A warm hand slides over mine. Calluses line Bo’s palm and fingers, interrupted by the smooth bump of his shell ring. Curled over mine, his hand feels like a safe harbor in a storm. His warmth spreads up my arm, interrupting the catastrophes reeling through my head.

The canvas jostles. I try to shrink further into my bones, the rush of blood in my ears sounding like a second ocean. But instead of peeling open, our ceiling stretches tight again as hands hook the fabric back in place.

A lifetime passes before we move. I’m not sure who lets go first. But when finally we open our nest to the cold air of reality, we can’t scramble away from each other fast enough.

Bo clears his throat. “After you, Stowaway.”

He shows me the staircase at the back of the deck where he snuck up. His plain peacoat hid his sea slops, and with few passengers afoot, no one stopped him.

He balls his hands into fists that disappear into his pockets, affecting a casual air. “Promised others I would meet them in the General Room.” His face looks sheepish, probably a reflection of my own. “You want to join?”

“No,” I say too quickly, still feeling the imprint of his hand in mine. “You go on.”

His face relaxes as if relieved. “Good night.”

April 12, 1912

The next morning, I wake before the sun, my stomach moaning for food. The free box of chocolates I had no problem consuming for dinner—despite the obligation to meet the captain that came with it—are a sweet but distant memory. Remembering the pastries and tea, I push the button for service. Moments later, a female attendant shows up.

“How may I help you, ma’am?” She keeps her eyes away from my veil.

“I would like pastries and tea to be brought up in thirty minutes. Don’t be stingy with the marmalade either. I shall be taking a bath. Please bring it in and don’t pour the tea.”

“Right away, ma’am.”

I’m really settling into this role. How easy it would be to grow accustomed to having people jump when you tell them to. Maybe it’s like breaking in a new hat. The more you wear it, the harder it becomes to keep the old shape.

While the bathtub fills, I pull the photo out of Mum’s Bible, which I now store in Mrs. Sloane’s trunk.

“Good morning, honored parents.” I set the picture on the table and start wake-up drills. “Jamie’s sore at me for winning that bet. But he’ll get over it. He always does.”

Then again, Jamie is still holding a grudge against Ba. And the Jamie I knew would never have been so eager to dump his family. I wrap up my routine and replace the photo in the trunk, my doubts circling like vultures.