

"Desserts from table four!"

"We're missing a bottle of red wine!"

The constant clatter of utensils forced everyone to raise their voices and light up a few cigarettes after their shift to ease their headache. No one here had worked in gourmet restaurants; most had cut their teeth in small bistros or working-class canteens, so they had all had to undergo accelerated training. And after several months, the customers appeared satisfied with the transformation of Café Debussy.

Dio slipped his violin case into his locker and buttoned up his black jacket. After tying his white bow tie and apron, he smoothed down a few stray strands of hair and entered the battlefield. Zigzagging skillfully between the stations, he avoided a chef flambéing meat, another cutting vegetables, and stepped aside to let a young commis carrying glasses. The spicy smell of a sauced dish tickled his nostrils, and he tapped the worktop of a young dark-haired man. He had recently grown a moustache, but even this new facial hair couldn't mask his youthful features.

"Hey, Perry," Dio said, looking him in the eye. "I'll take my break around ten o'clock."

Ignoring the pale-faced cook who glanced nervously around, the blond man strode to the kitchen entrance, where a burly man greeted him.

"Ah, Brando!"

As he spoke, he placed plates in his hands.

"Orders for table eight, table two... Oh, and the Edwards are waiting to order at table fifteen. They asked if you were here tonight."

"I'll take care of it, sir."

Pushing open the wooden doors with his shoulder, Dio left the kitchens and entered another world. The quartet playing in the corner of the room and the chatter of conversation replaced the cooks' shouts and the clattering utensils. He took a breath to clear his lungs of the grease and food smells before striding confidently towards the tables. His shoes clacking on the polished floor, he laid each dish down with practiced ease, reciting the menu as smoothly as if he had created the menu himself, and tried not to lose his smile whenever he spotted creases in the white tablecloth or misplaced cutlery. Good grief, did they really think they could impress high society with this? He’d nearly smirked when the owner asked him to hang paintings by complete strangers, as if the customers would mistake them for Monets... The crystal chandelier was better, though, and high enough that no one would notice its flaws.

"My wife and I were supposed to leave yesterday, but our ship had to stay in port thanks to that blasted miners' strike!"

"When will they get back to work? If this goes on, even the Titanic's maiden voyage may be postponed."

"Impossible," Dio declared as he set plates in front of the five middle-aged men seated at the table. "The Titanic is too important; all coal production has been requisitioned for her departure."

A white-haired man raised his head.

"Ah, Dio! You seem well informed, tell me... Are you interested in the Titanic?"

"Hard not to be when most of the discussions revolve around her." He smiled as he poured them more wine.

"Oh, you can say that again!" A bearded man on the other side of the table stirred. "Titanic, Titanic... It's not the first ship ever built, so why all the fuss about a boat that no one will remember in a few years?"

"Come on, Doctor!" The blond man said with an amused look. "It's still the most luxurious ship of our time."

Another guest added, "Besides, Charles, weren't you the one who kept going on and on about the Olympic last year?"

The doctor's cheeks flushed red.

"But that was because the Olympic was a technical marvel! A real source of pride for the British Empire! So yes, I’ve heard that the Titanic is slightly bigger, but she's nothing but the Olympic’s twin."

He emptied his glass in one gulp and continued, "Anyway, ships are old-fashioned. The future belongs to aircraft! One day, I bet we’ll all be able to use them."

With a genuine smile, Dio carried on serving until the clock struck ten, then slipped away to the kitchen. When he saw him, Perry looked up from his workstation and glanced around before leading him into a small room. A few belongings of other employees had been left in a corner, and the light bulb above their heads was no longer shining very brightly, but all Dio cared about was the steaming plate on the table. His stomach rumbling, he sat down and immediately took a bite of meat that melted in his mouth. The potato gratin paired perfectly with the sauce, and the bread roll was fresh out of the oven.

"You've really improved, Perry. Maybe one day you'll be able to take Frank's place."

"Yeah, well, hurry up and eat, Dio," He replied, biting his fingers. "The others spotted us the other night, and now they want me to make a plate for them too."

Dio shrugged. "So what? There's always plenty of food left over after the service. It's ridiculous to throw it away when we could take it."

"Maybe, but if Perkins finds out, I could get fired!" The cook exclaimed.

"And you'll be fired if he finds out you're hanging out at the Green Carnation, so keep doing your part of the deal."

