I push him away. “Have you such little faith in me, Brother? Try two pounds and four shillings.”

Bo coughs and I give him a wink. “Sorry, Wagtail. Looks like you bet on the wrong team.” I turn back to Jamie. “Now if you don’t mind, I need to see a man about an elephant.”

His jaw clicks. “The day’s not done yet.”

With that, he sweeps out of the room.

Dinnertime approaches, and the lifts are busy. So the Merry Widow removes her coat and slowly climbs the tidal-wave staircase in her blasted pumps.

Without the mass of my hair, the toque sits lower—fortunately, hiding my shorn locks. My head should feel lighter, but heavy thoughts bow my neck.

Jamie still thinks he can outdo me. I shouldn’t have been so eager to brag about my win. If you catch a big fish, carry it home in a sack, or don’t be surprised if a bird carries it off. The lights-out bugle isn’t until 10:30 p.m., so there is yet time. But Jamie won’t be able to surpass me by fixing deck chairs. White Star Line would never pay that much for “off the record” labor. If he thinks to copy me with a trick, the fine members of the upper classes will all be tucked away in their libraries, lounges, or smoking rooms after dinner, places that are off-limits to the third class.

With my magnificent dress on display, stares and murmurs of approval follow me as I ascend. I am a one-woman show. A particularly bold lady even reaches out a gloved hand, as if to touch my beaded crane. I favor her with an elegant nod like the royals do. The adoration is intoxicating, like the liquor-filled chocolate balls Ba once brought home. One makes you hungry for more.

I reach B-Deck and cross the Entrance Hall to the Cabbage Patch, eager to free my feet from their torture racks. Near the felt doors, a news bulletin tacked onto a corkboard mounted on the bulkhead catches my attention.

THE ATLANTIC DAILY BULLETIN

The official newspaper of the RMS Titanic

APRIL 11

Weather: High 50s. Sunny and clear with moderate breeze. Expect cooling through the weekend. Possible ice.

Thousands of workers return to coal mines with end of miners’ strike. New minimum wage proposed.

“Like the pineapple was glued to his head,” I hear a voice say behind me.

My ears perk up. A few paces to my left, a tall man and an older lady in a mink coat drift closer to me. I stare at the news bulletin.

“Really. He wasn’t hired by White Star. I would know.” The man must be six feet and some change, with an impeccably tailored wool suit that looks like it would never even dream of wrinkling. Close-set eyes interrupt a long forehead crinkled in consternation. A luxurious mustache droops from his upper lip like two squirrels’ tails sewn together.