It could take an hour to reach the gangway from here. But even if Jamie has boarded, they still won’t let me on that ship without papers. Then the Titanic will leave, and he will be lost to me, possibly forever. His letters to me will be undeliverable at the Sloanes’, and I will have no way of knowing which new route he was assigned. Jamie is the only real family I have left. I won’t let him idle his time on a steamship when he is destined for better things. Great things.

A woman with large nostrils glances at me, then pulls her son closer, spilling some of the peanuts from his paper cone. A rat slithers out from behind a crate and quietly feasts. “Stay away from that one. I’ve heard they eat dogs.”

Barely glancing at me, the boy returns his attention to the Renault.

A crewman gestures at the dockworkers positioned on either side of the car. “Easy now. Load her on.”

I am getting on that ship, by hook or by crook. Jamie is there, and I won’t let him leave without me. As for the Chinese Exclusion Act, put out the fire on your trousers before worrying about the one down the street. But how will I board?

The hoisting platform sways on its hook, the stage just big enough to hold the motorcar. A crewman reaches up and guides it the last few feet to the quay.

By hook.

I flex my back, my muscles twitching. There are more ways onto the Titanic than the gangways.

2

Ishade my eyes. The ride up stretches a couple hundred feet, with no walls and no safety net in case something should slide off the platform. I will have to stow away before the platform begins to rise. The car makes a poor hiding spot with its open design, but I can slide underneath and hope no one looks.

It’ll be like the times Jamie and I snuck rides aboard the drays about town, slipping on and off without being seen. London is full of distractions. Of course, we usually only needed to distract the driver. The ship with its many portholes suddenly looms like a wall of prying eyes. More pressing are the hundreds of eyes right here on the quay.

I look wildly about for a ruse to distract everyone. Maybe someone is carrying a firearm and I can somehow get him to fire it into the sky. Right. And then maybe a flock of flamingoes will fly in from Africa and a marching band will appear.

Another rat sniffs around my boot, its tail worming behind it. I begin to kick it away but stop. I don’t like rats, but they don’t give me hysterical fits like they do Mrs. Sloane’s daughter-in-law, who boxed my ears when she found one in the pantry. Of course, after this, they might.