“Maybe Jamie lied about making it up,” says Olly.
“Jamie wouldn’t lie, you cow’s butt.”
Olly ignores the insult. “Why do you think she’s wearing a veil?”
Wink’s eyes grow large. “Maybe she has warts.”
“Or maybe she doesn’t have a face.”
Bo turns forward with a snort, the ridges of his back flexing visibly even under his peacoat. “Maybe you should both shut up. She’s first class. Too good for you to speak to.”
“If she’s first class, why is she on this deck?”
“Because first class can walk where they want. Stop looking at her.”
The two lads continued gaping.
“I don’t have warts, and if I didn’t have a face, then how could I be looking at your funny mugs?” I say evenly in Cantonese.
Olly’s jaw drops, exposing rows of crooked teeth. Wink slaps a hand over his mouth, as if to hide the state of his cutters. Bo quirks an eyebrow, and I revel in the small triumph of getting a reaction from him.
“I’m looking for James Luck. Know where I can find him?”
They hesitate, and I’m reminded of the two men like waterand smoke, Tao and Fong. I’ve heard that sailors are superstitious, but I had no idea they were so distrustful.
Bo’s eyes drift to the well deck, where a crowd has gathered. He stretches up as if to see something, then nods toward the people. “Start there.”
I cover the two paces to the railing and crane my neck. The crowd parts to reveal the back of a young man dressed in sea slops, kneeling as he pets a dog. Is it... Jamie?
He removes his cap and smooths his hair, a gesture I’ve seen a thousand times. ItisJamie, though he’s broader in the back than I remember. My heart squeezes, and all the nerves kinked up inside me seem to shake loose.At last.
Olly blows out a thin whistle from where he, Wink, and Bo have joined me at the rail. “That’s a poodle, the kind of dog you have topayfor.”
“Jamie’s always been good with dogs,” I say, remembering how the neighborhood mutts would follow him around.
“I do not think it is the dog that interests him,” Bo says cheekily.
“What do you mean by that?”
“See for yourself.”
A young lady leans over and attaches a leash to the dog, spilling her minky hair into her face. Guess I’m not the only first-class lady slumming it with the poor. She’s not dressed as flashy as the other nobs—a cheerful suit in butter yellow and pearl earbobs—but she has the kind of pretty face, with soft brown eyes and strawberry-pink lips, that causes mento drop their jaws and women to drop their stitches. Jamie says something, and her patrician nose crinkles becomingly. They’re... conversing?
Olly stretches far over the rail. “Who’s she?”
Bo pulls Olly back by his collar. “White ghost means trouble. Jamie should avoid her.”
The Chinese can be suspicious of foreigners, who rarely do them any favors.
“She’s a fetcher,” says Wink, who then steals another glance at me. “I bet she smells like marmalade.”
Olly breaks free from Bo. “And butter.”
“Why would you think that?” I ask.
“Jamie said those are the best smells.”
Clearly, they know him well. Mum made us biscuits with marmalade and butter whenever we had money to spare, which wasn’t often.
