“His valet will fetch you at eight thirty. I’m so happy for you!” With a squeal, Charlotte flings her arms around me, enveloping me in the scent of sweet peas. “I was thinking. If you do end up in New York”—her eyes drop to the carpet—“maybe you’d like to visit? We have horses and plenty of space. Half the rooms we don’t even use. I wish we had more people to fill them.”

“That’s kind of you.” Her offer touches me, even though I know it’s Jamie she’s thinking about. Still, this is good news. Surely she wouldn’t encourage a friendship between us unless Jamie had given her hope of a future together. And if that’s the case, Jamie’s definitely headed toward America.

“Well, I’d better go. Mother’s waiting for me to accompany her to the cocktail hour. Bottomless shrimp boats are the only thing that get her out of bed. I can’t wait to hear what happens tonight.”

After she leaves, I secure myself into the marigold dress as best I can, leaving the wrist ribbons loose, since I can’t tie those one-handed. Then I lid my head with the provided hat—a grand dame with a wide brim that at least puts space between me and the viewer.

As I slip on the vanilla coat, I notice an object on the floor: a hackle feather, like a tiny white canoe. It must have fallen out of my coat pocket. I freeze, hunched like a heron over the feather. Its tip points toward twelve o’clock.

Something’s going to happen. That’s a weak superstition, refusing to commit either way. A superstition like that should just be called a “stition,” because there’s nothing super about it. Yet the hairs on my arms stand on end.

Crossing to the window, I open it and let the bloody thing sail into the wind.

Before slogging to E-Deck, I stop for a snack at the lemonade stand, which fortunately is deserted.

The late-afternoon sun has a subdued, almost glowy quality about it, as if it clocked out early and the moon is taking over. The ocean seems too quiet, the water a shifting palette of blues and greys. I strain to see a fish or any sign of life in the watery desert, but none appear. Suddenly feeling lonely, I run my fingers over the carved whale in my pocket. It feels warm, as if radiating an energy of its own.

A tray offers now-cold cheese scones. I face toward where a new Atlantic Daily Bulletin is posted and feed myself one under my veil.

APRIL 14

Weather: High of 50. Clear with moderate breeze to the northwest. Evening temperature to drop below freezing. Possible ice.