“Yes.” From his pocket Bo pulls a small carved wooden object, the size of a spool of thread, and holds the figurine to me. “I made this for you to remember your trip here.”

It’s a whale. I run my finger along the details of its underbelly, its eyes, its fins, and its wide mouth, all carved with an exacting hand, using even strokes and hashmarks. Just like with his shell ring, he transformed something ordinary into something beautiful—for me. Strange feelings press on my heart like cat paws on a windowpane.

I swallow down the tightness in my throat. “Why a whale?”

“A whale rules the sea. It goes where it wants without fear. And if troubled, it can become a bird”—he flaps his hands, his long fingers moving gracefully—“beating wings hard enough to stir up the sea. It means being in control of your destiny.”

Am I in control of my destiny? My grip on the whale tightens. Maybe I am like the Titanic, motoring along invincibly, when really, one push of the ocean could easily change my course. Mr. Stewart could say no. Jamie could say no. Mr. Ismay could sniff me out like a rat and throw me off his ship. But I’ve done all I can, haven’t I?

Feeling Bo watching me, I project a casualness I do not feel, focusing on the vivid pink dome overhead. “This sky reminds me of my mum’s favorite shawl. Ba bought it for her to wear to the Chelsea Pageant.”

The celebration of Chelsea’s history was intended to draw people from all ranks of society, despite costing a pretty penny. Ba wanted us all to look our best. How we looked reflected on all Chinese. Plus, Ba took great pride in being a Londoner, even if the city didn’t take pride in us.

Bo nods. “I know about the pageant, and the shawl, too.”

“Jamie told you about the shawl?” It’s such a personal detail. It seems strange for Jamie to mention it.

One corner of his mouth lifts. “We talk about the latest fashions.” When he sees my stony expression, he shifts around on the bench. “I think, maybe, your mother did not love this shawl as much as you think.”

“But she did. Ba said it made her look like a queen.”

His nose draws up to where a navy curtain has begun to descend over the pink. “Did your mother like . . . attention?”

“Of course not. What are you getting at?”

He doesn’t answer, and it dawns on me. Mum hated the stares that followed us every time the four of us went out. I remember how brightly Ba’s eyes shone when he gave her the shawl. But when the day of the pageant came, Mum told him she wasn’t feeling well, that we should go without her. But Ba begged her to go anyway, dressed in that vivid, eye-catching shawl.