Olly knocks his knuckles against one. “We could sharpen our razors on this.”

“You don’t shave,” Wink scoffs.

“Cod’s sake,” I mutter. “That is some nerve.” These heels could smash windows. I toss one lightly and catch it. Definitely good for throwing.

No wonder no one asked. Bo snorts, Drummer gives me an apologetic smile, and Fong, watching with keen interest, waggles an admonishing finger at me.

The headwaiter signals for quiet, and I stop myself from flinging a bread heel at his door-knocker beard. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention? It’s time to draw the winner for today’s sweeps, which—thanks to your generous contributions—totals two pounds in the kitty.”

Applause breaks out, but I barely hear it as my face continues to cook. I can feel Bo watching me again. I throw him a fierce scowl.

“You believed they would give us good bread,” he says mildly. “Maybe you are not ready for the real world.”

I lift my nose. “It’s a shame how working at the bottom of a boat lowers one’s standards.”

A man in a white steward’s uniform enters the dining room, his grin like an oiled saddle on a face pulled tight over his bones. It’s the skeletal steward who caught me in the hallway last night. In his arms, he carries a box with a crank, which he brings to the headwaiter.

Olly points. “That’s Skeleton. He’s our room steward, and also the one who collects for the sweeps.”

The man sniffs, as if in confirmation.

“Kindly give the entries a final turn,” the headwaiter directs.

Skeleton cranks the box, pivoting his body so that everyone can see the good job he’s doing. He unlatches a small door at the top of the box and holds it low enough for the nearest diner to stick her hand in. She draws a ticket, and he reads, “Ticket 412, belonging to Mr. Heath Bledig!”

A rousing shout punches the air, and a sturdy young man gets to his feet, cheered on by his towheaded mates. One yanks the stocking cap off Bledig’s head, exposing his white-blond hair, which is slicked into a shiny helmet. Grabbing the cap back, Bledig moseys up to the headwaiter, pumping the man’s hand hard enough to jar the rose from his lapel.

The waiter regains his arm and rolls out his shoulder. “Er, congratulations, sir.” Skeleton leads the grinning Bledig away. “For the rest of you, better luck tomorrow.”

That’s right, we shall see who the better Luck is tomorrow. I turn a challenging eye to Bo, but his seat is empty.

12

Once back in Room 14, the lads immediately switch out their shoes for their slippers. Olly eyes my toque, which I had placed on Jamie’s pillow so it would be out of the way.

“You have something against feathers?” I ask.