With everyone seated, a steward by the door came forward to pour wine and serve a lumpy white stew. Never had I been attended to before. I didn’t know if I ought to watch the ladling and pouring or pretend it wasn’t happening, so I took turns with both.

Once everything was served, I drew a steadying breath and studied the glass and silverware before me. Such a complication of pretty tools. Mr. Lane alone seemed to know what to do with it all. Before I’d settled on which spoon to use, he was eating—and eating in no way I’d ever seen. Every movement smooth and patient.

I did my best to imitate him, keeping my posture upright and forcing myself not to gobble the soupy mixture. The lobscouse stew was oversalted and tough, but I’d have eaten a dead fish in a hot puddle if I’d had to. I was past famished and I needed the strength to keep me alert.

Like true seafarers, the captain and Mr. Hackett discussed the sailing conditions at length as we ate. How the prevailing winds had been that day. How there weren’t any now, and what they expected for tomorrow. The Ambrosia added her own voice to the conversation, creaking and groaning as the flames of the candles along the table leaned left and right and left and right.

Course, they weren’t really swaying. Everything else was.

Little by little, I relaxed. I had worried my coarse manners would draw suspicion, but aside from fumbling my spoon once, I was doing a fine job imitating Mr. Lane’s polished ways.

He was a gentleman—of that I was now certain. Never mind his ratty garments. His good breeding was in him—in his hands, which sat quiet on the table without tapping. In the way he talked, calm and round, curving the ends of words how I curled the ends of my dives. Most of all in the steady way he had of looking, like he saw only one thing at a time, but saw it whole.

I understood now why the captain had invited him to dinner. Highborn folk only socialized on their own level. Miss Coates would only keep company with such a fine sort as Mr. Lane. I’d need to keep company with that sort myself. Even more, I’d need to become that sort.

Tonight I was managing to hide the truth, but I’d have to do better if I meant to fit myself into Miss Coates’s life. I’d need to improve my manners, my elegance, my everything, wringing the rusticness out of myself like dirty wash water.

With the meal finished and the candles burning low, Izra and the steward cleared away our plates. The captain lit a pipe and sat back in his chair. Mr. Hackett dug through his teeth with grimy fingernails, and Mr. Lane stared at the table linen like it was a beautiful sunset.

Meanwhile, I held perfectly still. The cut on my forehead had started bleeding again, but I was too ashamed to wipe my cheek and call attention to it.