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and closed the door.
    Footsteps now. Walking past the closet.
    A sailor. Brillman, maybe. Sanders. Sneaking down for a little nip of the spirits.
    The steps faded, then stopped. Philip counted to 243 and then pushed the door open.
    The lights were out. The place was pitch-dark.
    He crept out into the hold and shut the door behind him.
    Shiiiishhh.
    A match. Where?
    Philip spun around.
    The light flared. He made out a face.
    He opened his mouth to scream, but a hand closed over it. It wrenched him around, held him tight against a short body.
    “Not a word,” a voice said.
    It was a British accent. Lower class.
    Philip tried to speak, but the hand closed tighter. “I want up.”
    “Oob?” Philip said.
    The man released his hand. “I’m a sailor. I ain’t got me papers, but I can work. An’ I been dreamin’ of the Souf Pole all me life.”
    A lunatic. A certified inmate of Bedlam. “Well, that’s just lovely,” Philip said. “What say we just go upstairs and meet the captain, and you’ll tell him your little story, and he’ll—”
    “A countryman, eh?” The man was drawing the match closer to Philip’s face. “You look familiar, too.”
    Philip backpedaled. “Odd. You don’t. I daresay our paths have not crossed in the schools. Perhaps your family is in landscaping—private homes, London?”
    “Yes. You’re one of those yoofs, aren’t you?”
    “Yoofs?”
    “Right, the yoofs who took ’at money from the bank—just walked right in an’ ’anded the teller the note, an’ ’em well-dressed and all, like proper gen’l’men. Ten fousand pounds it was.”
    “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “It was in all the newspapers. Pictures, too. Face just like yours.”
    He knew. He knew and he was here.
    Of all the dumb luck.
    “I—I didn’t realize I had become such a celebrity,” Philip said.
    “Well, not ’ere, maybe. But all the ’oity-toity mums in London is takin’ their sons to school in fear that you’re on the loose.”
    “Lovely,” Philip said. “No wonder Uncle wanted rid of me. He hates bad publicity.”
    “Uncle?”
    “Look,” Philip said. “There are certain things that must not be said, whether they are true or not, which I am not saying they are, you understand”
    “I understand.” The man grinned. “Now you understand this: You will tell the captain you brought me on board. We’re old friends, like. You will take all the blame. An’ you will get me a nice, big meal.”
    Philip nodded numbly. “Yes. Yes, of course. And you are …?”
    “Name’s Nigel.” The man stuck out his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

8
Andrew
    October 31, 1909
    H E WAS DREAMING ABOUT his father, his real father back in Boston, but the face was coming in and out of focus. They were sitting near the river-bank, Papa, Mother, and Andrew, and the boat race was in full swing, the Head of the Charles. Three ladies with parasols walked by and one of them looked at Papa and gave him a smile—just like the smiles Mother used to give Papa, and Andrew didn’t like that, because Mother didn’t have those smiles anymore, and he asked, Who’s she? but Papa answered, Nobody, Andrew, let’s watch the race.
    So Andrew was trying to watch the sculls on the river—they scared him because he thought they were made of real skulls—when he saw that Mother was crying and Papa was mad, and Andrew worried it would get bad like the week before, when Mother had to run to the police. So he tried to stop them and all of a sudden Papa turned toward him but he wasn’t Papa anymore—his face had changed into a skull, grinning and chattering, and he lunged toward Andrew, yelling in a muffled voice, striking out with a fist, hitting Andrew in the jaw, and he had to scream.…
    The yelling awakened Andrew.
    It was real. Not a dream. Coming from above, from the deck. Captain Barth’s voice.
    Andrew sat up, gasping for air. Sweat soaked his nightshirt. The dream’s image