I catch him trying to sneak a look behind my veil. “Do I look like someone who needs exertion?” I say, more forcibly than necessary.

“O-of course not.” He glances at a writing table. “Dinner is served at six o’clock in the dining room on D-Deck. We didn’t realize you were staying with us, or we’d have left the daily menu, but I make it a point to remember the fixings. Tonight, we have oysters, consommé Olga, salmon mousseline, chicken lyonnaise, roast duckling, chateau potatoes, foie gras and celery, Waldorf pudding, and vanilla eclairs. You’ll hear the ship’s bugler wandering the decks, calling out mealtime.”

The alligator in my belly snarls, even though I didn’t understand half of what he just said. I didn’t eat but a few milk biscuits this morning. But a stowaway cannot socialize with the first class, even if the stowaway has never tried foie gras. Even Ba wouldn’t be so reckless.

“I’m sure the food is exquisite. But I’m afraid I will not be in the mood for much socializing. Do you have anything more, er, private?”

“The À la Carte Restaurant and Café Parisien provide refreshment throughout the day. You may also order pastries and tea to your room. Pay the tab with the purser at journey’s end.”

Another opportunity for sinning opens her arms to me. A free line of pastry credit.

A knock comes at the door, and the young porter Baxter appears with Mrs. Sloane’s steamer trunk, a sturdy chest with oak straps and metal hinges. The sight of it is like a reassuring pat on the back.

Steward Latimer takes the trunk from him. “Fetch Mrs. Sloane a welcome plate.”

“Yes, sir.” Baxter makes a hasty exit.

The steward hauls the trunk to a wooden rack and, in one smooth motion, heaves it up. But with a click, it pops open, and its contents tumble free.

A cloisonné vase containing snuff tobacco that Mrs. Sloane purchased for her brother drops onto the carpet and rolls. I’d wrapped the vase with twine so the lid would not come off.

Steward Latimer rushes to stop the vase from rolling farther. “Oh dear, oh dear. We must be making a terrible impression on you.” For a first-class steward, he is all thumbs. But there is an earnestness about him, like a tuft of hair that refuses to bend to pomade. He holds out the vase, a horrified expression tightening his face. “Is this . . . ?”

It takes me a moment to understand. “Yes, it is. Set Percival there. He likes a good window view.”

Steward Latimer sets the vase down and quickly steps back. “Both my first wife and my daughter passed the same year thirteen years ago, but it feels like yesterday.”

“Oh? I am sorry.” Guilt straddles my shoulders, as my deception grows thorns.

He nods, his Adam’s apple rising.