By the grace of God, I’ve landed on this stepping-stone, bringing me one step closer to America’s shores. But before I search for Jamie, I need the grace of the lavatory. My bladder feels like a dozen butchers are whacking it with meat pounders.

I remove my ridiculous jacket and glance about for somewhere to do my business.

The words “General Room” are marked in gold letters on the wall. Seems they could’ve come up with a more interesting name. Obviously, you didn’t get a woman’s opinion, I hear Miss Hart say in her mocking tone.

I try to recall the ship’s layout from the diagrams Mrs. Sloane requested so that she would be comfortable enough to make the journey. We reviewed them extensively, but it’s hard to think when parts of you are under pressure.

Below the Boat Deck—the uppermost deck, where they keep the lifeboats—the decks descend from A to G and, for the most part, correlate to class, like how wool is rated for quality. This General Room, a gathering spot for the third class, lies in the forward part of the ship, on D-Deck.

No lavatory presents itself, so I hobble down another floor to E-Deck.

The stairway spills onto a wide corridor that runs from port to starboard, such that if the Titanic was a fish, this corridor would be the collar, the choicest piece to eat. I dub it the Collar, and I imagine Miss Hart would approve of the moniker, which is both memorable and practical.

Stewards in high-necked white jackets with gold buttons mill about the area, directing passengers to their destinations.

The sign for the lavatory is like a port in a storm, and I gladly take refuge within it.

Sinks face off against seven water closets, each with a dial near the handle, all marked “vacant.” I throw my jacket onto the nearest hook and quickly smite my hands of any rat chiggers with a cake of soap imprinted with the White Star logo.

When I swing shut the door of the first water closet, an electric light flickers on. Even the third-class bathrooms here have class. Once I am blissfully empty, I lift a back lever, and the toilet neatly accepts my deposit. I wash up again, this time enjoying the cedar scent of the soap.

Now to find Jamie. If I ask one of the stewards for help, will they ask to see my papers? I’ve already made an unfavorable impression on those who needed impressing.

My ruined jacket hangs like a dead badger. I unpin the bee-swarm lace and hold it to my face. The black dots that give the lace its name certainly obscure my Chinese features. I could be anyone under this veil—the queen, even. Perhaps it will give me easier passage here.