Vera lay on her bed, imagining that the roll of the ship were a flying trapeze. The view from her window was black—it couldn’t be more than five o’clock—but the seas were clearly raging. From this perspective—a first-class suite on the uppermost deck—it was almost pleasant. What a contrast to her first hearty sea adventures, when the waves came crashing over the rails, soaking your skin and nearly flinging you off the boat. Snug in bed, Bibi at her side, she was smiling, assured there was no real danger, when she heard a crash.

She bolted up and groped for the lamp, then peered around the room for the source of the noise. Relieved to find the window intact, she was nonetheless disgruntled to see her portrait lying facedown on the floor.

A chill on her skin and an ache in her bones, she slowly eased herself out of bed, navigating the tilting floor. She grasped the picture with both hands, then swiftly returned to the warmth of the blankets.

Vera held the drawing in front of her, this portrait dating back to her prime. In it, her long hair was loosely gathered under a broad-brim hat, a hint of veil covering her face. A youthful thirty-seven, she playfully eyes the artist from the side, a cocky smile captured.

The glass was cracked on the face of her former likeness, giving it some of her current wrinkles. Could this bring bad luck, like breaking a mirror? But no, this image was so old, she had already lived through its seven years of misfortune: the war, her disease, a diversity of unpleasantness.

Vera was studying the drawing, the self-assured lines, the surprising color choices (she’d always relished that touch of sea green in her hair), when she realized that this was roughly what she’d looked like when she met Laszlo Richter. This was the face he had fallen in love with. What had he admired about her? It probably had more to do with her spirit than her looks. Again she thought back on their first dinner together; describing the most elemental details of his life in Budapest—his high-level post at an international bank, his old-fashioned house with a view of the Danube, his hounds and horses—his wife had not been included. Had this face bewitched him?

She reached for her journals and pen on the nightstand. She turned to an empty page in the back (with a weak smile for the soaring balloon) and tried to draw Laszlo’s face. The visit the day before with young Max—who boasted some of his grandfather’s features in miniature—had helped jog her memory. After making a moderately successful outline of his middle-aged face, she proceeded to age it. She let his jaw sag, she lined his brow, thinned out his hair. Would his ears have grown long and hairy? His eyebrows uncontrollably bushy? Would he have lost his teeth? She continued adding the pitfalls of old age to the drawing, until finally it resembled a ghoul. She chuckled sadly at the sketch, thinking that, indeed, they would have made a good match, here at the end.

Vera screwed the top back on her pen and laid it on the nightstand, next to the old bank. Last night, listening to Max’s bubbly laughter as he fed the dog coins, she had already decided to give it to him. She would send Emma Richter a note. Perhaps she wouldn’t mind bringing the boy round for tea?

Vera closed the book on the caricature and began to browse the alphabet memoirs, the first book she’d written. She flipped through the pages until she came to L, convinced that, although Laszlo had made an accidental, detached father, he would have doted on his charming grandson.

Love

I have been told that love, the most celebrated of sentiments, is generally experienced—first and foremost—within one’s Family: parents and siblings and, on rare occasions, one’s more far-fetched relations, such as grandparents, aunties, or cousins. These ties of childhood are then succeeded by the newfound family of one’s Maturity: a spouse and offspring. However, my rather singular and solitary case did not offer me many opportunities to learn about Domestic Love. Indeed, perhaps my knowledge in this matter is rather too scarce to compose these lines.

Despite the fact my parents were eminent members of the community and had a reputation for their sociability, I barely knew them. For my education and amusement, my grandmother, the matriarch of the family and my personal guardian, provided me with a series of governesses. For the most part, these young ladies merely inspired indifference in me. A rare few I condescended to despise. One, I loved.

Miss Daphne was a refined young lady from Savannah. Although Sherman’s March to the Sea had left her family impoverished, when the war ended, they sent their only daughter North, in search of a future. My grandmother engaged her and she became my companion during my seventh year. She was not sparing with affection and kindness like the other adults I had known, and I flourished under her attentions. Unfortunately, Daphne also taught me the frail and fleeting nature of love. After only ten months had passed, she left her position, leaving me brokenhearted and alone.

Vera’s first taste of love had come not from a family member but an outsider, a girl with a lolling stride and a peculiar accent. How stricken she was when, after an academic year, Daphne had abandoned her to marry. After her first experience with love (so long overdue), Vera already learned to be wary of it.

Skimming down the sequence of thwarted sentimental endeavors, she came to her husband. Odd to find him here, she sighed, in a chapter about love.

I first saw Warren Harris at a club social. Telling a tall tale, whiskey in hand, he had the undivided attention of at least a dozen people. A brawny man down from the wilds of Canada, he was in New York visiting relations. In that tired, staid drawing room, he radiated excitement. I observed him. His pleasing face displayed the lines of experience; I estimated his age at Thirty-five. His carriage was self-possessed, his expression wry. His amusing anecdote, too loudly narrated for polite society, concerned frozen rivers and beaver traps. His finger bore no ring. I was immediately attracted to him, recognizing him at once as an extremely promising vehicle to carry me away from the confines of my Grandmother’s house. I had just turned eighteen.

Marrying Warren Harris provided Vera with a legitimate means of escape. The marriage itself, which lasted a full five years, had many moments of reckless diversion, but none resembling the deep tenderness purported to be found in love. When it became clear that Vera could not have children, the festivities came to a complete stop. Not only did he crave a son, but for him, her flaw gave his infidelities just cause. Warren was the one who ultimately petitioned for divorce; when it was finalized, Vera, though tainted with the label of divorcée, was free at last.

If Laszlo had truly been devoted to her, she thought crossly, he too could have gone to the courts to dissolve his marriage. Feeling her overly warm brow, she wondered, for the first time, whether one of his unopened letters might have contained such a proposal. In that case, would she have agreed to . . . what? Love was not her strong suit. She thumbed through the rest of the journal entry dedicated to the subject. After her short-lived marriage, the remaining pages discussed not her lovers but her friends. Charles Wood figured prominently.

