“Say, you could be the Merry Widow, just like the operetta. You’re a mysterious woman in mourning, but not even death will quell your allure.” She puts a hand on her heart and holds the other to the ceiling, as if on a stage.

“That might work in the theater, but in real life, widows cannot be so flashy.”

“Says who? Mourning dress is so passé.”

“I wish I could help you—”

“The way I see it, we can help each other. Someone like you needs an ally, hiding up here in first class all by yourself. You never know when you’ll need a friend.” She sidles up to me and touches my nose, as if to prove she can. I shrink against the vanity, and she backs off. “Besides, I’ve got a good ear for gossip. How else did I find out where you were staying?”

Artists may not sell their own work, but she’s doing a pretty good sales job on me. “Do you know Mr. Albert Ankeny Stewart of the Ringling Brothers Circus?”

She lobs her gaze to the ceiling. “No. But I could do some digging.”

I have no doubt that with her persistence, even if Mr. Stewart is hiding behind the last boiler on the lowest deck, she will find him. But how exactly am I supposed to keep my chin tucked and create a stir? I sigh. “I’ll wear the clothes, but I won’t do any sales pitches.”

“Of course not. Be as mysterious as possible.” She lowers her voice, as if we are conspiring to rob a bank. “Meanwhile, I’ll be dropping a trail of bread crumbs behind you.”

She extends her gloved hand, and though all the horses leading my rickety sleigh rear up, I take it. Unlike the dead-fish hands that wealthy women usually offer, her grip is solid, a grip that could open her own doors.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night at nine. If you need anything, I’m in room B-47, right by the elevators. It’s good to be in business with you.”

I head toward the bow, quiet as a shadow in Mrs. Sloane’s black coat, doing my best to look like I belong. Men and women favor me with nods and smiles, but keep their distance, which suits me fine.

The suites that make up the Cabbage Patch end at a well-populated Entrance Hall, which features another tidal-wave staircase. Unlike the aft staircase, tucked behind this one is a trio of humming lifts in an oak-paneled foyer. While I wait, I eye a set of rooms to the side of the lifts, one of which, B-47, belongs to April Hart. One of the boxes stops at our level, and a lift operator slides open a wrought-iron gate.

“E-Deck,” I inform him, in the terse way Mrs. Sloane issued orders.

“Yes, ma’am.”