Usually, those few words would have been enough to render Perry as pale as his apron, but tonight he replied with renewed vigour, "Hey, I could just as well report you, tosser! Perkins may fancy you because you're the only one who can put on that posh voice, but he would never let that slide!"

"Well, go ahead. But if I go down, I won't hesitate to tell Perkins exactly how you got that information."

Gritting his teeth, Perry lowered his head, and for a while, only the metallic clatter of Dio's cutlery disrupted the silence in the room.

"You're awful, Dio. The worst person I know."

The blond didn't reply. Instead, he wiped his mouth and handed him his dirty dishes before heading for the door, Perry following close behind.

"Men like us ought to look out for each other!" He whispered. "And how long is this going to last? You said it was over last time... Are you short of money or something?"

Dio clenched his fist, but before he could open his mouth, a hand tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey, Brando," An older man called out to him. "Richard has to go home early, and the boss wants you to fill in for him."

His heart raced, and he unclenched his fist. With a nod, he left Perry to be reprimanded for leaving his post and retrieved his violin from his locker. Then he returned to the main room, climbed onto the stage, and greeted the other musicians.

"Page thirty-two, Dio."

He leafed through the repertoire to remember the title of the piece more than its score, as the booklet had not changed in months. Then he closed his eyes and raised his bow. From the very first notes, the music warmed his body and flowed through his nerves like the smoothest of honeys.

No one, however, was watching them.

Perhaps no one was listening to them, immersed as they were in important professional conversations, but their manager liked to remind them that if they weren't there, the customers would notice. They were part of the decor, condemned to watch the bourgeoisie organise society without being able to take part in it. Dio's movements became more abrupt, and the corners of his lips twitched. It was all coming to an end. Soon, he too would stand in the centre of the room, and no one would be able to ignore his name.

His light was too bright to be confined to the sideline.

"We'll talk about this topic next time. Gentlemen, thank you for your attention."

Around Jonathan, the few students present opened their briefcases with a clatter and slipped their papers and pencils inside before scurrying up the steps of the lecture theatre. He lifted his head from his palm and looked down at his sparse notes and the sketches scribbled on his sheet. With a sigh, he packed his belongings and stood up.

"Ah, Mr. Joestar. Come here, please."

Jonathan's heart stopped. With measured steps, he walked down the stairs to the desk where an old man with round glasses was waiting for him. He tightened his tie and wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers. Oh no, he'd got ink on his jacket sleeve again!

"You wanted to see me, Professor Belsey?"

On the mahogany desk where the man had neatly filed his lecture notes, a red apple caught Jonathan's eye. A little further away, a bust of Aristotle stared at him sternly, and he gulped. With one hand on his desk, Horace Belsey rubbed his beard.

"Yes, Mr. Joestar. My classes have never been so quiet. I had to look several times because I couldn't believe you were here."

Jonathan blushed. Before he could open his mouth, the professor took a copy out of a drawer.

"But there is more," He handed him the paper. "The assignment you submitted recently was, how shall I say it... Well, I was under the impression you held a deeper fascination for Mesopotamian history than what was reflected here."

"I-"

"Listen, Mr Joestar. You may find my grading severe, but that's because I know you can do better."

Barely average. The paper in his hands felt like it weighed a ton, and the corners of his eyes stung. Mr Belsey sighed and placed a warm hand on his shoulder.

"My boy, I may be your professor, but you know you can talk to me if you have any problems."

Jonathan pressed his lips together.

"I know that the final year is the most taxing, between your thesis and the other essays. And I've heard that Mr Anderson has been putting a lot of pressure on his players this year. Is something bothering you?"

Perhaps the young man had been unconsciously waiting for weeks for someone to say those words, because a dam broke inside him, and his heart began to pour out.

"You might find me ridiculous, but... it's because of my father."

The professor gave him a sympathetic smile and invited him to explain further.

"He... He wants us to go to New York next month, on board the Titanic."

Jonathan had tried to dissuade him, explaining his schedule, his plans, his obligations... But George had rejected all his excuses, finding solutions to some and dismissing others out of hand. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! Besides, what did it matter if his team lost the Inter-University Rugby Cup because their best player was missing? When he received another letter letting him know that his father had been able to book a special first-class cabin, all his remaining hopes went up in smoke.