She closed her eyes for a moment to feel the swell of the sea. Though not unduly short, her life had been rather bereft in romantic love, despite her numerous affairs. Would she have been able to enjoy a long, devoted marriage? Or would she have soon panicked like a caged animal? She heard her pen roll off the nightstand; if anything, the storm was becoming more violent. Opening her eyes, she turned back to the unflattering illustration of a decrepit Laszlo Richter, wishing that old man were there at her side.

Constance awoke to confusing bumps and rolls. She turned on the lamp and located the sound: in the large fruit bowl, the three remaining apples were sliding from one side to the other. She stood up to investigate and felt the pitch of the ship. Stumbling over to the porthole, she looked outside and saw the dark skies and the turbulent sea. She fell into the chair to watch the unexpected spectacle: a tempest.

On the way over with Gladys Pelham and her talkative friends, it had all been “smooth sailing,” the idea of a perilous sea inconceivable. Now, staring out at the peaked waves, a shiver rippled down her back; the Lusitania, the luxury liner that went down in 1915, immediately came to mind. That ship, with four funnels, was even larger than the Paris. The fastest ship of its day, it was able to sink, to be underwater, in just eighteen minutes. Suddenly nervous, she felt the ocean liner’s smallness within the immensity of the Atlantic.

When she’d heard of the Lusitania tragedy—not caused by a storm, of course, but by a German submarine—she had been holding her newborn. Little Elizabeth was only a month old and Constance, still getting used to motherhood, was exceptionally sensitive and weepy. George had come in and casually told her the news:

“Did you hear about that steamer? The Lusitania? A U-boat sunk it off the coast of Ireland. There are over a thousand dead—men, women, and children. The millionaire Alfred Vanderbilt was on board and he’s drowned as well. I bet President Wilson will declare war on Germany now!”

Constance looked down into the perfect face of her sleeping baby, clutched her tightly in her arms, and began to cry.

“What’s the matter?” George asked, his eyebrows arched in surprise. “Did you know someone traveling on the Lusitania?”

He hadn’t understood that she was crying for all children, and even more, for all mothers; they would never be able to fully protect their sons and daughters. A mother’s love could not solve their problems and, despite her finest efforts, they would still face danger: illness, accident, unhappiness. She had sobbed all morning, gazing at her child, wondering at the futile task at hand.

Some weeks later, a song had come out called “When the Lusitania Went Down!” It was a popular tune at dances, festivals, and fairs, and some of her friends bought the phonograph record. It seemed everyone was singing it that summer, the men removing their hats, showing respect for the victims. It had made her teary-eyed every time she heard it.

Looking out the porthole, Constance hummed the chorus, hearing the warbling tenor in her mind:

Some of us lost a true sweetheart

Some of us lost a dear dad

Some lost their mothers, sisters, and brothers

Some lost the best friends they had

It’s time they were stopping this warfare

If women and children must drown

Many brave hearts went to sleep in the deep

When the Lusitania went down!

Holding on to furniture, Constance lumbered over to the bureau, picked up her photographs, then quickly sat down on her bed. Elizabeth, now six, still had the round face she’d had as an infant. And Mary . . . Mary had just been born when war was finally declared, and there she stood, a delightful little girl. For several minutes she studied her daughters, their little bodies, faces, smiles, and then took a peek at her husband. The serious, card-stock face seemed to be expressing disapproval, judging her, as if the photograph itself suspected her attraction to the ship’s doctor. With a long sigh, Constance wagered that, without a doubt, Serge would have shown more sensitivity about the sinking of the Lusitania.

After storing the photographs away, she picked up an apple, thinking back on every detail of her evening with him, beginning at seven sharp: the orchids, the lavish dinner, the waltz, the near-kiss. She took a bite. Was it possible that Serge was married too? If he were a bachelor or a widower, it seems he would have made an allusion to it, either in jest or in sorrow. She had heard that Europeans had looser mores than Americans. Could a kiss, then, be just a sign of affection between friends? Faith’s friends, when coming and going, had certainly been very generous with their pecks on the cheek.

Finishing off the apple, she sat on her bed, trying to decide what to do next. It was still frightfully early; there was no point in getting dressed yet. Hopefully, in another few hours, Serge would pay her a visit and see how she was faring with the storm. She considered ordering some coffee, but felt rather queasy. She would lay flat on her bed and finally finish The Mysterious Affair at Styles. That way, tonight, she would be able to offer him a keepsake: a thriller by a woman, dedicated to him.

Imaginary hands, tongues, hairy bodies against her, Julie awoke in a sweat, her heart racing, but managed not to cry out. All the other women were still asleep. Although there was almost no light, she could make out the strings from Simone’s apron, hung on the bunk’s peg the night before. They were swinging back and forth, like a slow-moving pendulum. The sea had become even rougher; Julie could feel its pitch lying down. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe deeply, but she knew she was going to be sick again. Grabbing her robe and her shower bag, Julie hopped out of the bunk bed and ran barefoot to the bathroom down the corridor.

After a quarter hour hovering over a toilet, her stomach contracting despite its emptiness, she tottered into the shower room. The tile floor cool on her feet, she hung her clothes outside the stall and closed the curtain. Looking down at her delicate skin, past the gold medallion, she discovered oily splotches, soft bruises, blue finger marks; it was as if she too were tattooed, permanently marked by her evening with Nikolai. She quickly closed her eyes and stood under the lukewarm water. Exhaling deeply, she began scrubbing, determined to be spotless, to smell only of soap. She gently washed herself between her legs, the dried blood and the gluey secretions. Near tears, she examined the stained washcloth, shaking her head in wonder.

“Nikolai loves me,” she said out loud, then braced herself on the wall, fighting another wave of nausea. What would happen now? Would they get married? Would they be happy? She coughed up some spittle, wiped her mouth with her hand, then cleaned it in the trickling shower jet. Julie turned off the water and got out.

