That gets a laugh. The size of the crowd has easily doubled since I started. Even a few of the crew have stopped their duties to watch. Steady, girl. Don’t let the crowd distract you, or you’ll lose your flow.
“With even more practice”—I switch my pattern, throwing the heels from the outside instead of from the middle, and tossing them vertically as well as horizontally—“you might find you can control them. Bend the heels to your will.”
I change pattern again, tossing two heels at once up the center line so that four are used in a three-beat waltz. The applause becomes more animated, with cheering and laughter. A young lady on A-Deck bounces up and down excitedly, her arms wrapped around a black poodle. I nearly break my pattern when I recognize the girl Jamie spoke to, Charlotte Fine.
I shake myself free from the sticky trap of her gaze and find my place again. “Sometimes, a new heel is thrown. But if you’ve learned the tricks, you’ll know what to do when that time comes.” Wink, following my eyes, throws me the apple.
Incorporating an object with a different weight and shape into the set requires all my attention. I ignore the oohs and aahs, focusing on keeping the single apple spinning along with the heels. I throw the objects up in three columns, two heels in each outside column, and the apple bobbing in the center. “And if you’re lucky, your effort is its own reward.” I grab the apple when it nears my mouth, take a bite, then let it fall back into the pattern. Up, down, bite, juggle, up, down, bite, juggle.
That really pops the cork. People hoot and holler and clap their hands.
If Jamie were here, we could really make fruits fly. He has fast hands. He can throw a ball through a speeding train and have it come out on the other side.
The pineapple begins to teeter, forcing me into a simpler pattern. Sweat dribbles down my underarms, and juice streaks my chin. Enough, you show monkey. A professional knows her limits.
I toss the partially eaten apple and the heels, one by one, back to Wink and Olly. Then I bow low with a flourish, letting the pineapple drop and catching it just before it hits the floor. I bow in all directions—toward the folks on the superstructure, then toward the third-class passengers leaning over the rail of the poop deck.
“If you liked that,” I pant, trying to speed things up, “my assistants will be on hand to accept your expressions of appreciation. And if you didn’t, next time, cover your eyes.”
Wink and Olly doff their hats and begin circulating, catching coins that fall from the first- and second-class decks, and even a few from the third-class passengers, bless them.
A voice grinds from behind me: “Hold you hard!”
It’s the QM from the docking bridge, with a stare loud enough to drown out the applause. Another crewman, with the mien of an angry sturgeon, approaches from behind him, his navy coat seeming to swallow his neck. He folds his arms, which are so muscled, he can’t get them all the way crossed. A set of heavy keys clipped to his belt catches the sunlight. It’s the master-at-arms—or in his case, the Master-of-Big-Arms—here to haul me to the crowbar hotel.
13
Brackets appear around the QM’s mouth. “Performances are not allowed, see?” He speaks in the North East accent, which sounds like the tongue is pushing the words up a hill.
I gulp. “Pardon me, Quartermaster. I wasn’t aware.” I wipe juice off my chin with my sleeve and furtively look around for Wink and Olly. They are still collecting coins. We can’t go yet. Every penny counts.
The QM stands in his favorite triangular stance, knees locked inside his navy serge trousers, fists on hips with elbows stretching the fabric of his jersey. Even his chin is pointy. “Move along, or I’ll have him do it for you.” He ticks his head toward the Master-of-Big-Arms.
“Right away.” Caught between their glares, it occurs to me that they haven’t mentioned the lads collecting money. I try to catch Wink’s and Olly’s eyes, but a group of children have started up a game of beanbag toss, blocking my view.
“Seems to me,” I continue before the men turn around, “entertainment will help the passengers pass the time. The band can only play so long, and it’s nice to have variety. And if no one’s complaining, where’s the harm?” I attempt a teensy smile, but it crumbles under the weight of the QM’s scowl.
“The harm’s that you could be runnin’ a dodgy scam, is how. So unless you want to take it up with the captain, work your legs, ’cause you’re gettin’ on my wick.”
The Master-of-Big-Arms grunts his assent.
Wink finally notices me. His quick eyes assess the men corralling me, and I glance meaningfully at the stairs. Make yourself scarce, boys! Smartly, before anyone makes us give the money back.
Wink bows to the man who just dropped a coin into his cap. He signals to Olly, then both head for the stairwell, with Wink trying not to clomp in his too-big boots.
“Don’t mean no trouble, sirs. I thank you for your indulgence. I’ll just be on my way, then.”
The QM’s mouth becomes a gash. I can feel the men’s eyes follow me as I stroll to the stairwell, taking big, unhurried steps to get me there faster without looking like I’m in a rush.
On the way back to our room, I stop at a water fountain to rinse my face, which is sticky with sweat and apple juice. That was too close. I can hardly perform for Mr. Stewart if I’m locked in a brig. From now on, I swear to keep my chin tucked.
The sight of Olly and Wink sorting a dragon’s pile of money into neat stacks on their top bunk makes me forget all about the QM and the Master-of-Big-Arms. There’s no way Jamie and Bo could’ve made more than that, short of holding up the purser’s office.
“Are you in trouble?” asks Wink.
“Not yet,” I mumble, running my fingers through a mound of change.
Olly holds up a gold coin. “Cats, someone gave you a sovereign!” He starts counting on his fingers, muttering numbers.
Wink takes the coin and bites into it. “It’s real.” His eyes narrow. “You sure you’re not rich?”
I snort. “Rich in talent is what I am. When Jamie and I used to put on performances, we didn’t have a boatful of millionaires watching us. We’d be happy to get a few shillings.”
Olly slaps his hands against the mattress, and the coins jingle. “Two pounds, four shillings.”
Wink takes a turn counting it, too.
A smile bends my lips as I imagine the looks on Jamie’s and Bo’s faces when I tell them. Oh ho! You don’t just send talent like this back to England, now, do you, Jamie! “Seems that hackle feather brought prosperity. Stick with me, and you’ll always have Luck.” I wink at the lads.