Violet nodded. “It’s still pretty cool that your mom’s open to it.”
“I guess. My mom definitely swears she’s the real deal,” he said emphatically. “So what time do you want to meet?”
“How about eight o’clock. Same place in the stacks.”
“Sounds good,” he said as he hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders and headed off to class.
Thanksgiving was only a week away, and while nearly the whole campus was gearing up for the Harvard–Yale game over the weekend, Violet’s mind was elsewhere. She still had a few assignments to finish and a paper to write for her Anglo-Saxon Poetry and Elegies class, but meeting Theo in the library, a place where they could soon easily get back to finishing her work, didn’t strike her as a preposterous idea. Though many people would think trying to communicate with Harry Elkins Widener in the bottom of the stacks certainly was.
“Do you want to grab an early dinner tonight?” Sylvia caught her just as she was leaving Emerson Hall. “I think I need to carbo load before I hit the books.”
“Our traditional finals menu? Mashed potatoes followed by ice cream?” Violet grinned.
“Of course! Just like freshman year.”
“Sounds good. I’ll head over to Widener to study afterward.”
“The school should just set up a bed over there for you. You spend more time there than anywhere else these days,” she said, laughing.
Sylvia eyed her from the side. “Come on, I was just joking with you, Vi. You know I don’t believe all that nonsense that Jenny and Lara are spreading—that you’re hearing the ghost of Harry Widener in your head or that you’re the book slasher.”
Violet stopped in her tracks. “Wait, they actually said that to people?”
“I don’t think anyone is taking what they said seriously. Honestly, Jen is still upset about being embarrassed by the water pipe bursting on her at the Owl party. If you ask me, she was just trying to divert all that unwanted attention away from herself onto you.”
“Just great.” Violet sucked in her breath. “That’s just what I need. My roommates whispering behind my back.”
She barely spoke to Sylvia over their mashed potatoes, and when Sylvia went up to scoop out her ice cream, Violet didn’t follow. She’d lost her appetite completely by now.
“Please don’t be mad at me, Vi.”
“I’m not mad at you. I just hate living with the two of them.”
Syl looked down at her bowl of chocolate ice cream, resting her spoon on the edge. A vague look of discomfort washed over her face.
“I didn’t imagine it would be like this, either. I’m so sorry. They can be real jerks.”
Violet nodded. “They sure can.”
“If they start spreading rumors like that, I could lose my job.” Her face whitened. “And that’s the only thing that makes me happy here since Hugo died.”
“You’re not going to lose your job. No one is going to take gossip as fact at Harvard. You know that.”
“Are you kidding me? And if they do fire me, Syl, I’m not going to get over that.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
ISTILL COULD NOT FINDADA AMIDST THE THRONG OFpassengers, and with each passing minute the climate on the boat became more frantic, the peril more real.
Strangers were whispering to one another, passing on the rumors they’d heard about the mailroom having flooded and the water now pouring into the engine room and even some of the third-class cabins. By the banister of the grand staircase, Mr. Guggenheim was trying to pull his mistress toward the direction of the lifeboats, but she seemed frozen and unwilling to go.
As I was pushing through trying to get myself out toward the main deck, my father caught sight of me and grabbed my sleeve.
“Where have you been?” His tone was angry. Harsher than I’d ever heard him speak to me before. Beside him was my mother, her face marble white. “Harry!” my mother pleaded. “Stay close. I don’t want to lose you again.” Despite my being a grown man, her voice had all the fear and love of a mother who could think of nothing else but protecting her son.
“We must get you and Amalie to a lifeboat now, Ellie,” my father said. “I don’t want to take any chances.” Indeed, Mother’s maid was pale as she stood back.
“You and Harry, too,” my mother insisted. Father didn’t answer. My mother communicated in the terror in her eyes, the grip of her fingers. I can still recall the sensation of how tightly they wrapped around my wrist. She did not want to let me go.
