I count 117 passengers who pass in front of me, including three dogs, eleven children, and one baby—but no Mr. Stewart. Gazes still linger on me, but folks are less interested in the Merry Widow than talking about the acrobats. If I were less worried about finding Mr. Stewart, I might savor the victory of outshining myself.

To pass the time, I read the Atlantic Daily Bulletin, a copy of which has been posted on the wall of the deckhouse behind me, and consume two glasses of lemonade and four oatmeal biscuits under my veil. By the time the pair returns, my bladder is madder.

Jamie crouches by my chair. “I know it’s not your favorite thing to do, but wait. If Stewart wants you badly enough, he’ll find you. Come meet us for dinner. The men want to celebrate.”

“What’s there to celebrate?” I grumble.

“A successful and lucrative show. Bo won’t be there. He’s doing sketches for passengers, so there’ll be an extra spot at the table.”

“Fine.” At least it’ll take my mind off the man with the purple bowler.

To my surprise, a new steward stands by the window in B-64, a folded towel over his arm. “Oh, Mrs. Sloane. I was just tidying your room.” He clasps his hands and angles his head of thinning hair solicitously.

“Steward Latimer tidied it this morning.”

“Wonderful. I shall be on my way, then.”

“Is he . . . around?”

“I’m afraid Steward Latimer is now attending another floor.”

“But why?”

“I’m not quite sure. Is there anything I can get you?”

“No. No, thank you.”

The door thuds ominously behind him. Did Steward Latimer request the move, or was he reassigned? With the choicest rooms in the Cabbage Patch, why would he want to work elsewhere? On the other hand, maybe the choicest rooms come with the fussiest occupants—Mr. Ismay, for example.

And Mrs. Sloane?

Maybe his suspicions are adding up, and he doesn’t want to be scalded when the kettle finally boils over. He knows Mrs. Sloane asked about Mr. Stewart. Does he also know Mr. Stewart is the man behind the show with two Chinese acrobats? He’s seen the picture of my parents. Put that together with my strange arrival, and perhaps Steward Latimer saw a pattern in the bread heels being juggled. Was the fact that Percy’s urn contained tobacco rather than ashes the odd pineapple that upset the whole routine?

The lemonade and oatmeal biscuits make a queasy gurgle in my stomach, and the air under my veil grows warmer by several degrees. Of course, if he thought I was an imposter, they’d have the Master-of-Big-Arms waiting for me. They wouldn’t be tidying my rooms.

I take off my hat and wipe my brow. There could be a thousand reasons why Steward Latimer moved to a different floor. Still, I can’t help thinking I’m reason number one.

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