When I finally slip into Room 14, Wink and Olly are making the walls ring with a rendition of “Lamb of God,” conducted by Jamie. The blankets have been tucked and the seabags hung straight as Christmas stockings. Bo sits on his bunk, wiping his carving tools with a cloth. I press my back against the door and exhale in relief.

Jamie drops his arms. “Where you been, Sis?”

“Overslept. Charlotte gave me the news.”

“So why don’t you look happier?” His eyes drop to the slipper bag of money I’m carrying. The lads stop singing, and Bo looks at me through the mirror, his eyes concerned.

“We have a problem.” I pull out one of the dailies and point at the society column.

Jamie reads it aloud for the rest of them, then crumples the page and throws it out the porthole. “Rest in peace, Mrs. Sloane. You’ll stay down here from now on. I’ll ask Charlotte to hide you in her room. She’s just on the other side of E-Deck.” The first-class side, he means.

Olly squirms, jostling Wink beside him. “Or Wink and I can share a bunk. We learned how to pray for you, too. Wink can do Catholic, and I can do Protestant.”

Wink nods vigorously.

“Thanks, lads.” It doesn’t feel right imposing on Charlotte, but the thought of spending the night in the same room as Bo makes my chest flutter. I run my fingers through my clipped hair, wishing feelings could be trimmed away as easily as a few locks. As if sensing my discomfort, Bo stores his tools under his bunk and busies himself in his seabag.

“Charlotte’s place will stink less and be safer,” Jamie says. “How about you take my place at dinner?”

Wink and Olly launch themselves off the top bunk. I pull down the wall chair and sit heavily. “No. I don’t have an appetite, and I want to stay put somewhere awhile.”

He nods and hefts the slipper bag. “I’ll see if I can store the money with the purser.”

Bo gives me a brief smile before following the others out. “Lock the door, Stowaway. And congratulations on the meeting.”

I’ve only known him a few days, but our brief moments together have already etched themselves in my mind. How long before time rubs them away? The less I think about him, the faster it’ll happen.

A bright knock interrupts my brooding. When I open the door, Drummer’s narrow face peers back at me. He’s holding a piece of White Star stationery. He glances into the room. “By yourself?”

“Yes. Aren’t you going to dinner?”

He shakes his head. “I am needed in Boiler Room 6.” Fireman Brandish must need Drummer’s help to put her “on the boil” again. “But first, I am writing a letter to my wife, Chin Chin. I want to end the letter with something”—he clears his throat—“poetic.”