When she returned to the dormitory, all the women were up, silently getting dressed, their feet unsteady on a floor that was swelling and shrinking with the sea. Even the most veteran seafaring women on board were feeling the effects. After putting on her uniform, Julie lurched to the galley with the bag of ginger tea.

“Good morning, Pascal,” she said, grabbing on to the counter next to him, making no pretense to smile.

“Morning, mon petit chou,” he replied, looking at her with his usual paternal concern. “I don’t need to ask how you are.”

“None of us girls are feeling too well what with this weather. Would you mind using this tea for everyone’s breakfast? Perhaps it’ll help us all get through the morning.”

“Sure.” He smiled. “Let’s give the ginger another try, shall we?”

They exchanged a nod, then Julie staggered into the women’s dining room, intent on sitting down. She put her head against the cool metal table. Nikolai had certainly been right about her needing his special tea this morning, she thought, concentrating on the beginning of their evening, when he’d been warmhearted and pleasant. She liked the idea of sharing Nikolai’s tea with the other girls; dare she tell them that it was a gift from her boyfriend? For, surely now they were a formal couple? She glanced over at the doorway (would he be coming by first thing?) only to see Simone bustle in.

Surrounded by her entourage, Simone first smirked at Julie, then made a show of ignoring her. Julie could feel them whispering about her at the back table. If Simone only knew how tedious her evening in first class had been, she wouldn’t be jealous.

When Marie-Claire came in, Julie hoped they could have a laugh about hatcheck—the clients’ aloof “ehem”s, their affected hat-and-cane gestures, the ladies’ ridiculous cocoon cloaks—but she promptly sat down beside her pretty friends with the upper-deck jobs. Really, though, there was no buzz of conversation in the dining hall this morning, only lone voices expressing communal discomfort. All of the women were under the weather, and most sat silently, sipping at their tea, picking at their toast.

“I haven’t felt a sea like this in a long time,” said a green-faced woman who had made dozens of crossings, ironing clothes all day in a windowless metal room.

“Me neither,” agreed Louise. “Yesterday, I heard a passenger—a former sailor, he was—say that, of all the seas, the Atlantic is the trickiest. It’s the foggiest, iciest, stormiest ocean there is!”

“Is it so wild?” asked the girl from the flower shop. “You’d think, lying between Europe and America, it would be more civilized!”

Although the women groaned at the gullible notion of a tamable sea taking cues from the refined folk on its shores, they were uneasy with the idea of being atop an unpredictable, dangerous ocean. Usually on an ocean liner, this was conveniently forgotten.

Although the day had hardly begun, Julie was wishing it were over. Tomorrow, around midday, they would be reaching New York. She wondered whether the crew would be able to disembark and enjoy a few hours at port, in the city, on land. She imagined walking through the busy streets, arm in arm with Nikolai, looking in the shops nestled at the foot of towering buildings. She thought back on what those Irish boys had said the first night: you can find whatever you want in New York. Maybe she and Nikolai should just stay there and settle down? Barely four days into her first cruise, Julie had already had enough of life at sea.

To go ashore! she thought longingly. No more endless stairs, no more wavy floors, no more seasickness. She had heard that some sailors, after an extended time on a ship, felt nauseated without the roll of the ocean under them, finding the earth’s surface too solid, uncomfortably still. She was thinking how terribly unfair land-sickness seemed when she heard someone at the door. She peeked over at the door with a nervous smile, sure this time it would be Nikolai, only to find a cross-looking Mme. Tremblay, gesturing her into the hallway.

“It has come to my attention that you returned to the dormitory at an indecent hour,” she said, her low voice articulating the words with cutting precision. “May I ask where you were?”

“Hatcheck duty ran very late, madame,” Julie answered nervously. Mme. Tremblay’s face had never looked so severe. “The last people reclaimed their things around two.”

“A girl with a bunk near yours maintains that you didn’t come back until past three,” she said.

“Well.” Julie swallowed. “I went to the bathroom, then I took a little walk. I’d never seen such beautiful rooms before!”

“You are not a tourist here, mademoiselle!” She paused to click her tongue at the outrage. “And you will not be working in first class again! Now, where is the uniform you wore yesterday?”

“I’ve already taken it to the laundry, ma’am,” Julie said with some relief. She was sure that Mme. Tremblay would have been able to smell her lie on the fabric.

“And the cap?” she asked.

“It must be in the dormitory,” Julie said. “I’ll go get it.”

“No,” she said, with a stiff shake of the head. “You will begin the breakfast shift now. You can give me the cap later.”

She marched off, leaving Julie trembling. Where was she going to find a lace cap? Maybe she could ask Nikolai to look for it? Reliving last night’s shame—from stripping off her camisole, to her nakedness, his hugeness, to the struggle and the pain—her breathing grew shallow. No, she would not ask him to search for missing clothes. She remembered her panties, now gray, drowning by the mattress, and didn’t want him to find them. With a deep blush, Julie realized that it was highly possible that another engineman, a shirker taking a quick break, already had. Were they parading her dirty drawers around, laughing, and slapping Nikolai on the back? Were they talking about her? Calling her names (tart, slut, pig, whore)? And Nikolai? What would he say? That he loved her? Or would he be laughing too?

Her hand slid along the rope railing as she walked toward the steerage dining room. The ginger tea had only calmed her stomach slightly and she wasn’t looking forward to the strong smells of Pascal’s cooking. Behind her, she heard the heavy footsteps of Simone and the other girls.

“I don’t know why Old Tremblay chose her to work in first anyway.” Simone’s vicious whisper rang out in the corridor. “It looks like someone spit a wad of tobacco on her face!”

Julie was struck by the harshness of her words but pretended not to notice the chorus of giggles behind her. She tried to take comfort in the fact that, although she had a flaw, Nikolai thought she was beautiful. Simone, with her lank hair and pimples, would never be able to arouse such passion in a man.

Vera’s sad sigh was interrupted by a knock.

“Madame Sinclair! It is I, Dr. Chabron,” he called through the door.

Wishing Amandine was there to open the door, she crawled out of bed, put on her tartan robe and slippers, and let the doctor in.

