The crewman’s face relaxes. “Oh. I’m so sorry, ma’am.” Allowing me to pass, he closes the door behind him, cutting Jamie from my view. He stretches out an arm, directing me past a library. “Pass through that door and keep going until you see a grand staircase. B-Deck is one level up.”

“Thank you.” The door leads to an immaculate corridor floored with octagonal tiles. Can I really just waltz into first class? Every common bone in my body says “stop,” yet my legs keep going. Gilded dome fixtures cast spotlights on me. Paneled walls that stretch twice as long between doors as the ones in third class echo my trespassing footfalls.

The excitement I felt upon seeing Jamie gives way to a gripping sensation at my temples that seems to squeeze my brain into the size of a walnut. It’s a good thing I came. Spend all day in the bottom of a ship, and one might start thinking down is up. Well, I will get him to see the right of it.

After about forty paces, the corridor widens into an open space housing a tidal wave of a staircase, with wooden banisters that look too ornate to get a good grip. At the foot of the stairs, a cheeky cherub seems to sneer at me, as if to say, I see through that veil, you faker.

I sweep by it. It takes one to know one, imp.

People stare as I pass, and it occurs to me that the first class is no better at containing their curiosity than the third class. In fact, they stare even longer, as if it is their right.

One level up, the staircase empties into a populated reception area, where well-dressed people drift around upholstered furniture like exotic fish around blue coral, attended to by plainer fish in uniform grey and black. A woman slips off her fur coat and dumps it on her reedy maid, who nearly spills the wineglasses she is holding. Don’t I remember those tedious days of being a human coatrack and side table?

People here sail around as if they have all the time in the world, unlike in the third class, where one is not wasteful even with time. Even the stewards, in their short black jackets, seem to drift as silently as clouds as they dispense moisture into crystal goblets. More people float down the tidal-wave staircase from A-Deck. A square clock on the half landing reads 2:25.

Two sets of felted doors—like billiards tables—flank the staircase. I choose the port-side doors, since the even-numbered rooms are on that side. Mrs. Sloane specially requested Room B-42 since she was born in 1842 and could easily remember that number. The first-class rooms probably come with keys, with more stuff to steal, but I hope not.