Nurse Clara Barton died, and a Royal Flying Corps has been formed. Glancing around to make sure no one’s watching, I slurp down my glass of lemonade, then begin on a second scone. But when I reach the society column, I nearly choke.

Mr. Stephen Sloane made a sizable contribution to the Royal Garden Society to be put toward a “Garden of Smells” in honor of his late mother, Mrs. Amberly Sloane.

I rip the paper from the corkboard, crumple it into a ball, and stuff it into my pocket. Maybe they’re already onto me.

The money towels. A rocket flare lights inside me, and I have to stop my feet from racing in several directions at once. First, I’ll retrieve the money. Then I’ll remove as many of the dailies as I can find. It may be too late—the dailies have been up since morning—but I can’t just leave them out for people to read.

Back to hopping on the balls of my feet, I hurry into the deckhouse and down the tidal-wave staircase. The walls and ceilings have grown eyes. Every person I pass seems to look right through the veil to my guilty face.

In the Entrance Hall on B-Deck, a few people mill around the corkboard with the daily. I’ll take care of that one right now. I wait at least five excruciating minutes before the area clears enough for me to snatch the bulletin.

“Excuse me.” A man with sharp cheekbones points at the page I’m stuffing into my pocket. “I wanted to read that.”

I draw myself up. “Wait your turn, young man,” I say haughtily, pushing through the felted doors to the Cabbage Patch, hoping he doesn’t follow. The doors close behind me, seemingly more reluctantly than usual.

“Mrs. Sloane!”

“Oh!” I cry, nearly colliding with Steward Latimer in front of Mr. Ismay’s suites. “Why, hello.” He catches me by the arm before I stumble. I shrink away, with crab-like movements of my legs. Get ahold of yourself. You are a first-class lady, not a pastry-bumming street urchin. I straighten my coat, which has slid off one shoulder.

“I trust your steward has been taking care of you?”

“Yes.” I compose my features. “I was surprised to hear you had moved floors.”

“Yes. I’m embarrassed to say Mr. Ismay wasn’t content with my performance, but I’m still helping here when needed. Do you, er, need anything?” A pleasant smile lights his furry face, and he leans toward me solicitously. He doesn’t look like someone who’s worried about being scalded by the boiling kettle of scandal.

“Actually, I was wondering where the dailies are posted.”

“There’s one right outside those doors.”

“Yes, but are there others?”

“I could have one brought to your room.”