“Good morning, Doctor,” she said, trying to give off some semblance of dignity in her nightclothes, to stand tall despite her shaky frame and the stormy seas. Vera had been especially mindful of the physical illusion of honor and respect since her ousting in the dining room.

“Please, get back in bed, lie down,” the doctor urged her. “I assumed your maid would be with you when I came.”

“Perhaps we should get her up. Would you mind knocking on that door?” Vera asked. “She should be in here shortly. Now, how may I help you?”

He took a seat on the edge of the bed. “I came to see if you were feeling any better. Tell me, how are you this morning?”

“Much like the day, I’m afraid.” She motioned toward the window with her chin. “Chilly, gray, and a bit rocky.”

He bent over to touch her forehead. “You’re very warm. Let me check your temperature.” He put the thermometer in her mouth and prepared a new compress. “Did you sleep well?”

The thermometer bobbed up and down as Vera nodded.

Waiting for Vera’s temperature to take, the doctor walked to the window and peered out. The rain was pelting down, the rough seas below were impossible to make out.

“I haven’t seen a storm like this in years,” he said. “From my cabin, it feels as if the bow were diving headfirst into the sea, all the way to the top decks, only to burst back up for air, breathless.”

Vera smiled awkwardly around the thermometer, prompting him to take it out.

“One day, perhaps I’ll tell you what it was like to travel on the old paddleboat steamers. Positively gut-wrenching! But, I’ll wait for fair skies.”

He smiled back at his patient, then turned his attentions to the thermometer. “Thirty-nine point five degrees.” He frowned, then began rummaging through his case.

He didn’t translate her temperature into Fahrenheit this time, but Vera, after all her years in France, knew how high that was. About 103 degrees.

“I’m going to give you some aspirin to reduce your fever, Madame Sinclair,” he said, stirring the powder into a glass of water. “Now, did you drink fluids yesterday?”

“Yes, yes. Juice, consommé, water—I felt like an extension of the sea.” Vera drank the cloudy mixture, then closed her eyes briefly. “You know, Doctor, I do still have my teeth,” she joked.

She liked this doctor, his handsome, attentive face, his charming manner.

“Yes, of course.” He smiled back at her, brushing aside a long strand of white hair from her brow to apply a fresh compress. “Eat whatever appeals to you.”

Vera went quiet as Dr. Chabron packed his things into his leather bag. He was turning to her, ready to say good-bye, when she motioned him to sit back down.

“Doctor,” she began, “I’ve been thinking about elephants. Why do you suppose they leave their herds to die?”

Serge Chabron seemed confused. “I don’t know,” he answered.

“Do you think it’s like the old Eskimo who fears he will be a burden to his tribe?”

“Please don’t tell me you think you’re a burden?” he said gently.

Ignoring his question, she continued her own inquiry.

“Let me ask you this, Doctor. Would you say that you are guided by instinct?”

“Well.” Dr. Chabron cleared his throat. “As a physician, I’d like to think of myself as a man of science. Logical, practical. Ruled by the head, you might say, instead of the heart.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve known people like that,” she said, briefly reminded of her grandmother.

“Madame Sinclair, with all due respect,” he said, “what exactly are you getting at?”

“I’ve been questioning my decision to return home,” Vera answered. “Booking passage to New York was certainly an irrational act. One of a blundering elephant.” She sighed. “Although I grew up in Manhattan, now, with its skyscrapers and fleets of motorcars, I believe it’s a city for the young, the quick. I feel more at home in Paris. We are both museum pieces, relics, war survivors. I think, after all, I should like to die in Paris.”

“It would be lovely,” he said, taking hold of her hand, “if we could make those choices: when, where, how we die.” He gave her an affectionate smile. “Perhaps I should like to die on a luxurious ocean liner in the middle of a bright blue sea!”

She smiled back at him, then shrugged.

“You know,” she said, looking him straight in the eye, “I am not afraid of dying, but I do have some regrets. At the moment, my greatest sorrow is that I will never have a grandchild.”

“You can’t know that!” he said, a flicker of a smile on his lips. “Tell me, how many children do you have?”

“Why, none at all.”

Dr. Chabron stared blankly at Vera for a moment or two, then rose from the bed.

“I’m afraid now I truly must go. There’s an infestation of lice down in steerage. And after all the examinations we do before casting off!” He shook his head, exasperated. “I’ll come round again this evening to check on you. But, do stay in bed today.” He got to his feet with a slight stumble and looked out toward the storm. “Not that you would want to go anywhere else.”

Alone again, Vera stroked Bibi’s warm side, waiting for Amandine to appear. As she breathed in harmony with the rise and fall of the sea, her eyes fell again on the broken portrait, the face she used to have. She could hear the voice of Laszlo Richter whispering in her ear.

“You make me so happy, Vera. Without you, my heart should break.”

After a few minutes, listening to him with her eyes shut, she reached for her notepaper. “Mrs. Emma Richter,” she wrote on the envelope. When she had finished writing the invitation to high tea in her suite at five o’clock, she found herself at quite a loss as to how to sign it.

Julie was standing on the side of the third-class common room, holding on to the ropes strung along the wall, handy in bad weather. Luckily, almost everything down here was riveted down, from the tables to the armchairs. Around her, she could hear the moans and curses of a mass of unhappy people: those frantically scratching themselves and others, thrown into chairs, wretched with seasickness. She noticed the Italian twins who liked singing duets, picking through each other’s hair with a fine comb, in no mood for song; a legless man in a wheelchair was tied to an iron ring so as not to roll uncontrollably. He had somehow procured his own bucket.

Julie, feeling as peaked as any passenger, couldn’t muster up much pity for them. Instead, she was overwhelmed with her own problems: Simone, seasickness, work, and above all, Nikolai. The morning was almost over and she’d had no word from him.

She pulled the necklace out of her collar and stroked the pendant nervously. What had happened to him? Was he having to work extra because of the storm? Or was he too feeling sick? Could he be in trouble? Had the chief engineer found the boys’ hidden mattress? Had there been a serious accident down below? Or—far worse than any of these—had he simply forgotten his promise to come see her? Was he too busy playing cards with his friends, chuckling over the details of his conquest?

