“Of course you would, Mr. Ismay. It’s your operation.”

So that’s him, the grouchy White Star director. The top flag on this pole, the man to whom Captain Smith owes his position. He doesn’t look pleased to have learned of a busker on the loose. He drains his wineglass, and a steward refills it even before Mr. Ismay holds it out for filling. “I will take it up with the captain. We don’t tolerate troublemakers here.”

Before he catches sight of this troublemaker, I hasten toward the door, plowing right into a young woman.

“Oh!” She catches me by the shoulders as if to steady us both.

The striking visage of April Hart stares back at me. An evening gown of violet silk somehow makes her skin look as luminous as moonlight. Her dark hair lies as sleek as a raven’s feathers.

“I’ve got you, madam.” Her eyelashes are so long, I feel a breeze when she winks. “Meet me back in your room in fifteen minutes,” she whispers.

“April! Are you all right?” The woman in the fur coat bustles over, Mr. Ismay close behind.

“Just fine, Mother. We must have hit a swell.”

“I’d say so.” April’s mother shines her own amber eyes at me, which fall to my crane dress. She spreads her short fingers as if waiting for an introduction to fall into her hands.

Mr. Ismay’s eyes sharpen. “Madam, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m—”

“Mr. Ismay, I have heard a rumor that you have quite a selection of cigars aboard.” April wraps a hand around his arm. “How is a lady to get her hands on one?”

That’s my cue. My heart skips ahead of my feet, and I make for the felt doors before the one-woman show gets booted from the stage.

15

I lock the door to my suite and put my back against it. But hearing no pursuers banging on the other side, I begin to feel slightly ridiculous. I hang my hat and coat, and unbuckle my pumps. I’ll have to keep a sharp eye out for Mr. Ismay and hope he doesn’t do the same for me.

The bed has been tucked and fluffed. A basket of fruit has been placed on a side table, including two perfect oranges, Ba’s favorite fruit. Wouldn’t he have been alit with glee to see me here? I imagine him pointing out the White Star logo embroidered on the napkins to Mum. “Look at that stitching, Penny. That’s silk thread. Really fancies up the linens.” He’d stretch the napkin between his veiny hands, the wheels turning. “We could embroider monograms. People love to see their initials.”

Mum would take the napkin from him, her generous smile receding. “No one would use monogrammed napkins. They’d not want to dirty them.”

But eventually, Ba would win her over.