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such a perfect black that it almost has a bluish gleam, and her brilliantly embroidered skirt and shawl aren’t the kind of thing I’ve ever seen anyone in England wear.
    But I’ve always heard that foreigners were dirty, and this girl isn’t. As strange as her clothes are, they’re clean, and actually rather pretty. And I’ve always heard the “English rose” described as the ultimate standard of beauty: delicate frame, pale skin, pink cheeks, and fair curls. I’ve always rather liked that description, because it applies to me—at least it would, if I ever got to wash up properly and wear something nice. And yet this girl, dark and statuesque as she is, is far lovelier than I am.
    Even more surprising: She’s not hopping up to greet me, begging my pardon, or welcoming me to the room. In fact, she seems more displeased to be sharing a room than I was. Even though I’m English—as though all the world didn’t look up to England!
    “Who are you, then?” she demands. Her accent is thick, but her English is good.
    I put my hands on my hips. “I’m Tess. And who are you?”
    “Myriam Nahas. Why are you on this ship?” It sounds almost like she’s asking how I dare to be here.
    “I’m ladies’ maid to the Honorable Irene Lisle, daughter of the Viscount Lisle, who is traveling with her mother and brother to do the season in New York.” I say it as grandly as I can. Their titles ought to give me some credit here, at least. They don’t. Myriam couldn’t look less impressed. So I snap back, “Why are you on this ship?”
    “I’ve left Lebanon to join my brother and his wife in New York City.” Pride shines from her, and yet I can also see how tired she is; she has already traveled all the way from Lebanon, and she still has an ocean to cross. “He has a garment business there that is doing well. I can help sew for him. Perhaps that doesn’t sound very fine to the likes of you, but it suits me.”
    It sounds fine enough. I’m jealous, in fact. Myriam is aboard this ship for the same reason I am—to emigrate to the United States—but unlike me, she has family and a job waiting for her.
    Maybe that’s what annoys me about her. Or maybe it’s that she isn’t being deferential and obedient, like I would have expected from a foreign girl. Most likely it’s just that she seems to be annoyed by me first, for whatever reason. But our eyes are narrowed as we stare at each other, and I sense a power struggle in the making.
    “I have taken one of the bottom bunks,” Myriam adds. “They shift around less with the moving of the ship.”
    “Then I’ll take one as well.”
    “Others will be in this room with us. They, too, will want bottom bunks.”
    “They’ll be out of luck, won’t they?”
    Her eyes narrow. “They will attempt to persuade one of us to move, and it will not be me.”
    I sit down deliberately on the other lower bunk. “I don’t intend to settle for less just to make you more comfortable.”
    “Nor I.”
    “Listen here. I’m an Englishwoman, and this is an English ship.” That ought to settle her.
    Instead, Myriam folds her arms and lifts her chin, and despite my annoyance with her, I can’t help but notice the perfection of her profile. “You are a servant,” she sneers. “I answer to no one but myself.”
    Anger flushes my cheeks, and I open my mouth to tell her what I think of impudent foreigners—but then the door to our cabin opens again, revealing our other two roommates. The first lady is ancient, seventy-five if she’s a day; the second is older. They totter in, carrying little more than carpetbags, with their snowy-white hair atop their heads in braids. I don’t recognize the language they’re speaking, but a badge on one of their cases has a flag that I think is Norway’s. Their wrinkled faces crease into smiles of welcome, and whatever they’re saying to us sounds friendly.
    And there is absolutely no way either of them can take a top bunk.
    I clamber up to