Suddenly, there was a tap on her arm; Julie’s head shot up, a delighted smile nearly forming.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” It was the ship’s doctor, who recognized her from their prior meetings. “So, tell me, how are things down here?”

“As you can see,” Julie replied, visibly disappointed, “the storm has made almost everyone down here ill. And some passengers, it seems, prefer vomiting into the sea. Several of them are out on the mooring deck now! You’d think they’d be terrified out in this storm, but perhaps the rain feels good on their faces?” Julie shrugged tiredly.

“I suppose I should tell them to come in. We can’t risk any accidents! Though I certainly don’t fancy going out there myself.” Dr. Chabron looked put out by the idea.

“Now, on top of everything else, there’s been an outbreak of lice. It seems Madame Blaye has had them all along.” Julie pointed to an elderly woman sitting calmly in the corner. “She’s lost some of her faculties—she can’t taste or smell anymore—and doesn’t seem to have any feeling left in her scalp. She was covered with them and didn’t even know. And now—you know how close the quarters are down here—half of steerage is infested!”

“I wonder how she passed inspection?” the doctor asked, more to himself than to her. “Has anything been done to treat them?”

“The cooks doled out vinegar for people to wash their heads in the sinks. They say it kills the lice, but the bathrooms reek of it! It’s just horrible . . .” Julie’s voice trailed off and she looked on the verge of gagging.

“And you, miss, you are very pale. Really, you should be lying down,” he said, looking around the room for a vacant chair and finding none. “You’re in no shape to be working.”

“It’s strange, Doctor. I grew up in the port of Le Havre, on the edge of the sea, but I just can’t get used to being on a ship.” Julie closed her eyes briefly as she exhaled. “But, I must work. The lunch shift is in a few minutes. I suppose one advantage of the storm is we won’t have many passengers coming to meals.”

After excusing herself to go into the dining room, Julie saw Dr. Chabron set his bag down on the nearest table. A queue immediately formed next to him.

It was still early for lunch, but Julie had been anxious to leave the common room and the suffering passengers; the smell of seasickness, their heaves and groans, made her even worse. She went down the corridor, hoping to see Nikolai’s familiar swagger, then peeked down the stairwell. It was empty. Eager to avoid Simone, she scooted past the women’s dining room, looking straight ahead, then stopped outside the galley, near tears. Julie felt not only sick but alone and unwanted. She no longer had any friends on board. And Nikolai, after professing his love last night, had not come. Where was he? She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, at a loss, then went into the kitchen.

She leaned against the large refrigerator door, pressing her body against the cool metal, and greeted Pascal.

“Still not feeling well, are we?” he asked, looking up at her as he licked something off his finger. “The ginger didn’t work?”

Julie shook her head.

The cook, of course, was feeling fine. Julie watched in amazement as he stirred, smelled, and tasted food while keeping his footing—two steps up, three steps back—with the roll of the ship.

“So, what are we serving up today?”

“Fish stew,” he said.

“Fish!” Julie made a face. “On a day like today!”

“Don’t you know? All morning long they’ve been jumping on board to get out of the storm! I found a few hiding in a soup tureen, as scared and seasick as any green passenger!” Pascal looked at her with mischievous innocence. “Poor things! I didn’t know what else to do with them!”

Julie almost managed a smile.

“Pascal,” she began slowly, “do you think, on a day like today, the engine crew might be working especially hard? Say, a greaser? Would a lot of parts need oiling in this weather?”

Pascal looked at her suspiciously.

“I don’t know much about these new engines they’ve got nowadays,” he said, pulling his chef’s hat down on his brow. “Coal fires, I understand, mind you! But greasers?” He shrugged. “No idea. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re asking?”

“I was expecting a friend from the engine crew to pay me a call this morning, that’s all.”

“Haven’t seen him, eh?” Was that pity in his eyes? “I’m sure there’s a good reason he hasn’t come by. Probably just running a little late is all.”

“Sure,” she mumbled.

“Now, stop worrying and go lie down,” he said, shooing her off with a spoon. “You’ve got at least a half hour to rest up before you’re needed here.”

Like an obedient child, Julie went off to bed.

Constance, far too anxious to stay in her cabin alone, had joined her former tablemates for luncheon. At her arrival, Mrs. Thomas looked her over carefully.

“Oh, hello, dear. We missed you yesterday,” she crooned. “You weren’t indisposed, I hope? Or perhaps you enjoyed your meals with your other friends on board?”

Mildred Thomas gave Constance a look intended to express guileless charm. Constance returned it.

“I’m feeling much better now, thank you,” she replied.

“I thought it such a shame when you didn’t come. You looked so nice after our time together in the beauty parlor!”

Mr. Thomas turned to his wife.

“Hush!” he hissed. “I can barely hear Mr. Quaeckernaeck!”

Constance turned toward Mr. Thomas with a polite smile, pleased he had put an end to that conversation, his rudeness working in her favor for once. After the reprimand, Mildred Thomas resumed her code of silence, letting the men dominate the conversation completely.

Until the food arrived, Constance hadn’t realized just how weak her appetite was. During the soup course, she merely picked at a few crackers. She had stopped listening to her tiresome companions, stopped trying to find pauses to make conversational offerings as one does in polite society. Their talk was so perfectly interwoven, a moment’s silence was rendered impossible; and the men were so engrossed in it, they did not even notice the effect the outer storm was having on the dining room floor.

She amused herself, then, by watching Mr. Thomas produce little flecks of spit when he got enthusiastic and the Dutchmen turn different shades of red when particularly adamant. She looked over at Captain Fielding. His hairless pink skin reminded her of some of the war victims she’d seen in Paris.

