I imagine how Jamie will take the news. He may play things casual, but I’ll throw my arms around him and squeeze the casual out. But what if he’s different now? Too old for my clowning around. What if the years have given him a vulture neck and a map’s worth of lines on his face, and he rants at the world and spits when he talks?

Perhaps I should’ve warned him I was coming. But would the Titanic receive a telegram on a third-class passenger’s behalf?

I replace my hat and arrange my veil. It’s a good disguise. Maybe good enough to sneak into first class and discover the whereabouts of Mrs. Sloane’s trunk.

After two minutes pass, I poke my head out again. A couple of kids running down the hall stop and stare at me. I shut the door again, waiting for their delighted shrieking to fade, then venture out. I quickly make tracks toward a small companionway on the port side. Room E-16 lies only a few paces down.

My heartbeat knocks double time as I rap twice on the door.

No one answers, but the men on the other side are speaking in Cantonese. Though the sound is harsh to Western ears, it reminds me of Ba’s optimistic voice, and I feel my heart swell. I put my ear to the wood.

“Don’t answer it, Tao,” someone grumbles. “It’s probably that skeleton steward again. Ming Lai already told him we’re not interested in their ‘sweepstakes.’” He says that last word in barely recognizable English.

“Maybe he is here to fill the water pitcher,” says an airier voice, which must belong to Tao.

“Drummer already went to fill the pitcher. Sit down, old fool, and finish your meditation.”

“How can one meditate with you breathing so loud?”

I knock again, and say in Cantonese, “Hello? I’m looking for Mr. James Luck.”

The voices abruptly stop. The door opens, and a man with a braided beard that drips from his chin like an icicle tilts his thin face at me. A queue, like a grown-up version of the beard, hangs down his back. The front portion of his scalp is shaved clean. Chinese men wear this hairstyle to show fealty to the Qing dynasty, though since the Qing dynasty has fallen, some have cut it off.

The man’s curious expression makes him look youthful, despite his many white hairs. “Who are you?” He must be Tao, judging from his airy voice.

“I am Jamie’s sister, Valora Luck, Uncle,” I say, using the respectful term the Chinese use for elders. “Is he staying here?”

I peer inside and see two sets of bunk beds. Four seabags hang on hooks, each embroidered with a different Chinese surname. To my dismay, none belong to Jamie. I’d stitched his myself from sturdy denim.