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Titanic has a lovely deck just for third-class passengers, so you can have a bit of fresh air.”
    Myriam folds her arms. “Such special treatment to people who just had to be combed and picked over as if we were dogs.”
    They combed the third-class passengers? Looking for lice, I realize. How insulting. Thank goodness George told me to enter through the first-class passageway.
    The poor man can’t apologize fast enough. “Begging your pardon, Miss Nahas. It’s crude and unconscionable treatment, and you can be sure it’s not White Star policy. It’s those American laws. You wouldn’t believe the nonsense with quarantines and all they stick us with.”
    “Well. If it’s all the fault of the Americans.” Myriam tosses her hair, slightly—but not entirely—appeased. “Of course, I’ll be an American soon.”
    How will poor George get out of this one? I can’t help a small smile as I look at him. But the good man rallies quickly. “Then I suppose they’ll improve in a hurry, won’t they, miss?”
    Instead of replying, Myriam smiles. I feel rather unnecessary, but I keep tagging along, more for mischief’s sake.
    After that, he looks around a bit to make sure we won’t be witnessed, then takes us to a heavy door that brings us to the first-class section of this deck. “Can’t lead you through—more of those American regulations—but you can pass by here if you need to, Miss Davies.”
    “Won’t I disturb the first-class passengers in their cabins?”
    “No staterooms down here,” George says in a tone of voice that makes it clear no rich people would ride down this low, where you can feel the movement of the ship. “But special amenities for them. Like the Turkish bath.” I laugh, disbelieving. I half thought those only existed in old novels about exotic foreign lands. “Steam room and all,” he says. “Nice as any you’d find in Istanbul.”
    “Have you been to Istanbul?” Myriam looks doubtful.
    “Only once, Miss Nahas, and that too briefly. But I’m told by those in the know that the fittings here are the finest. Porcelain tiles, feathered fans, lounging chairs, you name it.”
    “How well-traveled you are.” Myriam’s much more impressed by George than by the baths, and he actually seems to glow as he realizes it. I try not to roll my eyes.
    “What else is through there?” I say, honestly wanting to know. Lord only knows whether Lady Regina or Layton will demand any of the services provided in this area.
    George grins. “Want to play a game of squash?”
    “Squash! On an ocean liner?” I start to laugh, and Myriam joins in; it’s both disbelief and delight. The Titanic is like its own floating world.
    “Anything the heart could desire,” George swears. “And you don’t have to worry about the waves upsetting your game. See how steady she sails? We might as well be skimming over smooth glass.”
    My laughter stops. “We’re already at sea?”
    “Set out more than a quarter hour ago.”
    “I’m late!” Good Lord, the Lisles will have been expecting me for nearly half an hour now. “I’ve got to go. Oh, blast, how do I reach the upper decks? Wait, no, I’ve got it.”
    “Never fear,” he says as I use my key to open the locks that keep me out of first class. “You’ll be there in a flash.”
    “Thank you!” I call behind me as I run into the first-class area of the ship. The door clangs shut. No doubt George and Myriam are perfectly happy to be left alone. Much happier than Lady Regina will be when I show up late again.
    As I step into the lift, and the grated door shuts behind me, I see someone standing in the corridor—the dark figure of a man.
    And in that first moment, I know it’s Mikhail.
    The lift rises, erasing my old view, and I slump back against the wall to gather my breath. The lift operator, a boy a few years younger than I am, doesn’t appear to notice anything in particular. He’d have noticed a first-class passenger down there, wouldn’t he?