One day, when Constance was having tea at a sidewalk café and, like today, was bored by company who ignored her, she’d watched a man with similar burns and only half an arm. That man was hanging colorful posters on an advertising pillar. Although his handicap made the work a challenge, he slathered them up like wallpaper, quickly but carefully, making sure to leave no bubbles or folds. He had not been gone five minutes when a herd of dairy goats came through (who would have guessed that livestock would trample through the capital of France!) and, straightaway, they began to eat those very posters. She remembered being rather shocked at the she-goats’ grotesque anatomy, their engorged udders. With those twin pendulous organs hanging almost to the ground, they did not seem female at all, but rather virile males.

Constance, suddenly uncomfortable with her own thoughts, looked swiftly around the table to make sure her dining companions were still talking. They were—talking and drinking wine. Storing it for the dry months ahead, she supposed. Only Mrs. Thomas was watching her with that secret little smile.

“Penny for your thoughts, dear,” she said.

At that moment, images collided in Constance’s head: Serge Chabron, twin udders, and an advertising pillar. Startled, she breathed in a bit of saliva, then began to cough—great choking hacks—until a Dutchman felt compelled to pat her on the back and pour her some more water.

“There, there,” he muttered awkwardly as she took a few sips.

Red in the face, she nodded silently to her tablemates to assure them she was fine. They immediately resumed their conversation and Constance, determined not to chat with Mildred, gave them her full attention. They were discussing the ship’s magnificent engines, which they had visited the day before.

“The Paris is making about twenty-two knots,” Captain Fielding said. “Can’t compare to the British ship, the old Mauretania, launched back in 1906. It still holds the Blue Riband record for fastest crossing, at twenty-eight knots. With steam turbine propulsion, you know, ’twas truly revolutionary in its day.”

“Are you betting on the speed here on the Paris?” one of the Dutchmen asked the other men. “Today will certainly be a hard call. Shame there’s not a proper casino on board.”

“Yes, I love a good game of roulette.” Captain Fielding smiled, his reconstructed skin taut with the effort. He took a casino token out of his pocket. “I won quite a sum at Monte Carlo before the war and always carry this old chip with me. Good luck, and all that.”

Constance was mildly surprised that Captain Fielding—a stuffy old bore—would carry a good-luck charm. Did he think it actually worked? She supposed he was lucky to have survived the war, but unfortunate enough to have been seriously injured. Did mere survival count as luck?

Thinking about her own life, she wondered whether she would be considered lucky. She was attractive, well mannered, and educated; she could boast three charming daughters and a nice home. And her marriage? Had she been lucky in love? George was certainly reliable, loyal, and usually quite courteous. Her gaze fell on the corner table where the crossword honeymooners dined; defying convention, they were sitting next to each other, holding hands. So like Faith and Michel!

Now Faith had always been lucky, the world her oyster. Although Constance had always been more refined, more responsible, and more respected in the community, Faith had independence, confidence, happiness. Would she trade with her younger sister? Should she take more chances? Stake her bets on joy? Take drastic risks, trusting the fates, to live a fuller life?

“May I see your token, Captain Fielding?” she asked suddenly, interrupting the first words of what promised to be one of Mr. Thomas’s lengthy preambles.

They all stopped talking and looked her way, wondering whether words might prompt another coughing fit. The conversation had already moved on, but the British officer still had the chip in his hand, flipping it through his fingers. He passed it to her, and the discourse—on American poker, from the sound of it—resumed at once.

Constance examined the chip, a thin, mother-of-pearl oval with “10 Francs” engraved on both sides, wondering whether her luck might possibly change.

Vera was wrapped in her baby-blue shawl, her feet curled up on the armchair, sweating but cold. She was flipping through her anecdotes and illustrations, thinking of the Richter men, Laszlo and Josef. It seemed each had managed to blame her for his unhappiness. Breezing past her life’s events, she consoled herself with the notion that she, Vera Sinclair, had always taken responsibility for her own failings. Of course, she’d complained, cursed, quarreled, and wished for other realities. But, no, she didn’t think she had ever laid blame elsewhere. And, lord knows, she too had had a lonely childhood, not without its problems.

Closing her journal, she looked down at her watch. What was taking Amandine?

Releasing an impatient gust of air, she looked out on the dramatic sea below. How would this storm, she wondered, compare to Robinson Crusoe’s hurricane? That book had been one of Warren’s favorites, but it was far too moralistic for her taste. Poor Robinson got his just recompense for disobeying his father and running off to sea. If Providence truly punished the wicked and corrupt, what a different place this world would be! Indeed. And what might Providence make of her?

She watched what seemed to be a battle of black clouds above, thinking what an exciting finale a shipwreck would make to her own tale. An unforgettable ending (with or without cannibals or mutineers—or even an island!) to her life story.

She heard a slight scratch at the door, then Bibi and Amandine entered the cabin.

“It’s really nasty out there!” Amandine uttered, taking off her hat. The Scotty plopped down next to Vera’s chair.

“Well? Were you successful?” Vera asked the two.

“We ran into Mrs. Richter on her way to the hairdresser’s. She was on her own and I was able to deliver the message.” Amandine nodded. “She will bring the boy at five sharp.”

“Excellent,” Vera said with a weary cough. “Thank you so much.”

Amandine felt Vera’s brow, frowned, and prepared a fresh compress.

“Would you like me to order some bouillon?” she asked.

“That would be lovely,” Vera replied. “And while you’re there, perhaps you should order tea. Now, what does one serve a small boy?”

“Cocoa and cakes?” proposed the maid.

“Are we to worry about spoiling his supper?”

“Spoil him, ma’am.” Amandine looked serious.

“Always right, aren’t you.” Vera smiled. “Cocoa and cakes it is. And order the richest, gooiest, most extravagant cakes possible.”

Amandine put her hat back on.

“Oh, before you leave, would you mind handing me those old marionettes? They’re on the trunk.”

Peering into the bathroom mirror, Julie checked her hair for lice, searching for sticky white nits around her ears, behind her neck. It was a difficult task to do alone—the other girls were all grooming each other—but she didn’t think she had any; when working in steerage, she always had her hair tucked under a cap. Satisfied, she put the comb down and looked at her face in the mirror. How different was she today from yesterday? In it, she saw one unhappy girl.

