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beginning.”
    The idea shot through Michael in a rush. This was what he’d long told himself he wanted—a new beginning.
    Michael, Owen, Frank Bealing Sr., Frank Bealing Jr., and a strong Bill Geapin hauled load after load of potted palms, plants, and cut flowers in every variety aboard the great ship. Michael had never seen so many thousands of flowers, nor could he guess their names. They set all on a great tarpaulin in the foyer, just long enough for some of Mr. Bealing’s party and Titanic ’s crew members to catch them up and deliver them hither and yon the length of the ship. Michael couldn’t imagine where so many plants and flowers might find homes—and still they carried more aboard.
    “Owen Allen,” Mr. Bealing Sr. shouted above the din, “carry this group to the reception room outside the first-class dining saloon.”
    Michael trailed behind with another load.
    “And you, lad, take that big palm along and lend him a hand.”
    “Yes, sir.” Michael stepped smartly toward the dining saloon, hoping Mr. Bealing noticed how quickly he responded to an order.
    “Whoa, Tim!” Owen turned around. “Where are you going?”
    Mr. Bealing called over his shoulder. “Follow the lad, Owen. He’s headed in the proper direction.”
    Owen stepped lively, but Michael outdistanced him. Owen caught up, panting, “Tim—did you not hear me calling? How in the world do you know where you’re going, lad? It’s as though you’re a homing pigeon aboard this ship!”
    Michael slowed abruptly. “Lucky guess, I’m thinking.”
    “I’m thinking it’s something more.” But there was no time for questions.
    The hours slipped by one by one. Fragrant flowers in every color of the rainbow, those grown in season and unseasonable varieties forced in hothouses, were piled into Michael’s arms. Together, he and Owen delivered cut flowers to the cooling room, small plants to tables and corners, to the Parisian café, everywhere they were directed. Before the night ended, they’d been over a fair portion of Titanic ’s public areas and staterooms. They’d watched the Bealings create displays so large that each one looked an entire garden to Michael.
    “A fair floating Eden!” Owen exclaimed when at last they set their feet upon the dock.
    “You’ve done well.” Mr. Bealing shook Owen’s hand. “I wish you weren’t off to America, Mr. Allen. I could use you in the nurseries. Still, I wish you Godspeed.”
    “Thank you, sir.” Owen doffed his cap. “I’ve appreciated the extra work, sir, and I thank you for the opportunity you’re giving my young friend.” He set his hand on Michael’s shoulder. For the first time Michael didn’t shudder at the weight of Owen’s hand—a clasp and not the clamp he was used to from his uncle Tom. “He’s a good worker, God bless him; I can vouch for that.”
    “Yes, well . . .” Mr. Bealing’s gaze fell upon Michael. “We’ll give you a try, lad. You’ve no experience, but I can see you’re a willing worker. Be at the nursery at 7 a.m. sharp tomorrow. We’ll see how things go along.”
    “Yes, sir,” Michael said, but he couldn’t muster the enthusiasm such an opportunity warranted.
    Mr. Bealing frowned but nodded, then looked back at the ship. “ Titanic ’s dressed for the ball, so I’m off.” He stopped, kneaded the back of his neck, and turned again to Michael. “You’ll be wanting to clean up a bit before we load another ship. Use your first wages wisely.”
    “Yes, sir.” Michael looked at his broken shoes, feeling his neck and face flame. He knew what he looked like but for the first time considered that he might stink as a gutter rat as well. When he looked up, Mr. Bealing had moved along, busied himself with the mules and their drivers.
    “It’s all right, Tim,” Owen whispered. “All things in time.”
    But Michael knew the time was gone. It wasn’t that he cared overmuch for the rebuke he’d been given by Mr. Bealing. Michael had known