Mr. Stewart cocks an ear. When an explanation doesn’t come, he frowns, and little pouches appear around his mouth. This visit is not off to a flying start. As he gives Jamie’s hand a curt shake, the chains of his gold watch swing out from where they attach to the pockets of his linen vest, and the forgiving pleats of his pants balloon, emphasizing his stocky legs.

“Please.” He lifts a hand to the couch.

“Thank you,” I croak, my throat still swollen from yelling. I slide onto the velvety upholstery, whose sumptuousness calls attention to my dingy sea togs. Jamie sits himself next to me, barely moving the horsehair seat cushion.

Moving soundlessly, Crawford sweeps up Mr. Stewart’s hat and coat, freeing a spot on the bed for Mr. Stewart to sit opposite us. Above his head, a Tiffany lamp twinkles like a jewel set in the wall.

Mr. Stewart’s eyes dart back and forth between Jamie and me as if not sure where to land. “Where did you learn how to perform like that?”

“Our father taught us,” I say congenially, hoping to thaw the temperature in the room a little. “He was a man with more cream than pail. Always brimming with ideas.”

“You said was?”

“He died a few months back,” Jamie says without emotion.

Mr. Stewart’s eyebrows climb toward each other, then flatten. “Ah. I lost my own father when I was about your age, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of him.” His shoulders relax. Finding common ground seems to ease the way forward. He unclips the chains of his watch and holds the timepiece up like a rare coin. “This was his. It reminds me to embrace the moment. Which is why I agreed to see you at this very late hour. Charlie—er, Mr. Ringling—has been looking for a top-notch act, and I think you’re it.”

“Why, that’s brilliant news. Thank you, sir.” A surge of energy runs through me, and I have to stop myself from bouncing off the couch. These boots are making tracks for America. I grin at Jamie, and he grins right back.

“Croggy?” Mr. Stewart flicks his eyes to the dressing table, where an ice bucket beaded with moisture holds a bottle of champagne. As Crawford pours, the fizzy sound seems to make the air sparkle, and soon we are all holding a glass.

Mum never got the chance to try champagne, and now here we are, sampling it for the second night in a row. Well, aren’t you putting on the top hat, poppet? I hear her say.

Mr. Stewart lifts his flute by the stem, like a rose, and I shift my glass to imitate him. “To your future.”

I take a too-large sip, and the liquid rises sharply in my nose, making my eyes tear up.