Water edges up Ba’s thin chest, then laps at his chin. He stretches his neck, his sad eyes gazing at me.
“Jamie!”
My brother’s head lifts. Something has caught his attention. But it is not us.
I sit up with a gasp, the feather comforter tangled in my legs and my nightgown sticking to my back. Drawing in deep breaths to still my trembling, I grasp at the wisps of my dream.
How had it ended? And why can I never remember?
The carpets grab my feet as I cross to the window and peer through the curtains. Bright daylight slashes my eyes. The sun is nearly overhead. We are moving west, which means we already left Queenstown, Ireland, the last place to dump me before we cross the Atlantic.
Only six days until we reach New York. Six days to bring Jamie to his senses, prepare our routine, and persuade Mr. Stewart to watch it. There is no time to waste. There is also the matter of the Chinese Exclusion Act, a fire that is now one day closer. Surely Mr. Stewart could help us put that one out, being a man of influence and money. Isn’t that how the world works?
I open Mum’s Bible and gaze upon my picture of Mum and Ba. “Good morning, honored parents. Jamie’s being stubborn, as usual. And he’s not making sense. How can he like working in the bowels of a ship when he’s so obsessed with looking up at the sky? Something’s off. But don’t worry, I’ll get him to see the right of things.”
April Hart’s crane dress catches my eye from where it hangs in the wardrobe. A beggar like me isn’t fit for such togs, but I can’t wait to try it on.
Jamie isn’t expecting me until lunch. Before dressing, I spend my time stretching my pins from heel to hip, then do side bends, handstands, and hand walking—the “wake-up drills” I do almost every morning. It isn’t as easy with the floor moving around, but soon, the initial burn settles into a tingling warmth.
When I finish, I set down my feet and stroll to the facilities. The mirror forces me to reckon with my appearance. My uneven hair forms messy waves. Mum called my “lion’s mane” my best feature. It’s thick and glossy, an almost black that glints red in the sun.
Running the tap, I make liberal use of the bergamot soap. Then, with my wet hands, I knot my hair and smooth my tweaky eyebrows. At least my eyes look bright, despite my chewed-up mouth.
From Mrs. Sloane’s trunk, I remove the “bubby-cubby” of my own invention, which I use to bind my chest for performing. If I’m going to dine with Jamie’s company, I’ll have to blend in using Jamie’s spare sea slops, and the bubby-cubby hides my shape.
Once that is in place, I slide the dress over my head and shoulders. Somehow April cut the garment perfectly so that it doesn’t need buttons. I pin the bee-swarm veil to the velvet toque April also left for me—trying not to disturb its fan of hackle feathers—then arrange the hat over my hair.
Despite resolving to ignore the mirror, I ogle myself, unsure who that royal lady is. The dress’s waist nips in, and the skirt skims my hips. My carriage has always been unassailable, thanks to years of line practice, but wearing a fine dress like this seems to pull my spine even straighter, as if someone is pulling it up by a string.
From the photograph on the table, Mum seems to lift an eyebrow at me. “Sorry, Mum, it’s the clothes. I can’t help it.” I sweep up the picture, wondering if I should show it to Jamie. But seeing Mum would sadden him, and he’s still angry with Ba. It isn’t the time. I tuck it back into Ruth and close the book.
Finally, I step into the pumps. They are two sizes too big, and were it not for the straps, they would probably break my ankles. My own black boots would serve me better if I need to run. They are high quality, with real metal aglets, not glue or wax, on the laces. But even I know that wearing those clunkers with such a fine frock would cause heads to shake—not exactly the effect April intended. Plus, if I really need to run, I doubt I could do it in this dress anyway.
Even worse than wearing men’s boots with an elegant dress would be wearing pumps with Jamie’s sea slops. I look for something in which to carry my boots. In the wardrobe, I find a canvas bag stitched with the White Star logo containing a pair of black velvet slippers and a pair of white ones. Never in my life have I had so much footwear at my disposal. I add my black boots to the slipper bag, then collect a cashmere coat the color of vanilla tea cakes.
In the hallway, Steward Latimer holds a vase of stargazer lilies. He’s standing so still—with not a single brown hair out of formation—that I wonder how long he’s been there. “Ah, good afternoon, Mrs. Sloane. These are from White Star Line with our compliments. May I place them in your room?”
“Yes, of course.” I step aside and follow him to the table. “Steward, could you tell me where Mr. Albert Ankeny Stewart is staying?”
A regretful expression rolls down his face. “I’m terribly sorry, but certain guests have requested privacy, and he is one of them.”
“I see.” The news drops like a coin into a dry well, tumbling and spinning before landing with a dull clunk. This is so typical. Plans always half-baked, I hear Jamie say. Well, at least the fire hasn’t reached my trousers yet.
The lilies seem to cough at me out of their scarlet throats. The real Mrs. Sloane, with her limited vision, would’ve appreciated those heavy scenters, but they remind me of the cemetery.
Steward Latimer straightens and puts his hands behind his back. “Captain Smith invites you for a more private welcome with him tomorrow at two o’clock, in the Reception Hall of the À la Carte Restaurant.”
So here it is. The meeting with the captain. I’m struck with the urge to flap my arms and fly away. But if I refuse, April Hart will lose out on her “big moment” for parading her clothes. And I need her help finding Mr. Stewart now more than ever. “I look forward to it.”
“Also, in case you’re interested, tonight there’s a lecture on whales in the library.” He bows and glides away.
Back in the hallway, a crystal bowl of wrapped taffies rests on a ledge, free for the taking. Not seeing any signs to the contrary, I grab a handful and stuff them into my bag.
The Merry Widow tries not to trip through the Cabbage Patch, even though her feet slide forward at every step and already the straps are strangling her ankles. I just have to bear down. Walk on my toes. Haven’t my pins suffered worse for the sake of a show? Still, pain for the sake of fashion seems twice as wretched since no one will be tossing coins at me afterward.
Heads nod at me. But this time, they also turn. A group of women even stop, and I catch the distinctly round vowels of admiration that float from their mouths. I can’t help preening a bit, tossing back my head and sashaying my hips. Why, this old thing? It’s just something I grabbed on my way out the door.
While I wait for the lift, I angle a pose toward B-47, in case April Hart emerges. One of the lifts opens, and the couple inside stops talking.