"I thought that with the strike, everything would be called off, but..."

Each time Jonathan was about to say clearly that he didn't want to go, he remembered his father's smile, and his throat would tighten around the words.

Mr Belsey frowned. "Forgive me, Mr Joestar, but I fail to understand the problem. The timing is certainly unfortunate, but it's just a trip..."

"It's not just a trip!" Jonathan exclaimed, his eyes brimming with tears.

He buried his head in his hands.

"You don't understand. It's a business trip: whatever I do, Father will find an excuse to push me to take over the family business. If I leave, I fear he'll never accept me becoming an archaeologist..."

"The family business? Come on, hasn't he seen your economics grades?"

A small laugh shook the young man's shoulders.

"It means a lot to me, I'm proud of what my family has built, but... it's not for me, you understand?"

"You know, Mr Joestar, in our circles, young men who have followed this path with the full approval of their families are more often the exception than the rule."

The professor would have known. He had run away from home at sixteen, unable to resist the call of adventure, and had become a sailor. Completely disinherited, he had gradually saved his meagre salary and, after meeting several archaeologists, one of them had finally agreed to take him on as an apprentice.

"I will always remember the day I discovered that crystal statuette," He would tell his students with amusement. "A revolution for our understanding of Inca culture and the perfect opportunity for me to be recognised by my peers."

Perhaps that was why Jonathan looked forward to Professor Belsey's classes so eagerly. His colleagues had followed a more academic path, while he had immediately found a way to ignite the flame hidden in his students' hearts.

"You'll see, your first discovery will stay with you for the rest of your life. It may not be the one that gets you invited to conferences around the world, but the adrenaline rush you'll feel... that's priceless."

Jonathan's heart sank. Was this what his father had felt when he signed his first contract? He doubted it.

Taking a few steps, the professor's face suddenly lit up, and he turned around. "You know what," He pressed his hand on the student's shoulder, "this trip may not be as dreadful as you think."

Jonathan raised an eyebrow.

"I just recalled that before visiting us in May, William Zeppeli will be delivering a lecture in New York to present his latest research. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve expressed quite an interest in his work..."

"Are you... Are you sure?"

"Let's say, more than ninety percent sure." Mr Belsey smiled.

In a few words, Jonathan's dull gaze filled with stars.

"Use your time in the United States to attend the lecture. You'll see, he's an eccentric and demanding man, but he likes determination and knows how to recognise a true enthusiast. And who knows, perhaps you'll even encounter other notable figures at the conference." The old man winked. "Take your father along, too; it might change his mind."

As Jonathan's heart drummed against his chest, Mr Belsey sat down at his desk. Without saying a word, he took out a piece of paper and a fountain pen, which he dipped in his inkwell before scribbling a few lines. Then he nodded and slipped the letter into an envelope, which he handed to his student, who stared in astonishment.

"Here, give this to Mr Zeppeli when you see him."

"What is it?"

"Just a letter to tell him about a very promising student of mine..." Mr Belsey smiled.

His jaw dropped, and his breath caught in his throat. With trembling hands, he stammered, "Sir! It's..."

"Mr Joestar."

His powerful voice echoed off the walls of the empty lecture hall.

"I'm not doing this because you're my student. I'm doing it because I've read your essays and seen your thesis. I've watched you grow over the last three years, and I know you're cut out for this profession." Patting him on the shoulder, he whispered, "It would be a great loss to the world of archaeology not to have you among us."

Jonathan's eyes began to sting again, this time for a different reason, and he lowered his head to the letter to wipe them with the back of his sleeve. A new fire burned in his chest, warming his limbs numb from weeks of apathy.

"Sir, I don't know how to thank you..."

"By promising never to hand in this kind of hastily done assignment again." The professor chuckled before patting him on the back. "Come on, my boy! Try to enjoy this trip. Just because we archaeologists are focused on the past doesn't mean we should ignore the wonders of our own time!"

Jonathan's lips slowly stretched into a sincere smile, as if he had forgotten how to do it, and he nodded. After thanking the old man again, he pressed the envelope against his chest and left the lecture hall. Perhaps this trip wasn't all bad after all...

"Wonderful, as usual!"

