Three floors down, the box opens, and I pass uncertainly into a hallway, which must be on the starboard side of E-Deck, where the first-class rooms are kept. Unlike the bustling Scotland Road, which parallels it on the port side, this corridor is as quiet as a library, with decorative floor tiles and globe ceiling lights set inside ceramic roses. It’s a notch down from where I’m staying, the engine noise louder, and the cabins closer together. Mrs. Sloane was right about preferring the elephant’s highest end.

The hallway and first-class section terminate at a door that leads into the Collar. Just outside this door, a sign reads “Master-at-Arms.” I edge away from that residence. Of course, law enforcement is berthed just around the corner from where I’ll be doing my sneaking about.

Watching for stewards, I hurry across Scotland Road into the companionway and knock lightly on Room 14.

“Come in,” says a voice in Cantonese.

The lads are tucked in, the room half lit. Wink sleeps tightly rolled into a ball, whereas Olly half hangs off the bed, snoring loudly.

A shirtless Bo kneels over the bottom bunk, his wet hair slicked off his face. His back is steep and contoured like the cliffs of Dover when golden sunlight falls upon them. He glances up at me, and a fire licks my neck. Haven’t I seen my share of backs—dockers’, Jamie’s, though his is more like a slender ridge compared with the cliffs of Dover.

Bo fastens twine around a flat leather pouch and gets to his feet.

“I was just looking for Jamie,” I inform him quietly so as not to wake the lads. The close quarters and the dim lighting make the room feel uncomfortably intimate.

He slowly draws a shirt over his chiseled chest, fueling the fire on my neck. “Jamie said his sister was a card.”

“Oh?” So he talked about me with Bo, at least. “He never mentioned you.”

“Maybe words cannot do justice.” Even with his noticeable accent, his words swagger.

“I can think of a word for you. Wagtail.”

“Wagtail?” he pronounces.

“That’s right. A kind of bird with a long tail feather it likes to shake around for attention.”

He shrugs with one shoulder, appraising me with eyes that seem to see right through the shadows. “Jamie never teached us that one.”

“So, Jamie taught you English.”

He blinks and draws back his head, probably the kind of head unaccustomed to being corrected by a woman. “Jamie helped us all. Better chance for work if you speak English. If you want the best for him, go home. Girls should not wander by themselves.”

Despite the softness of his tone, my face begins to burn, as if I am holding coal in my cheeks. If he looked a few years older, I’d think he was born in the year of the ox. People born in that year are hardworking but often obnoxious.