Yet even after we’ve practiced enough to imprint it deep in our fiber, a feeling of unease settles over me, like a London fog that can’t be blown away. Will it be too much for Jamie, after years of not practicing? Will it be enough for Mr. Stewart, who surely has seen his share of performers better than us? I hope I haven’t oversold the act.

Tao says he wants to fast, and so I join the Johnnies at dinner, digging into sausages gleaming with jewels of fat. Again, we don’t receive bread, and this time not even the pretense of butter. The headwaiter marches around the room with self-important strides, ignoring us. We ignore him right back.

I watch Jamie sling jokes and slip in and out of conversations with the Johnnies as easily as if he had known them all his life. The only one he doesn’t engage is Ming Lai, who’s deep in conversation with Dina Domenic, the Russian girl, despite lacking a common language.

Raucous laughter erupts from the other side of the room, where the sweeps winner Bledig and the other bottom cutters are lifting their cups. Under his stocking cap, Bledig’s face wears the ruddy sheen of one who has had a few drinks too many, yet he tosses back another and lifts his cup for more.

As if feeling my gaze upon him, he turns to me. His eyes lose their glazed look, and he elbows the man next to him, setting off a chain reaction. Suddenly, all four are peering at me, devilment in their faces. I can’t look away. It’s as if their eight eyes have become pins, trapping me like some insect specimen. The room seems to get louder and brighter, as if someone has raised a switch on the electricity, charging the air.

Jamie senses me stiffen.

“Those are the men who knocked us on purpose,” Olly whispers.

Jamie and Bo cut the men a look, drawing their interest. With the practiced hand of an old fisherman casting a line, Jamie flicks out his middle finger, using his other hand to slowly reel it in. Bo snickers.

Bledig’s eyes become two chips of dirty ice.

A door opens and out marches the headwaiter, carrying a silver platter of candied fruits as pretty as Christmas lights. Conversations shut off. Heads turn, their faces animated.

The headwaiter stops at our table. His lapel bears a fresh rose. “Sirs, one of our first-class passengers sends these with her thanks for valiantly defending her person and property from harm. Captain Smith commends you for your, ahem, heroism.” That last word seems as hard to get out as a corn kernel stuck between his teeth.

Jamie’s honest face wrinkles in confusion. “Oh, we didn’t—”

I kick him under the table. “We didn’t expect this, but we are ever so grateful,” I cut in.