“Like this one,” Drummer shoots back, slapping a few beats on the shorter man’s scalp before he can duck out of the way. “I believe you have met Tao and Fong. They don’t speak English.”

“Neither do you,” Ming Lai points out.

“Better than you.”

Tao gets up from his chair. His icicle beard tweaks forward as he bows. “Nice to meet you, Little Sister. We are sorry we closed the door on you.”

Fong, still seated and chewing, looks as sorry as a wood plank over which one has tripped.

“It is my fault, Uncle. You did not know.”

Olly and Wink hop into seats across from each other, leaving Bo and me to sit at the end, awkwardly facing each other. I keep my gaze squarely focused on the table while white-jacketed waiters hastily set down plates of roast beef, corn, and jacket potatoes. It becomes clear that I needn’t have worried over substituting for Jamie. The waiters barely glance at us as they serve, seeming more intent on getting away as fast as possible.

Meanwhile, the waiter at the next table, a man with a rectangular “door-knocker” beard and a rose in his lapel, wags his chin with its occupants. “I’ll get you more bread at once.” He snaps his fingers, catching another waiter’s attention, and points at the basket. He must be the headwaiter here.

We don’t have bread baskets at our table, though we do have butter stamped with the White Star logo, just like the soap. Maybe it is an oversight. I blink through the glare of the overhead lights bouncing off the enameled walls. Do the Chinese have smaller portions than the other diners? With everyone already working their forks, I can’t be sure.

I should put my head to the trough. This is more food than I’ve seen in a long time, and it isn’t as if our bellies will go empty. I’m supposed to be keeping my chin tucked, after all. But what good is butter without bread?

My hand shoots up, before I can stop it. “Waiter?” The headwaiter frowns at me, then advances toward us with short strides of his stubby legs. “We would like some bread, too.”

Bo hefts an eyebrow. Beside me, Wink stiffens, and Olly puts down his potato. The diners within earshot spear us with disapproving looks, the kind reserved for sewer rats and unwashed feet.

Finding himself in the middle of a pileup of stares, the headwaiter angles his head in a mock bow. “I’ll see what I can find.”

Bo watches me with a mildly curious expression, as if watching a dog try to catch its shadow. I give him a satisfied smile. “Jamie would’ve asked, too.”

He shrugs. “I doubt it.” As he eats, he studies the framed posters of White Star ships on the wall behind me. Probably he’s wishing Jamie was here instead of me.