All during the lunch shift, she had kept her eye on the doorway, expecting to see Nikolai. She imagined the gestures he would make from the corridor—the praying hands to beg forgiveness, the thrown kisses, the dramatic clutching of his heart—and knew that he would have a good excuse for visiting her later than planned. But lunch had come and gone and now, on break, she decided to go down to the engine room to see what had become of him.

She took a few gulps of water from the faucet and rinsed her mouth, spitting several times to rid her mouth of the rancid taste of sick. Nikolai would want to kiss her, wouldn’t he? She shuddered, thinking of the other things he had done to her. Her whole body ached; blood still trickled from the tear between her legs. Biting her lip to keep from crying, she looked back into the mirror. Was looking for him a good idea? Would he want to have another go? Did she need a boyfriend who, when excited, could not hear or feel her?

“Boyfriend,” she murmured to herself, as if this were a delicacy, a nearly extinct species. She reached up to the birthmark he had playfully licked and turned to go find him.

Walking past the common room, Julie saw a group of children trying to get the attention of a shy cat standing out in the corridor. Scruffy and stained with grease, it nonetheless fascinated the bored children, trapped under the waterline during the tempest.

“Come, kitty!” called a small blond girl, trying to entice the animal with a bit of bread she’d pocketed at lunch.

“Hey! Let’s call him ‘Stormy’!” said a tall, skinny girl next to her. “For today’s weather and also—look!—it has a black spiral on its side! Do you see it?” she asked the other children. “It’s like a whirlpool!”

“Come here, Stormy, come!” they sang out in chorus.

However, having no interest in bread and fearful of the children’s affections, the cat quickly disappeared. Julie was wondering how it came to be in steerage, then recalled the mouse she’d seen her first night on board. This cat must have plenty to feed on belowdecks.

Julie began her slow descent to the engines, holding on to the rails, which were moist from the heat. The hull was creaking with every pitch, the engine pounding. She stepped down onto the floor and groaned; at once, her feet were drenched.

With little stomach for exploring (not only did she feel terrible, but these dark, howling rooms gave her the jitters), she started out, trying to keep her footing like Pascal, two steps up, three steps back. Nikolai must be down here somewhere.

As she tramped around the engines, Julie saw at least a dozen other men—all extremely busy and indifferent to her visit—but he was not among them. After a series of turns, she found herself next to the auxiliary engine; she could just see the mattress poking out from behind. Frozen, she stared at the corner of the filthy bedsheet, trailing down to the wet floor. That’s where it happened. Her heart beating wildly (would Nikolai be sleeping there?), she crept around the machine to face the bed.

It was empty. She breathed out in relief, wiping her clammy hands on her skirt. Although she had to see him, she didn’t want to meet here, ever again. Trembling, she glared down at the crumpled sheet, the place where Nikolai had become an animal. There, alongside the grime and oil stains, she saw his dried, crusty sperm and the paths of her own blood. Feeling again his body crushing her, ripping her, Julie’s knees wobbled and saliva filled her mouth. She closed her eyes and sank down on the mattress; her head fell onto her knees. The machines pounding around her recalled the rhythm of sex. Julie sat motionless, pitched in the storm in that timeless, windowless chamber, her mind racing.

When she was able, Julie opened her eyes. From the vantage point of her lap she spied her bloated panties next to a crate, floating there like a dead fish. So they had not been celebrated that morning, run up the flagpole or worn on some joker’s head. She supposed that, in this weather, the men had been too busy to waste time in their jerry-built rumpus room. She hoisted herself up, lurched over to her underpants, and gave them a violent kick. Her legs were solidly splashed; the panties barely moved. Long since indifferent to the fate of the ridiculous lace ruff, she did not bother looking for it, but turned around and left.

Back in the women’s lounge, she kept to herself, drying her shoes with yesterday’s newspaper. As afternoon began to wane, she stopped looking toward the door.

Constance had not been able to finish lunch. Looking down at the open-eyed stare of her fish course, she had begun to feel queasy again. Had the storm managed to get worse? Making a vague excuse, she trotted back to her cabin to lie down. At first she felt better (away from the gaze of her sole—as well as that of Mrs. Thomas), but she soon began imagining all the different life-forms teeming under the seemingly solid ocean surface.

When Constance was a girl she used to spend hours in the family library poring over a big red book blazoned with the black and gold title Wonders of the Universe. It contained articles on nature and science and was filled with wonderfully rendered engravings, notable for their realism and accuracy: “Extraordinary Fingernails,” “Tattooed Islanders,” “The Cannonball Tree.” From the safety of her father’s big leather armchair, cozy and warm in front of the fire, she was pleasantly horrified by the drawings of repulsive sea creatures.

Having looked through those pages so many times, she could now envision those images perfectly: the pelican fish with its huge faceless mouth and snaky body, the closest thing to a real sea serpent in the book; the savage sperm whale; the whimsical Portuguese man-of-war, with its long trailing curlicues (odd their touch should be so painful). But the entry which really captured her attention was on giant cuttlefishes. One engraving depicted a massive squid, a huge moving muscle with “suckers like saucepan lids,” attacking a boat; the other showed a dead calamary draped around a wooden stand, its languid limbs covered in tentacles, a thousand bulbous eyes.

She shivered thinking of these creatures below—not that they could harm an ocean liner—but what if one were pitched overboard? Or what if, like the Lusitania, the ship went down? The humans would be in their world then, she thought ominously, imagining the feel of frozen water on her skin. As a child, when her family had taken a rare outing to the shore, she had found the Atlantic too cold for bathing. If the thin waters washing the sands of Cape Cod were icy, what must the water be like here, fathoms deep?

