Four heels whirl through the air. More gasps float on the salty breeze. “And you realize that what you were juggling before . . . wasn’t actually so bad.”

That gets a laugh. The size of the crowd has easily doubled since I started. Even a few of the crew have stopped their duties to watch. Steady, girl. Don’t let the crowd distract you, or you’ll lose your flow.

“With even more practice”—I switch my pattern, throwing the heels from the outside instead of from the middle, and tossing them vertically as well as horizontally—“you might find you can control them. Bend the heels to your will.”

I change pattern again, tossing two heels at once up the center line so that four are used in a three-beat waltz. The applause becomes more animated, with cheering and laughter. A young lady on A-Deck bounces up and down excitedly, her arms wrapped around a black poodle. I nearly break my pattern when I recognize the girl Jamie spoke to, Charlotte Fine.

I shake myself free from the sticky trap of her gaze and find my place again. “Sometimes, a new heel is thrown. But if you’ve learned the tricks, you’ll know what to do when that time comes.” Wink, following my eyes, throws me the apple.

Incorporating an object with a different weight and shape into the set requires all my attention. I ignore the oohs and aahs, focusing on keeping the single apple spinning along with the heels. I throw the objects up in three columns, two heels in each outside column, and the apple bobbing in the center. “And if you’re lucky, your effort is its own reward.” I grab the apple when it nears my mouth, take a bite, then let it fall back into the pattern. Up, down, bite, juggle, up, down, bite, juggle.

That really pops the cork. People hoot and holler and clap their hands.

If Jamie were here, we could really make fruits fly. He has fast hands. He can throw a ball through a speeding train and have it come out on the other side.

The pineapple begins to teeter, forcing me into a simpler pattern. Sweat dribbles down my underarms, and juice streaks my chin. Enough, you show monkey. A professional knows her limits.

I toss the partially eaten apple and the heels, one by one, back to Wink and Olly. Then I bow low with a flourish, letting the pineapple drop and catching it just before it hits the floor. I bow in all directions—toward the folks on the superstructure, then toward the third-class passengers leaning over the rail of the poop deck.

“If you liked that,” I pant, trying to speed things up, “my assistants will be on hand to accept your expressions of appreciation. And if you didn’t, next time, cover your eyes.”