Letting his last note linger in the air, Dio lowered his bow and opened his eyes again. Gradually, the applause and the scent of bergamot brought him back to Lady Canterbury’s private salon, and he bowed respectfully. Lying on her loveseat, her long red hair cascading over her shoulders and the silk of her long dressing gown exposing the curve of her chest, his lover bit into a small rose-flavoured cake.

"Could you play it again, please?"

"Ah, madam, you know fair well that I never play the same piece twice in an evening."

"Oh, you're too difficult. What if I ask you to?"

She batted her eyelashes, and Dio pretended to think about it, rubbing his chin before answering.

"No, I’m afraid I can't. It would lose its charm if I did, and you could hear it played the same way in any restaurant in the capital."

Lady Canterbury pouted and leaned over to grab a cup of tea, her dressing gown slipping off her shoulder and revealing her milky skin. "In that case, play me that Irving Berlin song. You know, the one that goes Lala lala, lala lala..."

"Alexander's Ragtime Band?"

Dio rested his chin on the headrest and played a few notes.

"Yes, that's the one!"

Lady Canterbury sat up and closed her eyes to enjoy the fast and cheerful tune. Dio, meanwhile, forced himself to soften the movements of his bow and stretch them into a single long melodious note, in contrast to the sharp movements and abrupt stops he liked to add to his scores. His lover, if she noticed, did not comment, and Dio refrained from snorting. All that mattered to these people was having an improved phonograph. But he finished the song without letting his thoughts show on his face, because in her letter, Lady Canterbury had mentioned a big surprise. The guess was easy: as March was coming to an end and buds were reappearing on the trees, she had finally received the tickets for the Titanic's maiden voyage. Playing long notes came more naturally when he focused on that thought.

"Oh, Dio, that was just perfect," His lover smiled, raising her hand towards him.

Bowing gently, Dio placed his violin on the armchair and kissed her hand before leading her to the bed. Step one went smoothly, followed by step two and all the others. As the scent of sweat lingered in the air, Lady Canterbury ran a hand over her still-red cheeks and pulled the blanket up over her breasts in misplaced modesty. Dio glanced down at his chest, where she had left a hickey, and refrained from frowning. What was he? Some calf?

"It was even more intense than usual," The redhead sighed, a grin floating on her lips. "You’re not trying to kill me, are you?"

She pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes like a big domestic cat watching a canary.

"Come now, madam, I’m only following your lead."

She giggled and clapped her hands. "Well, I promised you a surprise, didn't I?"

Dio's heart raced.

"Close your eyes for me, okay?"

He complied and listened to the rustling of the blankets.

"All right, open them!"

He blinked and turned his eyes to the bed where Lady Canterbury had placed a cardboard box she urged him to open. So he gently pulled on the bow, giving her teasing looks, and lifted the lid.

His face fell.

"So, do you like it?"

"Well..."

He took the suit jacket out of the box and stroked the soft fabric between his fingers. Pure wool, not the cotton blend his tailor used to make his clothes. The waistcoat, a dark brown to match the suit, seemed to be made entirely of silk, and when Lady Canterbury urged him to try it on, he didn't need to be asked twice. Well-tailored, comfortable, and bringing out the colour of his eyes, to receive such a gift would normally have made his heart beat faster, but this time, it wasn't what he had hoped for. That didn't stop him from shivering with pleasure as he felt the fabric against his skin.

But all was not lost, and with a charming smile that didn't reach his eyes, he exclaimed, "Thank you, madam. It's a wonderful gift. I will certainly do it justice when we are on the Titanic's deck."

"On what?"

His lover raised her eyes from his trousers, and he repeated in a clear voice, "The Titanic's deck. The trip is fast approaching. Have you begun considering what you’ll bring? Do you know which cabin your son has booked for you?"

"Oh, that? It’s been cancelled. They’ll visit me once my daughter-in-law has delivered."

"Excuse me?!"

At his tone, Lady Canterbury jumped and slowly pulled the blanket up over her chest. Mentally berating himself, Dio resumed his posh accent and forced the muscles in his cheeks to relax.

"Madam... I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. When we last discussed it, you seemed to have changed your mind regarding this trip."

Her shoulders lowered.

"Yes, that's possible, but... Come on, Dio, can you imagine me on that boat for a whole week? Oh no, what a ridiculous idea my son had..."

His lips stretched into a broad smile.

"Yes, you're right."

