Remembering all the people in third class who haven’t yet reached the Boat Deck, and for whom it’ll be too late anyway, my temper flares like a boiler ready to explode. “Who gave him a scepter?” I seethe at the officer. “Neptune?”

Jamie spits on the deck. “You’re a bunch of bleeding nobs.” Rile up one twin and you get two for your trouble. “You’ve got room. You just won’t let us on. It’s like you’re playing God.”

And then it’s my turn. “And one day—and it could very well be this day—Saint Peter’s going to call you to task for sending a bunch of innocent souls to heaven before their time.”

Lady Duff-Gordon wraps her fur coat more securely around her. “You see how coarse they are. A bunch of savages. They will sink our boat.”

“Come on, Officer,” Sir Duff-Gordon urges, his blue eyes hardening like spots of glue. “Time’s a-wasting. Lower away, man!”

The harried officer throws up his hands, and the crewmen crank the davits.

Olly’s eyes are wide enough to net butterflies. I’m winding up to throw another stick on the fire when I realize Wink is gone.

While Jamie continues to spout protests, I gently put my hand on Olly’s arm, not wishing to alarm him further. “Where’s Wink?”

“I—I dunno.” He looks wildly about. “He was standing here a moment ago.”

I see only men nearby. A group huddles on a bench, swigging from champagne bottles. Another couple of gents stamp the deck, their breaths curling like white ribbons. One of them stands a whole head above the other. It’s Mr. Ismay, the chairman of White Star Line, with his crane-like legs and shrewd eyes.

Stooping, he glances furtively about. If it’s true that his zeal for speed led to this catastrophe, he will have a long wait at the pearly gates, accounting for many lost souls. I stare him full in the face, knowing he has lost his power over me. He blinks, as if trying to remember where he’s seen me.

I leave him to work it out and return to the crisis at hand: Wink. “Did he say anything?”

Olly’s potato nose scrunches up, the poor lad. His whole face is red, whether because of crying or the cold, and I hug him to me. “It’s okay, Olly. Tell me what he said.”

“I—I wasn’t feeling so good, and h-he told me to think about the tree house we’re going to build in America, and the Oreos we’ll eat . . . And I said we can’t get those things now without money.” His lip trembles. “And then I lost track of him. I’m sorry.”