Even worse than wearing men’s boots with an elegant dress would be wearing pumps with Jamie’s sea slops. I look for something in which to carry my boots. In the wardrobe, I find a canvas bag stitched with the White Star logo containing a pair of black velvet slippers and a pair of white ones. Never in my life have I had so much footwear at my disposal. I add my black boots to the slipper bag, then collect a cashmere coat the color of vanilla tea cakes.

In the hallway, Steward Latimer holds a vase of stargazer lilies. He’s standing so still—with not a single brown hair out of formation—that I wonder how long he’s been there. “Ah, good afternoon, Mrs. Sloane. These are from White Star Line with our compliments. May I place them in your room?”

“Yes, of course.” I step aside and follow him to the table. “Steward, could you tell me where Mr. Albert Ankeny Stewart is staying?”

A regretful expression rolls down his face. “I’m terribly sorry, but certain guests have requested privacy, and he is one of them.”

“I see.” The news drops like a coin into a dry well, tumbling and spinning before landing with a dull clunk. This is so typical. Plans always half-baked, I hear Jamie say. Well, at least the fire hasn’t reached my trousers yet.

The lilies seem to cough at me out of their scarlet throats. The real Mrs. Sloane, with her limited vision, would’ve appreciated those heavy scenters, but they remind me of the cemetery.

Steward Latimer straightens and puts his hands behind his back. “Captain Smith invites you for a more private welcome with him tomorrow at two o’clock, in the Reception Hall of the À la Carte Restaurant.”

So here it is. The meeting with the captain. I’m struck with the urge to flap my arms and fly away. But if I refuse, April Hart will lose out on her “big moment” for parading her clothes. And I need her help finding Mr. Stewart now more than ever. “I look forward to it.”

“Also, in case you’re interested, tonight there’s a lecture on whales in the library.” He bows and glides away.

Back in the hallway, a crystal bowl of wrapped taffies rests on a ledge, free for the taking. Not seeing any signs to the contrary, I grab a handful and stuff them into my bag.

The Merry Widow tries not to trip through the Cabbage Patch, even though her feet slide forward at every step and already the straps are strangling her ankles. I just have to bear down. Walk on my toes. Haven’t my pins suffered worse for the sake of a show? Still, pain for the sake of fashion seems twice as wretched since no one will be tossing coins at me afterward.