He took a few steps back and felt the sideboard behind him and the warmth of the candlesticks licking his fingers. They clenched around one of them. She had no idea. It would be easy to bring it down on her head. Smash it until her face was nothing but crimson pulp, and pieces of her skull covered the walls. But he couldn't do that either, and after ordering his body to do so, his fingers released the candlestick one by one.

"Excuse me, madam," He said as he dressed. "I’m afraid I’ll have to cut our meeting short; the restaurant needs me. I did mention that earlier, didn’t I?"

He picked up his violin and put it back in its case. Lady Canterbury’s eyes widened, and she put her hand to her mouth.

"Dio? You look upset. Have I done something wrong?"

"Of course not," He smiled. "Thank you again for the gift."

With his violin and the costume packet under his arm, he bowed and slammed the door.

That tart! That old hag! She can go to hell! Dio ran up the stairs and slammed the door of his flat with all his might. A few flakes of paint fell from the ceiling.

"How could she!"

Putting his things on the dining table, he kicked his wardrobe hard, and his mouth twisted in pain at the sound of his muffled cry. Dio gritted his teeth and hobbled to his bed, where he fell to his knees. There, he felt around the old floorboards and pulled out the one with rusty nails sticking out slightly to reveal his treasure, the fruit of his hard labour. The brown wallet flaked a little when he opened it, and he spread crumpled banknotes and copper coins on the floor.

"One, two, three..."

He bit his lip, his heart pounding anytime he turned away from the slightest penny, and even the smell of leather wasn't enough to calm his nerves. He was seething. He had saved this money for months, even years. He had spent countless evenings working out how much money he would need to start a new life in the United States, carefully tracking every expense, and dipping into it felt like a knife in his stomach. But Hugh Hudson's path had already closed, and there was no way he was going to let this new opportunity slip away.

One way or another, he would board the Titanic.

So, with a heavy heart, he stuffed half his fortune into his pockets and put the rest back in his hiding place. With his foot still throbbing, he left the flat and rushed down the stairs.

"Ah, Dio!"

No time to chat with Miss Moretti, Dio hailed a cab and jumped into the back seat.

"Take me to the nearest maritime agency as fast as possible."

Cursing the driver for not urging his horse on, he vowed that once he was rich, he would only travel by car. Finally, he spotted the agency's still-lit window and left the cab without looking back. He yanked the handle, startling the employees who were tidying their files, and they gave him strange looks.

"Good evening," He announced, scanning the room with his eyes.

The large advertising posters, the smell of polished parquet flooring, and the sound of paper took him back nearly ten years, and he buried his hands in his pockets as if to make sure his money hadn't disappeared. Then, passing by the Cunard Line ticket office and another British company whose name escaped him, he spotted the red flag with a white star of the White Star Line and slammed his hands on the counter harder than he intended.

"A one-way ticket for the Titanic's maiden voyage!" Dio exclaimed, breathless.

He rummaged through his pockets and threw the money on the counter, earning him a disapproving look from the agent.

"Give me the best cabin you have for that price."

The man behind the counter appeared to be middle-aged, judging by the few wrinkles on his forehead and his greying hair. To steady the pounding in his temples as he took an eternity to count his money, Dio focused on his uniform and his white jacket bearing the company emblem.

"Your name, sir?" He asked, turning over one of the crumpled notes.

"Brando. Dio Brando."

"How many passengers?"

"I'll be travelling alone, sir."

The agent put the money back on the counter and turned to his account book.

"So... Ten pounds, I keep seven and..."

He scribbled on a pre-printed sheet of beige paper with the silhouette of the Titanic and stamped it.

"Mr Brando," He handed him the ticket with a professional smile. "Welcome to third class on the most beautiful ocean liner."

With a heavy heart, Jonathan took one last look at the entrance hall of Sternhurst Hall, from the statue of Aphrodite, protector of his family, to the wall covered with portraits of his ancestors. He took a deep breath, and the sweet smell of polished parquet flooring and flowers filled his nostrils. How he wished he could bottle it!

"Are you ready, Jojo?"

He jumped. His father had joined him at the bottom of the stairs, and he could spot a hint of melancholy behind his blue eyes as he stared at the portrait in front of them.

"I suppose so, Father..." Jonathan sighed.

George tore his gaze away from the portrait and turned to him.

"That outfit was an excellent birthday present," He nodded with a smile. "It's perfect for the trip."

