A glass dome spanning the ceiling is a dark crown reflecting the light of the chandeliers. On a side table, a golden mermaid offers a clamshell full of fruit, including a pineapple. I’ve seen pineapples in the markets, though I can’t imagine who would eat a prickly thing like that. I sniff it, detecting a scent that is not at all like a pine tree or an apple, but rounder and sugary.

After pocketing an apple, I pass through a lobby where a pianist churns out a melody. At last, a quarter of an hour after leaving Room 14, I reach the Titanic’s summit, the Boat Deck.

The air places blissfully cool hands on my cheeks. Mum’s hands were always cold, and Jamie and I loved holding them in our too-warm ones.

The sky is freckled with stars, more than I’ve seen in all my days put together. And how those stars beckon, fancier than all the jewels in first class. Like clusters of tiaras, strings of pearls, dripping earbobs, all pinned to a swath of dark velvet.

The benches are empty with few people about, most finding better fun inside the ship. Electric lights cast an eerie glow around the smokestacks. The fourth and farthest one does not smoke. Perhaps it is only for show. The Chinese avoid the number four, but Westerners like even numbers.

The lifeboats stand pale and motionless, ghostly cradles held by skeletal arms. Four in each of four corners. I shiver. This deck is full of bad luck, and I bet Fong would steer clear even if he was allowed up here.

A couple tightly joined at the shoulders nod at me as they pass, leaving a trail of the woman’s amber perfume. I stride more purposefully toward the stern, keeping a careful watch for Jamie.

Wooden chocks raise the boats to eye level. A system of hooks and eyelets secures the canvas covers. I peer more closely. The canvas over the third lifeboat has been partially folded back. I slip over to the boat and whisper, “Jamie?”

The ocean gulps and shushes, drowning my voice. “Jamie?” I say more loudly.

A head lifts. “Cats, Val. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for the mast so I can hoist my white flag. Truce, Brother? I won’t try to persuade you to go to New York, and you’ll button it about London.” I hold out my apple.

The right half of his mouth shrugs. “Truce.” He takes the fruit, then scoots over to make room on the floor where he’s seated, a blanket pulled to his chest.

Peeking around to ensure no one’s watching, I hike up my skirt, then haul myself over the edge, unintentionally stepping on his foot before falling in place beside him. He stifles a curse.

I remove my hat and place my head on the bench.