Now you’ve done it. The question seems to bounce around the hall, making my ears ring. “I—I’ll be fine. I believe I’m on a different floor.”

“But I can help you with that, too. I insist. It’s the least I can do.” His hopeful green eyes are the color of clover.

Do I dare? Now it would be suspicious if I refuse. And how else am I to find Mrs. Sloane’s trunk? I will have to ask someone, and this fellow seems the goodly sort, especially now that I’ve done him a favor.

His flat eyebrows round under his square hairline. “Miss . . . ?”

“Mrs. . . . Sloane. Amberly Sloane.” The severe officer kept my ticket for the arrival of Mrs. Sloane. Well, she has arrived.

He hands his tray off to another passing steward, then pulls a paper from his jacket. His finger runs down the page, just like the moisture tracing a path down my back. “Ah. Here we go.” A frown replaces the man’s hopeful expression. “You hadn’t checked in, so we gave your room away. We didn’t think you were coming.”

I snort, channeling my fear into indignation. “I was attending to”—I straighten my veil, which has bunched to one side—“er, funeral arrangements.”

“Oh! I am so sorry.” The man has the kind of pasty complexion that, like a cuttlefish, turns color with the slightest pressure.

“Well, where did they put my trunk?”

“I’m not sure, but I will get this sorted at once, ma’am. I’m Steward Andy Latimer, and I’m the chief steward here.” He smooths his tie back into place and straightens his collar. Another man, this one in a simple white jacket atop black pants, emerges from a room. “Porter Baxter! See if you can locate Mrs. Amberly Sloane’s trunk. Bring it to B-64.”

“Right away.” Porter Baxter, who can hardly be older than me, gives a curt nod and hurries off.

“In the meantime, I’ve got the perfect stateroom for you. It’s even better than B-42.”

“Y-you do? I mean, I certainly hope so.”

His kind smile lifts me from my mourning. “Follow me.”

7

Steward Latimer opens the door marked B-64 with a quick turn of the knob.

A gasp escapes me. Panels of rich diamond-patterned crimson silk lead down a short hallway. On our left lies another door, which he opens. “Private bath.”

A lavatory basin with a marbled counter neighbors a sleek enameled tub that is twice as big as Mrs. Sloane’s old-fashioned slipper tub. A bar of soap smelling of bergamot has its very own dish.

“Hot and cold water.” He thumps a finger on one of the taps. “Let us know if you’d like us to draw you a bath.”