He looked down at his grey jacket and matching tie, tugging at the cuffs. If it had been up to him, he would have chosen a straighter cut, but at least his new clothes were less restrictive than his old ones. Who would have thought it was still possible to grow at twenty-one? His father had opted for a dark, more fitted jacket, both classic and elegant, and matching trousers. Clutching a cane with a golden knob adorned with a star, he patted his son's back and smiled.

"Come on, we're only going away for a few weeks. We shall be back before you know it."

Then, heading for the front door, he added, "Don't forget your hat."

Jonathan turned back to the portraits and met his mother's frozen gaze. His father was right, the trip wouldn't be long. There was no reason for his stomach to knot at the thought of walking down the front steps. He hadn't even been a daily resident of Sternhurst Hall since he had been old enough to go to boarding school. If anyone should feel a weight in their chest when leaving this place, it should be his father, but nothing ever seemed to affect him.

So Jonathan pulled his boater hat down over his head and stepped out onto the porch, where a cool breeze ruffled his hair. Several servants were loading their trunks into the Renault CB, and he went over to help them. Thinking about their refusal warmed his heart.

But they didn't have time to do so: before he could offer his help, barking drew his attention and Danny leapt out of the mansion, a servant close behind. The Great Dane ran towards Jonathan and placed his front paws on his shoulders before showering him with licks.

"Ah, Danny, stop it!"

He gently pushed him away, but his faithful companion came back with a vengeance, his tail wagging furiously.

"I know," Jonathan crouched down to scratch his black and white ears. "But we can't take you with us."

Danny tilted his head, and Jonathan's lip quivered. Throwing his arms around his neck, he buried his face in his fur and breathed in.

"I'll miss you too, but I promise we'll be back soon."

And as if he understood, the dog barked.

"Don't worry, Master Jojo," The servant said as he reached them. "We'll take good care of him while you're away."

Doubt had never crossed his mind. With one last look at his friend, Jonathan sighed and took his place on the back seat next to his father. The driver closed the door, and as the smell of leather filled the air and the car began to shake, he pressed his face against the window and squinted. He wanted to carve the imposing silhouette of their mansion behind his eyelids.

When the car passed through the iron gate, his fate was sealed.

"You'll see, I've booked us a special cabin," George told him. "It's a little more expensive than I would have spent on a business trip, but it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

"Really?" Jonathan tried to feign a little enthusiasm.

Unaware of the deception, his father's smile widened, and he added, "But I'd rather keep it a surprise for now. In New York, we'll stay at the Plaza Hotel: that's where I stay when I visit, and it's right in the heart of Manhattan. Sir Morgans should be waiting for us there, and we can discuss this troublesome miners' strike and the situation with our goods. Then..."

Jonathan's shoulders slumped as he listened to the busy schedule, for which he would not be able to play his last rugby match before graduating. In his pocket, Mr Belsey's letter seemed to burn him. He hadn't wanted to put it in his trunk, fearing it might vanish before they arrived, but he still hadn't found the right moment to mention it to his father.

"Take your father to William Zeppeli's lecture." His teacher had suggested, and nothing could have made him happier.

George sighed. "Anyway, we'll have time to discuss it later..."

He paused and turned his pipe between his fingers.

"This trip reminds me of your mother."

Jonathan blinked and raised his eyebrows when he heard him mention the late Mary.

Staring at the object in his hand, his eyes shining, George said, "I can't say if it was ages ago or just yesterday, but I still recall our amazement as we boarded the Majestic, one of the last ocean liners of the White Star Line. Everything was so luxurious, and I can still hear the piano playing to welcome the passengers, but what we liked most was the warmth inside our cabin."

It was always cold in the North Atlantic, but the New York winter of 1890 had been particularly harsh.

"The ship was still decorated for the holidays, and we hoped to return to Liverpool by New Year's, which promised to be full of good news. You were born the following spring..."

Jonathan's heart sank as he heard what lay behind his silence. His mother had died before 1891 was over.

"Anyway... It’s rather amusing, I learned the captain of the Titanic had once commanded the Majestic. If your mother were here, she would have taken it as a sign of fate, the beginning of a new chapter in our lives."

A few wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes as he smiled at him. In Jonathan's pocket, the letter called to him, urging him to reveal everything, but he couldn't. Not now.

He would have a week to do so.