Elfriede comes to the last of the first-class passengers. She pauses to reach for the lemonade on the small, round table between the armchairs. Already Johann’s finished his own lemonade. His small legs swing and swing.

“Just a few more minutes, darling,” she says. “We’ll find them, I promise.”

“Yes, Mama,” he replies.

Elfriede returns to the list. Now the second-class passengers. Because she didn’t really expect Charlotte to book a first-class cabin—that’s a great deal of money—unless this windfall has maybe made her reckless. But no. Charlotte’s prudent. She didn’t buy first-class tickets on the train to New York, and she’s not going to buy them now.

Mr. Jacob Mueller. Dr. and Mrs. Henrik Schoenbrun, 1 child. Miss Roelfein Vandercamp.

And of course, there’s Wilfred to consider. Beating at the back of her head, the words I will sail from New York in six days’ time, aboard RMS Cedric. Which is today. (She’s already confirmed this date at the White Star Line offices, because sometimes ships are late arriving in port, you never know for certain.) In the meantime, where does she find him? There’s no time to look, is there? She can only track down one missing piece of her heart at a time, for God’s sake.

At least she knows where to find him tomorrow, in the middle of the afternoon. At Pier 51 on the Hudson River, climbing out of a taxicab, carrying a suitcase and a second-class ticket for Liverpool, England.

Mr. and Mrs. Nicolaas Cloet. Mr. and Mrs. John Middleton, 2 children.

Mrs. Charlotte Kassmeyer, 3 children.

Elfriede sets down the lemonade and rings the bell for the officer.

“The Statendam,” she says, when he rushes through the door. “It departed on schedule?”

“Yes, Frau von Kleist. To the hour.”

“And when will it arrive in Rotterdam?”

He glances at the clock, of all things, and then at the calendar on the desk. “In eight days’ time, Frau, after a stop at Boulogne. The twenty-third of July.”

Elfriede looks back down at the paper on her lap. Reads the name again, just to be certain, and then lifts her head to find Johann staring at her.

“Is it them?” he asks softly.

“Yes, darling. They sailed for Holland three days ago.”

Johann’s jaw makes a small, desperate movement. His nose twitches. He turns away and stares out the window, and Elfriede’s heart pours right out of her body and into his. Her boy, her boy. Everyone abandons him, don’t they? Beginning with Elfriede, his own mother. He’s sucked his lips all the way inside his mouth. He sets his jaw bravely. He’s not going to cry, Gerhard’s son will not cry over some girls, of all things, who sailed away from him across the ocean.

Elfriede returns her attention to the officer, who clutches his hands before her. “Your next ships,” she says. “When do they depart?”