Mr. Stewart pulls a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat. “So it is.” He gets to his feet and touches his hat with his short fingers. “Ladies, it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope to be in touch soon.” He moves off with more purpose in his footsteps than when he arrived, with Croggy following at an appropriate distance.

Something niggles at my mind. I have an appointment as well.

With Captain Smith!

Charlotte grabs my hands, which have gone clammy. “I think that went smashingly.”

“I must run. I will find you later!”

The deck slaps my soles as I hurry away, scolding me for dropping a ball. May it not upset the whole routine.

20

Ba always kept a tin of peppermints in his pocket to reward us whenever we crossed the line. Now I’m so close to the end of this rope, I can almost smell the peppermint.

Perhaps I can use my meeting with the captain to my advantage. Mr. Stewart needs the captain’s permission for the performance; I’m on the brink of meeting the captain. Here’s a golden opportunity for me to soften him for the ask.

The guests milling around the Reception Hall of the À la Carte Restaurant glance up at the Merry Widow’s purposeful descent down the aft tidal-wave staircase.

Captain Smith chats with a handsome couple in a discreet corner, looking anything but discreet with his ruler-straight posture and combed uniform. His striking white beard seems to glow against his sunburned complexion. The man to whom he’s speaking stands several inches taller—he’s at least six feet—but the captain’s proud bearing seems to put him at the same elevation.

Nearby, the nobs drink and socialize on the carmine-red sofas. I pause, recognizing April Hart, who, despite her reed-like figure, seems to take up an entire couch. From under her flat beret, a cigarette wags like a teasing finger between her painted lips. She nods at me, no doubt having planted herself here for Mrs. Sloane’s “big moment.”

“I’ve no interest in the Blue Riband, and I don’t know where the rumor started,” the captain’s voice carries across the room. “We are built for pleasure and luxury, not speed. People would riot if we pushed our guests out of the castle early.” His audience murmurs in approval.

Soon the man’s blue eyes wash over me. I draw closer and try not to breathe so loudly under my veil. At my approach, the tall man—a haughty-looking fellow whose dark hair is split into two stingy shares—peers down at me. He nudges his wife, and she raises her cultured eyebrows.