I run my hands down my off-white dress; it’s draped in black lace and sparkles in the light. The fabric is covered with intricate patterns of beads.

Mollie smiles at me through my vanity mirror as she repositions my hair on top of my head. “A few more black pearls in yer hair and ye’ll sparkle from top to bottom.”

I smile, too, but I feel off. “Mollie, do I seem well to you?”

“Always well. Yer one a the happier people I know.”

I consider her words. “I just have a strange sensation that I’m supposed to do something or remember something.”

“Aye. I hate that feelin’. Makes me all itchy. But besides meetin’ yer aunty Myra in the lounge, there is nothin’ that I know of that needs doin’ or rememberin’.”

Aunty Myra. Her name is like a bell in my mind, but I’m not sure why. “What’s the date, Mollie?”

Mollie hesitates. “The thirteenth of April. Ya know, I almost wasn’t sure.” She laughs. “Maybe yer not rememberin’ things is rubbin’ off on me.”

I smile. April feels right.

“All finished,” she says, and I stand up.

My corset squeezes me, and the bottom of my dress is so narrow that I can only take small steps. “Will you come with me to meet my aunt?”

Mollie nods and opens the door for me.

She leads me through the hallways and onto an elevator that takes us to an upper deck. We pass men and women in top hats and gowns, talking excitedly about their evening activities, and step into the first-class lounge.

“This way,” Mollie says, and I follow her to a table where Aunt Myra and her friend are drinking tea.

“Aunty Myra, sorry I’m late.” I stare at her a moment longer than I should. What is it I’m not remembering?

Aunt Myra brightens. “It is perfectly all right. You know Mrs. Brown.”

I curtsy to the other woman. Yes, of course I know Margaret Brown. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

Mrs. Brown pats the cushion next to her on the velvet couch and I sit down. Mollie has taken a seat at a nearby table with a couple of other ladies’ maids.

“Mrs. Brown was just telling me how she has been working with a judge to set up a juvenile court to help destitute children. It will be the first in America,” Aunt Myra says, and pours me a cup of tea. “Is that not something?”

I feel like I was just studying her. Wait, no, that can’t be right. Maybe I was reading a newspaper article about her? “Yes, I believe I read about it somewhere. And about all the amazing work you’ve done for women.”

Mrs. Brown tilts her head slightly and looks surprised. “It seems I have a young fan here, Myra.”

I smile and take the cup of tea from my aunt. “You should have a whole group of them, not just me.” I pause. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

Mrs. Brown grins at my compliments. “Ask whatever you like.”

“How did you know you were in love?” Even as I say the words, they feel foreign in my mouth. Why am I asking this question?

Mrs. Brown laughs. “Well now, that is certainly not what I was expecting. A great question, though. I have always thought that love is not all feelings and instinct, but is instead a generosity of time. That if you truly love someone or something, you will give them all your hours without a second thought. Ideal moments are exactly what they sound like, ideal and hard not to enjoy. But love has never been about ideal moments for me, but rather everyday ones that are brightened because the other person is there.”

“Beautifully put, Margaret,” Aunt Myra says. “So you are wondering about love, Samantha? May I ask, is this a philosophical question or a practical one?”

My cheeks redden. “Well, I—”

“Ladies,” says a tall man with dark hair, an expensive suit, and a mustache that curls upward at the ends. He bows. “Are you enjoying this fine evening? I hope the refreshments are up to your standards.”

“Yes, Mr. Ismay. Everything is just as lovely as it could be,” says Mrs. Brown.

Ismay looks at Aunt Myra. “And you, Mrs. Harper? I know you do quite a bit of traveling. I do hope our accommodations are making it easy for you to adjust to sea travel.”

What’s this guy doing, fishing for compliments? I remember Alexander said Ismay was one of the owners.

“You have really outdone yourself with this ship. She is fit for royalty,” Aunt Myra says.

Ismay laughs. “Oh, you are too kind. Too kind. Also, I don’t know if you have heard, but I am happy to announce that we are making great time.”

“I do hope it’s safe to travel this fast,” I say, though I’m not sure why. I don’t have any fears about sea travel, do I? And I’m verging on impolite. “There is usually ice at this time of year, is there not?” Definitely impolite. What’s wrong with me?

He wiggles his nose and looks down at me. “This ship is practically unsinkable, Miss Mather. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

I nod and pick up my teacup. The nagging sensation that I’m supposed to remember something returns. I suddenly feel like I can’t sit still.

“I will leave you ladies to your tea,” Ismay says, and bows again.

I straighten my dress. “Aunty Myra, Mrs. Brown, would you mind excusing me? I feel inspired to take a walk and enjoy the night air.”

“Of course, dear. Just make sure you get to bed at a reasonable time. I will come and say good night when I return.”

I say my goodbyes, and Mollie joins me out on the promenade deck in the cool air.

“Did ya remember what ya wanted to, miss?” Mollie asks.

I shake my head.

“My pa used ta say that if ya sleep, what ya wanted ta remember would be there in the mornin’.”

Sleep. Dreams. I fidget with my hands. “Where is your family now?”

“With the rest of the Mullins in Clarinbridge. They own a general store there.”

I shiver as we walk toward the railing.

“Oh, miss, I’ve forgotten yer coat.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Let’s—”

Mollie raises her eyebrows. “If ya catch a chill, it’ll be me fault. I’ll just get it quick.” She turns around and walks away before I can say another word.

I rest my hand on the wooden railing, which is cold and slick with spray from the ocean. What is going on with me tonight? I’ve had nothing but a wonderful time on this ship, and here I am a bundle of nerves.

I bend slightly and peer over the side of the ship. It almost makes me dizzy. It’s a good fifty-foot drop into the black ocean. I walk with my hand resting lightly on the damp glossy wood. The water stretches out endlessly, and there is a dull rumble from the propellers pushing the ship forward.

I stop at the end of the promenade area and lean my elbows on the railing. A breeze whips a few loose pieces of hair onto my cheeks.

All of a sudden, strong hands grab my waist from behind, lifting me up.

“Stop!” I yell, and I try futilely to grip the slippery railing. The person gives me a hard push, and I fall headfirst toward the water.

The side of the ship whizzes past me. My stomach drops, and my dress flaps violently against my free-falling legs. I open my mouth to scream, but it’s impossible to get enough air.

And it’s loud. No one tells you how loud it is to fall. Instinctively, I reach my hands out in a dive. They hit the water so hard that it feels like my fingernails have been shoved up into my knuckles. The cold water bludgeons every inch of me, like I dove into concrete instead of liquid. All the heat leaves my body at once. The remaining air pushes out of my chest. I scream, inhaling salt water and—