He waves off the expression, which means a talent has been exposed.

Brandish scratches at the stocking cap restraining his yellow locks. “It’s a grand thing you came down and woke the boys when you did. Captain’s been pushin’ us since six this morn. Wants us in New York a day early. Tomorrow, I bet he’ll push us for two.”

He wipes his face with his sleeve, and it’s hard to tell if he’s serious. But if he is, that’s two fewer days for me to find and perform for Mr. Stewart.

Drummer’s face bunches. “Why push?”

“He’s lookin’ to break some records. Wants to go out with a bang for his last voyage, methinks, which means puttin’ her on the boil.”

“I like to help, but . . .” Drummer glances at me.

“Please stay,” I tell him. “I need to talk to Jamie.”

He smiles. “Ginger and garlic. Good.”

18

Instead of going to Room 14, I climb to the General Room at the bow for the soda water they keep there for the seasick. The thought that Jamie and I are on separate paths pinches my heart between two stingy fingers. I’m not ready. Maybe I’ll never be.

A familiar cheerful voice reaches my ear. “There she is.” Olly threads his way through the roomful of passengers, followed by an exasperated Jamie. “We’ve been looking everywhere.”

Jamie takes in my greasy face. “Why are you wearing Drummer’s cap?”

“He took me to see the boilers.”

Olly’s jaw unhinges, showing me a mouthful of sharp-looking chompers. “But how? They don’t just let people in. How many boilers they got? Double-ended?”

Jamie nudges Olly and ticks his head toward the staircase, meaning, take a powder.

“Er, right. I’ll see if I can find Wink and Bo.”

We watch him return to the staircase, taking the steps two at a time until he is out of sight.

My brother turns a contrite gaze to me. Puffy half-moons—which Ba called silkworms—underline his eyes, probably from a late night of watching Bo gamble. He passes me a bundle. “No heels. Heard about that.”

I open the bundle and squeeze a chunk of bread, which is as soft as rolled-up socks. “How’d you manage this?”

“Dina Domenic, Ming Lai’s Russian friend, asked for us.”

One of the small tables opens up, and he scoots out a chair for me, then, with an awkward cough, takes the seat himself. I plop onto the bench opposite and remember not to cross my legs. At the table next to us, a couple of knee-biters stop pulling their mother’s braids and stare at us, their brown eyes like juicy currants in cream scones.

Jamie smiles at me. “We used to pull Mum’s braids, too.”

“She’d never wear a single braid. Otherwise we’d fight over it.”