I peel an orange, reveling in the small triumph of getting the rind off in one continuous strip. The zesty scent perks my spirits, and the meat calms the gnawing in my stomach. I place the second orange in the wall tidy as an offering to Mum and Ba.
Ba raised us to care for our ancestors. We made regular offerings of cakes and rice wine on his teakwood altar and said prayers of remembrance to comfort them in their ancestral homes. Mum, who raised us Anglican, never joined in, but neither did she complain about it. I imagine she believed that when she married Ba, she’d married all of him, not just the parts she agreed with.
The grassy smell of the lilies jabs my nose from the center table. My eye catches on my photograph, and all my thoughts slam to a halt. I distinctly remember tucking the picture back into Ruth before leaving, the way I always do. The Bible has been moved to the far side of the table. Perhaps the photograph fell out when Steward Latimer was tidying. What must the man think? There’s no reason why Mrs. Sloane might be carrying around a picture of a Chinese man and a white woman in her Bible.
I collapse onto a chair and try to force air back in my lungs. If he asks about it, I will simply have to shovel a bit more manure on the pile.
Next to the lilies, a tin of chocolates weighs down a card, which bears the official White Star logo.
To Mrs. Amberly Sloane:
Captain Smith will see you on April 12, 2:00 p.m., Reception Hall, À la Carte Restaurant.
P.S. We hope you will enjoy these premium chocolates, our gift to you.
The words gather my stomach into a ball. I put the irksome lilies in the armoire and resolve to worry about the invitation later.
While I wait for April, I poke around for a place to store my money sock. Mum always stashed the money she made tatting her lace cuffs and collars in a cracked teapot that Ba had fixed using a glue of rice. He was clever at fixing things, like tying string to a leaky faucet so we wouldn’t be driven mad by the drip, and rubbing soap on squeaky hinges.
The crimson seat cushions of the chaise longue catch my eye. I pull one off, exposing the slipcover buttons. Undoing a button, I push my money sock deep inside, then replace the cushion so that the bulge doesn’t show.
A knock on the door makes me jump. “It’s April.”
I open the door and April bustles in, carrying yet another alligator suitcase. Her eyes jump around my shorn hair, and she combs her fingers through one side. “Interesting. Well, short is so much more practical.”
“Is Mr. Ismay sending a hunting party after me?”
“If you are referring to Valor the juggler, I told Bruce to relax. The crowds need their diversions, and it sounds to me like the show you were putting on in third class was just as entertaining as the one you were giving in first.”
“And what about the Merry Widow?”
“I admit he’s curious. I told him I’d try to find out more about you.”
“You... what?”
“Better me than anyone else, wouldn’t you say?” She grins.
I have to admit, the fox is clever.
She fingers the reminder card for my meeting with the captain. “Aha! I knew this would be coming. Good thing I brought the kimono. It’s a pièce de résistance.” She sets the suitcase on the chaise longue and unbuckles the straps. “They were talking about you today at the Café Parisien. Come now, I’ll help you change into evening wear.”
“I wasn’t planning to go out.”
“Well, then, I’ll just show you how this one works so that if you do feel like an evening stroll, you’ll be appropriately attired.”
“Why can’t I just wear the crane dress? Not everyone saw it.”
“The crane dress could be worn in the evening—I like clothes to be versatile like that—but it’s expected that women will change into something different for dinner, and I can’t have the Merry Widow making a faux pas. Quickly now, Mother’s waiting for me.” She grabs the skirt of the crane dress and smoothly pulls it over my head.
“How do you make it so it doesn’t need buttons?”
“I cut the fabric on the bias. It uses more cloth, but the diagonal weave means the fabric will stretch.”
I’m not sure I understand everything she says, but I nod, suddenly self-conscious standing in my underthings.
“Good heavens, what do you call that contraption?”
“My, er, bubby-cubby.”
