They never would have thought Jamie and I would be guests on the maiden voyage of the Buckingham Palace of the Atlantic. I sink into a chair. Somehow being on the finest ship in the world makes our quarrel even worse. Part of me wants to find Jamie, throw a leash around his goat-y neck, and pull him to saner pastures, never mind that I’m the one frolicking about in first class. The chances of him finding his way on his own seem to grow slimmer with each day.

I peel an orange, reveling in the small triumph of getting the rind off in one continuous strip. The zesty scent perks my spirits, and the meat calms the gnawing in my stomach. I place the second orange in the wall tidy as an offering to Mum and Ba.

Ba raised us to care for our ancestors. We made regular offerings of cakes and rice wine on his teakwood altar and said prayers of remembrance to comfort them in their ancestral homes. Mum, who raised us Anglican, never joined in, but neither did she complain about it. I imagine she believed that when she married Ba, she’d married all of him, not just the parts she agreed with.

The grassy smell of the lilies jabs my nose from the center table. My eye catches on my photograph, and all my thoughts slam to a halt. I distinctly remember tucking the picture back into Ruth before leaving, the way I always do. The Bible has been moved to the far side of the table. Perhaps the photograph fell out when Steward Latimer was tidying. What must the man think? There’s no reason why Mrs. Sloane might be carrying around a picture of a Chinese man and a white woman in her Bible.

I collapse onto a chair and try to force air back in my lungs. If he asks about it, I will simply have to shovel a bit more manure on the pile.

Next to the lilies, a tin of chocolates weighs down a card, which bears the official White Star logo.

To Mrs. Amberly Sloane:

Captain Smith will see you on April 12, 2:00 p.m., Reception Hall, À la Carte Restaurant.

P.S. We hope you will enjoy these premium chocolates, our gift to you.

The words gather my stomach into a ball. I put the irksome lilies in the armoire and resolve to worry about the invitation later.

While I wait for April, I poke around for a place to store my money sock. Mum always stashed the money she made tatting her lace cuffs and collars in a cracked teapot that Ba had fixed using a glue of rice. He was clever at fixing things, like tying string to a leaky faucet so we wouldn’t be driven mad by the drip, and rubbing soap on squeaky hinges.