I blow on a hot cup of strawberry-mint tea and stare at the dress box on my window seat. My phone buzzes on my nightstand.

Jaxon: Talk tomorrow. Going to bed.

Okay, he’s officially mad at me. He waited four whole hours to tell me that? And I get it; I’d be frustrated with me, too. I don’t even know how that conversation spiraled out of control this morning or how we wound up talking about Elijah.

I exhale audibly. “Why are you so hard to forget? I didn’t even like you at first, and here I am getting into arguments about whether or not I still have feelings for you? Total bull. And here I also am talking to myself for no good reason. You suck.”

I put my phone down, and my eyes move back to the box. I’m just gonna put my jams on and not think about any of this until tomorrow.

I walk to my armoire, grab the latch, and pause. I look back at the box. We opened it before and nothing witchy happened. We took the dress out and everything. I let go of the armoire door. It can’t be that dangerous to touch it if Susannah already did, right?

I take off the box lid and grab the emerald-green silk dress. The box falls by my feet as I spread out the delicate fabric on my bed. A piece of white lace peeks out from the rose tissue paper on the floor. I push it aside, and there are lacy shorts, a bra, a slip, and a skirt. Who sends someone historical underwear?

I run my fingers over the silk and down the seams. I’m not usually a dress fan, but even I have to admit this one is beautiful. Would it really be so bad to try it on?

I slip off my jeans and sweater and step into the dainty shorts. I slide each layer on as though I know instinctively how they fit together. Weird. Last time I tried on a dress in a store, I got my shoulders caught and had to yell for help from the changing room.

Once the delicate layers are on, I pick up the dress, pull it over my head, and—

My vision blurs, and for a split second I panic. But the panic leaves just as quickly as it came. And with one blink, the world comes back into focus, a more vibrant world than I remember.

I’m standing in front of a long oval mirror in my many undergarments. A girl just a couple of years older than me is tightening the laces on my corset. She wears a dark gray wool dress, and her curly brown hair is tucked into a white cap.

Am I supposed to know who she is? I must; she’s dressing me. How could I not know someone who’s dressing me? My worry returns, but is quashed before it can take hold. I touch my stomach as the girl gives the corset laces a strong pull.

“How am I going to eat in this thing?” Am I going to eat?

The girl winks at me. “Small bites, miss,” she says with an accent. British? No, Irish, I think. She pulls an emerald-green dress off a pink satin hanger and holds it above my head for me to slip my arms into. “This must be the prettiest dress on the whole ship.”

My brain is in a thick fog, and my mouth is answering when it shouldn’t. “Do I seem like myself to you?”

The long skirt glides to the floor, and she works on fastening the small buttons in the back. “Just like yerself. Only maybe a wee more elegant in this.” She examines me in the mirror and runs her hands along my sides to smooth the fabric.

Her voice is reassuring, and I smile at her. “I’d be more elegant if I didn’t trip in dresses.”

She laughs. “Nonsense. Ya’ve made a singularly good impression here. There are a number o’ ladies talkin’ about yer fashion. And one young man in particular seems quite smitten. Come, sit down. I’ll fix yer hair.”

The girl has freckles that form a speckled cloud under her eyes and across her nose. For the life of me, I can’t remember her name. That’s awful that I can’t remember her name when she seems to know me so well. My nervousness comes back for a third time, only it’s so weak that I brush it off entirely.

The girl leads me to the vanity, and I sit down in the chair, careful not to catch my dress on anything.

I watch in the mirror as she twists and pulls my hair into elaborate patterns. “Where did you learn to do hair like that?”

“Me mum taught me. I was never quite awake in the mornin’ before school, and by the time I was dressed and ready, I’d missed me breakfast. She used ta say, ‘Mollie, do yer hair quick and yer eatin’ slow.’ ” She smiles to herself, and I smile with her.

Mollie, her name is Mollie. She grabs a hairpin from the vanity and pushes it into my hair.

“Sooo, who is it?” I ask.

“Me mum, miss?”

I laugh. “No. Who’s the guy who’s smitten?” What in the hell kind of a word is “smitten”?

