As usual, my mouth runs ahead of my head. “Actually, there is one very small thing. While I was boarding, a thief tried to snatch my purse. If it were not for the brave actions of a few Chinese sailors, who defended me and returned my purse, I’m not sure I would’ve made it aboard. I’m afraid I was too frazzled at the time to remember a tip. Could you arrange to send them some of those lovely candied fruits as a thank-you?”

Mum would be clucking her tongue. She swatted our hands with a wooden spoon each time she found us stealing, though she never “caught” us when we were really hungry. Ba would’ve requested a round of spiced rum in addition to the candied fruits.

Captain Smith scratches his temple. “Chinese sailors. Are you sure they weren’t in on the theft?”

The air beneath my veil grows hotter. I remind myself that I am Mrs. Sloane, a woman who doesn’t give a flying fruitcake about a slight to the Chinese. She would care about a slight to herself, however. “Are you implying that I don’t know when I am being defrauded?”

“Of course not, madam.” Captain Smith claws at his beard. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you. Good day.” And I swear the man sighs at my departure.

But before I go, Lucy catches me by the wrist and squeezes my hand. “Oh, please tell me who your dressmaker is.”

“Lucy,” her husband chastises.

“House of July,” I say in a clear voice.

“House of July?” Lucy unfurls a fan. “Never heard of it.” Her fan picks up speed. If she stood on the bow, she could probably motor us to New York all by herself.

The grieving widow wishes for nothing more than to drift back into the shadows. But April is jerking her chin slightly to someplace behind me.

I sneak a look over my shoulder. The whole room has drawn closer, their gazes moving from the top of my peacock-blue toque to the bottom hem of my shimmering kimono. So, this is the moment April has been waiting for.

I remind myself to wear the dress, not the other way around, and walk in a small circle with my chin lifted, giving everyone a proper view of Mrs. Sloane’s “style.” A light applause sounds like the flap of birds taking flight.

Finally, I begin to make my way back to the Cabbage Patch. Glances trail after me, as light as balloons being dragged by the strings.

At the sight of a purple bowler traveling up the stairs, I hastily slip through the felt doors, then peer back through their oval windows.

Freshly shaven and with his chesterfield draped over his arm, Mr. Stewart crests the staircase and calls a greeting to Captain Smith. The two men shake hands, and Mr. Stewart starts talking. Whatever he says makes the captain squint and grab his elbows.