We’ll fly the Stars and Stripes on our foremasts, leaving the Union Jack behind. A new start for us, and a peaceful ending for our parents. I reach into the sky as if I am grabbing some stars, then blow them like dandelion seeds off my palm.

10

April 11, 1912

Ba is tied to a live oak growing in the middle of a wide, water-filled ditch. Jamie stands on the oak’s highest branch, his shirt billowing like a sail moving in the wrong direction. The water rises, as if an underground spring has burst.

I wade to Ba, my movements sluggish. At last, I reach him. My fingers frantically dig at the knots. But the ditch is filling too fast.

“Help me, you goat!”

Water edges up Ba’s thin chest, then laps at his chin. He stretches his neck, his sad eyes gazing at me.

“Jamie!”

My brother’s head lifts. Something has caught his attention. But it is not us.

I sit up with a gasp, the feather comforter tangled in my legs and my nightgown sticking to my back. Drawing in deep breaths to still my trembling, I grasp at the wisps of my dream.

How had it ended? And why can I never remember?

The carpets grab my feet as I cross to the window and peer through the curtains. Bright daylight slashes my eyes. The sun is nearly overhead. We are moving west, which means we already left Queenstown, Ireland, the last place to dump me before we cross the Atlantic.

Only six days until we reach New York. Six days to bring Jamie to his senses, prepare our routine, and persuade Mr. Stewart to watch it. There is no time to waste. There is also the matter of the Chinese Exclusion Act, a fire that is now one day closer. Surely Mr. Stewart could help us put that one out, being a man of influence and money. Isn’t that how the world works?

I open Mum’s Bible and gaze upon my picture of Mum and Ba. “Good morning, honored parents. Jamie’s being stubborn, as usual. And he’s not making sense. How can he like working in the bowels of a ship when he’s so obsessed with looking up at the sky? Something’s off. But don’t worry, I’ll get him to see the right of things.”

April Hart’s crane dress catches my eye from where it hangs in the wardrobe. A beggar like me isn’t fit for such togs, but I can’t wait to try it on.

Jamie isn’t expecting me until lunch. Before dressing, I spend my time stretching my pins from heel to hip, then do side bends, handstands, and hand walking—the “wake-up drills” I do almost every morning. It isn’t as easy with the floor moving around, but soon, the initial burn settles into a tingling warmth.