Mollie’s freckled cheeks lift in a smile, and she leans close to my ear. “Mr. Alexander Jessup Jr. I heard from one of the waiters that he could barely hold a conversation over lunch with his pa for seein’ ya. He nearly toppled his chair once, tryin’ ta get a better look atcha. But ya didn’t hear it from me. Yer uncle would box me ears if he knew I was gossipin’.”

“I won’t say a word.” I run my fingers along the brown bristles of the hairbrush in front of me. “I don’t remember meeting an Alexander. Will you point him out to me?”

There’s a noise in the adjoining room.

Mollie stands straight up like someone pinched her in the butt. “I would be happy ta walk ya to the dinin’ room, miss,” she says at normal volume, and winks at me in the mirror.

My messy hair has been transformed into an elaborate updo with more pins than I can count. Mollie lifts a gold lace ribbon with tiny pearls on it and weaves it into my hairstyle like a headband.

I turn around once in front of the long mirror to make sure everything’s in order. This corset might be the end of me.

A bugle belts a tune.

“Time fer dinner, then.” Mollie holds out a long white coat and I slip my arms into it.

We leave my bedroom, with its canopied bed, and make our way into the burgundy-colored sitting room, which has plush armchairs and a fireplace. Mollie holds the door for me. The moment I step into the hallway, I realize I’m unsure which way to go. It looks familiar and foreign at the same time. Maybe I ate something I shouldn’t have and it’s making me sick?

“Left, miss,” she says, and I listen. “Through this archway on yer right.”

I smile at her. I’m glad she’s here. I would feel strange wandering around with all these fancy people, asking for directions. We walk through a long room with couches and a sprawling grand staircase shaped like a lady’s fan.

Mollie opens a door that leads into an extravagant dining room. The tiles on the floor look exactly like Persian carpet, white columns come down from the ornate white ceiling, and women wear jewelry fit for museums.

I grab Mollie’s hand. There must be more than two hundred elegantly dressed people in here, many of whom turn to inspect me as we pass.

“On yer left,” Mollie whispers, “three tables ahead of us. Alexander Jessup Jr.”

I count up three tables and make brief eye contact with a handsome guy around my age with brown hair and blue eyes. He smiles at me, and my heart leapfrogs.

“Yer uncle Harry is watching, miss,” Mollie whispers, and leads me to a table on my right.

I immediately shift my gaze to a distinguished middle-aged gentleman, who rises from his seat. “You look beautiful this evening, niece. That dress suits you perfectly.”

“Thank you, Uncle Harry.” His name sticks in my mouth like I’ve never said it before. I hope he doesn’t notice. Maybe the motion of the boat is affecting me? Actually, I’m sure that’s it. I’m not used to sea travel. I exhale, relieved to have located the probable cause of my strange feelings.

Mollie takes my white coat and gives it to a waiter. Behind my uncle is a youngish-looking man with handsome brown skin and strikingly attractive features.

My uncle follows my line of sight and turns to the man. “That will be all, Hammad.”

“Yes, sir.” Hammad bows and makes eye contact with me before he walks away. He’s got an accent that I can’t quite place.

My uncle brings his napkin to his lap.

A waiter appears to my right. “May I serve you wine, miss?”

I almost say no, that I’m not old enough. But I look at my uncle, and he doesn’t seem to object. “Yes, thank you.”

The waiter fills my glass without spilling a drop on the crisp white tablecloth.

“Since it is only the two of us for dinner tonight, I thought we might invite the Jessups to sit with us. Yea or nay?” His amused grin lets me know Alexander’s feelings are not a secret. But if he’s inviting him to our table, then he must approve, right?

I nod into my wineglass, and my uncle waves them over.

A man around my uncle’s age, tall and lean with a hard face, approaches with Alexander behind him.

“May I present Mr. Alexander Jessup and his son, Alexander Jessup Jr.” My uncle gestures toward me. “My niece, Samantha Mather. Her aunt and I have just taken her on a tour of Europe and Asia.”

Europe and Asia? But as they both bow to me, my question fades from my thoughts.

Mr. Jessup claps my uncle on the back and takes the seat next to him. “What a treat that we can join you both tonight, Mr. Harper.”

Alexander sits next to me.

