The Dining Saloon is divided by sex, with families filling in both sides. Long mahogany tables feature white tablecloths, real china, and individual chairs, not those benches you find in the pubs.

In the back corner farthest from the windows, four heads of black hair stand out against light sea slops. It doesn’t surprise me that the Chinese are given the worst seats, though as someone who doesn’t want to stand out, I should be thankful. I stiffen at the sight of rude Fong, shoveling in his food with gusto, while Tao takes cautious sniffs of his own plate, his queue rippling like a waterfall down his back.

Gazes follow us, with obvious disapproval, and I feel myself grow smaller. One woman even holds her napkin to her nose as we pass. It’s not that different from what we experienced in London—more like taking a concentrated shot of bitters rather than having it fed in small doses. Yet, a vague sense of disappointment washes over me, and I screw my cap on tighter. Being in the same boat does not make us the same.

Two Chinese seamen I haven’t met yet, both in their twenties, attempt to converse with the Russian family next to them, a couple with a rosy-cheeked daughter about my age. One of the seamen, a wiry man with laughing eyes, mimics the shoveling of coal while the family looks on. At least the Russians don’t seem put out by our presence.

Seeing us approach, both men stand and make their way to us. I feel a pinch of apprehension. It shouldn’t matter, but I hope these two don’t reject me, like Bo and Fong.

The wiry man interlaces his knobby fingers together and bows. “I am pleased to meet you, honored sister Valora,” he says cheerfully in Cantonese. “You look like one of us Johnnies.” He says that last word in English, though I wonder if I heard right. Johnny is a dodgy term people use to refer to any Chinese man, no matter his name. “I am Drummer, and this is Ming Lai.” He nods to his companion, a short man with a prematurely bald head and a clear, honest face.

“Jamie is lucky to have such a devoted sister,” Ming Lai says in a deep baritone that reminds me of the sound a conch shell makes when you blow through it.

I relax a notch. “Thank you.” If only Jamie saw things the same way. “Do you play the drum?” I ask Drummer. He’s a ball of energy, shifting from foot to foot as if he hears music in his head.

“He plays anything with a surface,” Ming Lai answers. His solidness is a perfect foil for Drummer’s restless energy.