I will my hat to swallow me as the well-dressed figure of Lucy Duff-Gordon marches up, her auburn hair in a curl down one side of her neck. A finely woven straw hat in peachy gold features an array of feathers and ombre ribbon. She looks like a tropical bird.

The second woman stands a foot shorter and wears a boat of a cabbage-rose hat. I recognize her as the woman who asked me if my dress was Lucile my first time on the lift.

I lick my lips, trying to keep the moisture going. “Why, hello, Lady Duff-Gordon. Nice to see you. Well, don’t let me keep you—”

“Lucy, please. Mrs. Bertha Chambers, may I present Mrs. Amberly Sloane?”

“Ah. You’re the Merry Widow. Did Mr. Ismay invite you for the wine tour, too?”

“Uh, no.” I try to stretch my curling foot enough to get it to relax.

The brass knocker on Mr. Ismay’s door ogles me with its giant orb, like the one-eyed squid Jamie and I once saw in a fisherman’s bucket. To my horror, Lucy knocks.

“I was just, that is, I just remembered I’m needed elsewhere.” I begin to hobble away, but Mrs. Chambers steps in front of me, peering at my dress.

“Is that House of July?”

“Yes.”

Lucy crosses her arms. “No, that’s not House of July. That’s my dress.” Her eyes bear down on mine like two cannonballs.

A trapped fly buzzes around my innards, making it hard to think. Why would April give me Lucile to wear? Well, now’s not the time to get it sorted. Any minute, Mr. Ismay will open the door. “Ah, of course you are right.”

Lucy’s face loses its sharpness. “Marigold Fantasy is one of my favorites, but the ribbons are supposed to crisscross, like this.” She tugs the ribbons on my sleeve and spends an eternity tying them in a crisscrossing fashion like a corset. For cod’s sake, women have enough things to fuss over as it is. She starts on the other sleeve, and I have to stop myself from ripping it off and running down the hall. “I’ve got a new Strawberries and Cream dress that would look fetching on you. I would love for you to wear it.”

So, Lucy wants to create a stir of her own.

“I shall think about it. Lovely seeing you both.”

“What’s there to think about?” Lucy sniffs.

“Bit of a recluse,” Mrs. Chambers murmurs as I stumble off, praying there are no alligators around the next corner.

30

By the time I reach the Smoking Room and tear the fifth daily from the wall, I feel like I’ve sprinted across the Atlantic Ocean. It occurs to me that the crew might simply replace the missing pages with new ones. But with it being so late in the day, maybe not. The square clock on the staircase landing already reads half past five.