The older men start talking immediately, and I read my menu, which has “RMS TITANIC” stenciled at the top. I frown at it. I have a nagging sense I can’t remember something. Something I don’t like.

“Did you enjoy your tour, Miss Mather?” Alexander asks.

I look up from my menu to find dark blue eyes focused intently on me. For a second I forget he’s asked me a question.

“Call me Samantha.”

He smiles, and it’s hard not to smile back at him. His brown hair is combed perfectly, and his suit is obviously expensive. “And you must call me Alexander.”

“I will. I don’t like formality. Do you?”

He laughs. “Do not say that too loudly in here or a couple of old women might faint.”

I smile now, too. “They might not be the only ones. If I breathe too hard in this corset, I might pass out. Good thing these chairs have arms.”

“If they did not, I would catch you.”

Mollie was right. He’s definitely flirting with me. I clear my throat. “Where do you live?”

“New York City. Not far from the Harpers. I met you a couple of years back at one of their Christmas parties. Do you remember?”

Christmas party? I don’t remember. But New York City is right. “I’m sorry. I don’t. But then, I’m usually quiet at parties.” I pick up my crystal wineglass.

A waiter places a plate of grilled asparagus with lemon and olive oil in front of me.

“Did your uncle tell you the story of how we bought our way onto this liner at the last moment?”

I’m grateful for a subject that isn’t about me. “He didn’t. You tell me. Does it have some good scandal in it?”

He laughs. “Why, yes, I believe it does.”

My body vibrates slightly. Nausea? I put my glass down on the table.

Alexander frowns. “Samantha?”

I push my chair back, and all the men look at me. My body vibrates more violently. “I’m sorry. I need to be excused.”

I walk away as fast as my dress will permit. My arm jerks in front of me. The corset limits my air supply and the room spins. I push through the door and—

Someone leans over me, gently shaking my shoulder. I blink. His dark wavy hair casts shadows on his cheeks in the dim light. His lips part slightly and he exhales, the tension in his eyebrows lessening. He’s beautiful.

I sit straight up in my bed. How could he…I don’t understand. I rub my eyes just to make sure what I’m seeing is real.

“Elijah?” I say, my tone unsure. Could I be dreaming?

“Samantha,” he says with his old-world accent, and pauses. “Why would you put that dress on when you do not even know who sent it?” His look is accusatory.

Well, that clears that up. It’s Elijah, all right. But how? I examine my legs. I’m no longer wearing green silk, only my antique frilly undergarments. The corset is off, too. I can’t quite make sense of it all; my brain still feels foggy. “Did you undress me?”

“I could not wake you while the dress was on.” He stands. “How could you not think it might have a spell on it? Of all the—”

“Wait, hold on a minute.” I stand up, too. My familiar room suddenly looks surreal with Elijah in it.

“How could you be so reckless?” Elijah continues in a disapproving tone.

I brush off his question, my own thoughts so tangled that I can only address one confusing situation at a time. “You’re here? How can you be here?”

Elijah opens his mouth, but before he can say a word, I’m talking again.

“Have you been around this whole time?” My tone has turned from surprise to indignation.

“No.”

“Part of the time?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” My volume is steadily rising.

He stares at me with his proud expression.

My cheeks are hot and my breath is fast. Six months he’s gone without a word, and then he just appears out of thin air like…“The book.” I point at my backpack. “The Titanic one that appeared in the study. Was that you?”

He doesn’t respond, but by the look in his eyes, I know it was.

“Did you see the package arrive, too?” I say, daring him to say he did.

His silence holds.

“You’ve been watching me.” I take a step toward him. “And you said nothing.” I swipe at him. “How could you?”

He dodges my right hand, but I come at him with my left. Then my right again. I get a few good hits to his chest before he catches my wrists. We’re inches apart.

“I hate you,” I say.

But then I’m kissing him.

He pulls me into his body so hard and so fast that it almost knocks the wind out of me. I wrap my arms around his neck and tangle my hands in his hair. His tongue touches mine, and his fingers dig into my back until—

Knock, knock, knock. “Sam? Is everything okay?” my dad asks through the door.

Elijah disappears, and I’m left grabbing the air where he just was.