A murmur rises up as the news circles the room. The platter is set before us.

“What’s this?” Fong sniffs a sliver of tangerine, then pops it in his mouth. “Tastes like the sunset over Lisbon.” He smacks his lips at me as I gape. Who knew the old goat has a poetic streak?

Wink surveys the platter for the biggest fruit, a plum, and pinches it from the hoard before Olly can get to it. Using a tiny pair of silver tongs, Olly serves himself two cherries. Ming Lai holds the platter for the Domenics, who nod their thanks. Drummer chews his fruit with quick beats, and a smile crests his face.

The other diners return to their own now-diminished meals, though several sneak looks back at us. Take that, all you Johnny haters.

I hold up a cross section of lime to Jamie. “This one’s for you, you limey. Mrs. Sloane is clearly a woman of exquisite taste.”

Jamie gives me a weary look and doesn’t take the fruit. “Congratulations. Now everyone hates us even more than they already did.”

I eat Jamie’s lime myself, then lick my fingers. “Go on, sourpuss. The captain called us heroes. Now doesn’t that tune your fiddle?”

“Some here look like they want to break our fiddles,” he says, eyeing a woman with a tight bun who casts us murderous looks as she wrestles her young daughter back into her chair. The girl points at our table and wails, her wavy dark hair spilling into her large eyes. Folks start staring at us anew. The mother unleashes a flurry of foreign words in a language that reminds me of the Syrian spice sellers in the Borough Market.

Jamie appraises our fruits, then cuts his gaze to Bo, who’s chewing with an almost-baffled look on his face. Bo shrugs.

I know exactly what Jamie intends before he stands. He wants us to share the spoils, a gesture that makes the waterworks in my mouth dry up. We owe these folks nothing except for a good thump with a bread heel.

“Let’s go, Mrs. Sloane, before your generosity gets us beat up.”

“Leave it,” I growl. “You’re not the fruit fairy.”

Jamie glances at Bo. With a sigh, Bo wipes his mouth on a napkin, then pushes out his chair. If Bo goes, then I will be the bread heel.

With a grumble, I grab the platter. I suppose it isn’t the child’s fault that the waiters gave us the bread heels. Still, why are we always called upon to show greater generosity of spirit?

The Syrian girl’s wailing dries up as I approach, and her mouth becomes a red lifesaver.

“Hello, poppet. Which one would you like?”