I need to find out what’s going on. Jamie will kill me for going back for the others, but he somehow tricked me into going with Charlotte in the first place. Well, he can rant at me later.

I force a smile. “Help your mother. I’m sorry, but I must go check on something.”

“No, Valora, stay with us.”

“I’ll be okay.” And with that, I hurry back toward the Collar.

Back on the third-class side of E-Deck, a crowd has collected where the Collar crosses Scotland Road. Most are making their way up the staircase, lugging bags or sacks.

A feeling of dread untethers me, pulling me in different directions. I collect snippets of conversations, and though I don’t understand all the languages, I feel the worry in them as sure as I feel my heartbeat pounding in my head.

A woman with a red nose clutches a man in a dressing robe. “Did you hear that racket? It was like iron dragged over a thousand marbles. I knew we should’ve stayed in London.”

We didn’t hear a racket on B-Deck. Maybe they have a better idea of what happened down here. I strain to follow their conversation.

The man pats the woman’s arm. “Maybe it’s a shot propeller. Caught a whale or something.”

“Whales know enough to stay away from propellers. Mark my words, it’s ice.”

Ice.

The word slithers in my head and lies coiled, waiting to strike. Possible ice, the weather reports had said.

The lights flicker, and people shriek. The lights return, but no one trusts them now.

Several paces down Scotland Road, the door Drummer took me through to reach Boiler Room 6 opens. I hurry over. A man emerges, and then another, their clothes wet and beards matted.

“Sirs. Have you seen Drummer? He’s a fireman. Chinese, slim in build, plays a drum.”

Both bend and put their hands on their knees, panting and looking dazed. I’m about to repeat my question when a third man emerges, this one with hulking biceps. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. Water drips from his yellow hair into his squinting eyes. It’s Fireman Brandish, Drummer’s friend. I gasp at the sight of the whirling drum stuck in the waistband of his trousers.

“That’s—” I can’t manage to finish the sentence, as my own heart becomes a whirling drum, beating rapidly out of control.

“Aye.” He passes the drum to me. “Drummer fell when she hit, got his foot stuck. We tried, but the water in 6 was too high.”

The door closes with a heavy thud, like the sealing of a tomb.

Brandish wipes his face, which is wet with more than just seawater. “He was a good man, and I’m sorry. Plenty more souls will rise afore the night is done.” He strides away after his mates, becoming a dark blur in my vision.