Mr. Stewart gestures as if grabbing a star out of the sky, and then uses both hands to spread an imaginary banner.

Captain Smith frowns. His eyeballs grow twitchy. He glances around, as if searching the room for answers.

I duck out of view.

I shouldn’t have made that last request for candied fruits. I overplayed my hand. Tested the limits of the captain’s generosity. Then again, I showed myself to be a difficult, hard-to-please woman of means, the type most likely to get what she wants.

I peek through the window again.

Captain Smith is talking, back in command of the situation. Mr. Stewart shakes his head. The captain must be refusing his request.

But then the captain slaps Mr. Stewart on the back. He hikes up the stairs, leaving Mr. Stewart by himself on the landing. Mr. Stewart shakes out his chesterfield and slips his arms into it, giving me a good look at his expression. My knees nearly buckle when I spot the double smile of his hat brim and face, lit by the flush of victory.

21

Dressed in sea slops, I pace Room 14, waiting for Jamie. With each step, I start to worry that I may have misread Mr. Stewart. Perhaps Captain Smith told him no, and his elated face was only a trick of the light.

The doorknob turns, and Bo steps into the room, blinking when he sees me. “You found your circus man?”

“Yes. I think we might have a shot at performing for him.”

He smiles. “I wish you luck.” Stooping, he rummages through his seabag. His hair tapers to a curve at the nape of his neck, like a hook waiting for a wriggly finger to bait it. I watch the cliffs of Dover cord under his simple jacket, knowing I misjudged him but unsure how to express my remorse.

After locating a small tin of green willow salve, he catches me watching him. I feign interest in the porthole, listening to the papery sounds of his hands as he rubs them together.

“Bo? I’m sorry, well, for presuming that you—”

“Forget it. Jamie is a good friend.” A frown puts a dent in his cheek. “But family should be together.” His gaze drifts away and floats light as a feather to the floor. “I had a brother.”

“Do you mean have? Had is for the past.”

He nods. “Past.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

The moment rolls gently along like the Titanic. He leans back against the door and switches to Cantonese so he can more easily express himself. “He was like you, a dog who nips at the heels.” He crooks an eyebrow at me. “Once we made enough money, An wanted us to return to the island where we grew up and build our own fishing boat—not a sampan, but a forty-footer, large enough to house our wives and all our sons.”

“Sounds like a good life.”