Constance poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher and took a long sip, feeling the cold liquid’s passage down her throat and into her near-empty stomach, then she sat in the armchair, trying to remain calm. It was her interest in the natural world, she reminded herself, that had softened her heart toward George. When they were courting, he would confide the world’s secrets in her during a garden stroll. He would casually mention that snails had tiny teeth or that dragonflies could fly in reverse; that lichen, which grew on the northern side of trees, were natural compasses; or that the butterscotch star up there was really Mars. Constance sighed. How was it possible that he had won her affection over a handful of facts? Had she been so very desperate to marry? Or, after Nigel had taken his leave, had she looked upon George Stone as her last chance? Wonders of the Universe, indeed.

Constance put down her water and picked up The Mysterious Affair at Styles. She’d finished it that morning but was still trying to decide what to write inside for Serge. “From your friend Constance on the Paris launch”? Or was that the dedication of a schoolgirl? “To a fellow devotee of murder and mystery”? Was that too flippant? During their private dinner, she wanted to give him a memento of their time together (Was it really just a few days?) but didn’t know what to say. Was he planning a romantic evening? Or a meal between friends? If she could write her real feelings, she might put “To my impossible love.”

Lying in bed that morning, humming the Lusitania song (“some of them lost a true sweeeet-heart”), Constance had finally come to the realization that she was falling for Serge Chabron. She recognized the symptoms from when she’d first met Nigel Williams: the tingle in her belly, the ridiculous stuttering, and her thoughts, which, however disperse, always came back to him. Despite her feelings, she knew a lasting relationship with him was unthinkable; she could never leave her children. Constance toyed with the idea of taking the photographs of her family to his cabin this evening, to share with him the reality of her husband and daughters. But then, would he think she’d been deceiving him? Would he be angry?

To calm her nerves, she brought out her paints. She opened the sketchpad to the fruit pattern she’d started the day before, but after a few strokes of her brush, she wrinkled her nose, dissatisfied. With the shifting of the ship she found herself unable to make clean lines. It looked like a child’s painting anyway.

She sighed, thinking of Faith’s artist friends back in Paris. Many of them went out of their way to be messy and careless with their work, even those who were truly talented. Michel, for example, had a good eye. He enjoyed sketching portraits of people on café napkins and could usually render a perfect likeness. But when he painted, he actually chose to create odd shapes and use the wrong colors, to make childlike figures that were comical or grotesque.

What might that be like? To choose to do the wrong thing?

She thought of her time in Paris, two weeks of tagging along behind Faith and her painter-lover to galleries, cafés, and other small apartments, each as filthy and kaleidoscopic as her sister’s. She stood by watching as Fée did as she pleased, with no obligations to anyone.

She, Constance, had always been the obedient daughter, the one who respected the wishes of their substandard parents. At twenty, she had married an appropriate match and thus began her responsible, adult life of keeping house, raising children, and worrying. Faith’s happiness made Constance feel its lack—she was incomplete, hollow—but her younger sister’s notion that she deserved joy and freedom infuriated her.

“Go back to Worcester?” Faith had repeated in an incredulous tone. “Why would I do that? Seriously, Constance, you know it wouldn’t help. No, I’m staying in Paris,” she said, her decision firm. “This is where I belong.”

Constance’s mission had failed with no discussion; she would return to America by herself to deal with the family crisis on her own. As angry as Constance was with Faith, she couldn’t help but envy her, her obstinate, daring, and carefree conviction. Part of her wished she had the strength to follow her own bent.

The brush still in her hand, Constance began to paint long, flat strokes over the fruit pattern, again and again, smudging the colors until the whole page was streaked an ugly brown. She ripped out the sheet, crumpled it into a sticky ball, and threw it into the wastepaper basket. One by one, she squeezed the small tubes of paint between her fingers until the colors oozed out and her hands were stained—vermilion, cobalt, ocher—then chucked the empty husks into the bin as well. Painting was not for her.

“Would you like some hot chocolate?” Vera offered her guests.

“Just a bit, please,” said Emma Richter.

Max, far more interested in the toy bank, didn’t look up. Vera had placed it on the writing table before they’d arrived, along with a heaping pile of centimes. He was already at work, feeding the dog coins.

Vera poured cocoa into cups and Amandine handed them out, cautious, the rocking of the ship tempting her to spill. She then took her place in a straight-backed chair at Vera’s side. The three women were silent a moment as they sipped. Vera brought the cup to her lips, but, feeling hot and sticky herself, couldn’t drink it.

When the supply of centimes was used up, Max reached for a cake; the rough seas had not affected his sweet tooth. He licked cream from the corner of his mouth. “The cakes are yummy, Miss Camilla,” he said, making her wince and smile at the same time.

Emma gave her son a sidelong glance but didn’t comment on the false name.

“Yes, Mrs. Sinclair.” She nodded to her hostess. “Thank you for inviting us. It is a delightful distraction on a day like today.”

“Thank you so much for coming,” she said, walking toward the wardrobe with a slight stumble. “Max, I thought you’d especially like to see these.” She pulled out the two marionettes, the Italian knight and his lady. “My parents gave them to me when I was a child.”

He came over and touched the knight’s sword.

“They’re wonderful!” he said.

“Would you like me to give you a little puppet show?” she asked.

“Yes, please!” he cried.

Vera sat on the bed and gave the boy a cushion to sit on the floor in front of her.

“Now then, let me see,” she started slowly, as if she hadn’t been planning this performance all afternoon. She picked up the puppets, making the mustachioed knight salute, then bow. “This is the Chevalier of Melancholia and this is . . .” She maneuvered the other puppet into a curtsy. “What shall we call her?”

“Hmm.” Max squinted one eye, thought visible on his brow. “How about Daisy?” he said finally.

“An excellent choice. And this is Princess Daisy. Once upon a time, Princess Daisy found the chevalier lost in the mountains. ‘I’ll save you!’ she cried.”

“That’s silly!” Max laughed. “A knight being saved by a princess! It’s the other way around!”

“But Daisy was a fairy princess with magical powers,” Vera countered. “She saw that someone, long ago, had put the Spell of Sadness on the good chevalier. Here, look at his face, his eyes. You can see for yourself.”

Vera made the knight walk over to Max and kneel before him. The boy looked at the painted features on the wooden head and nodded sagely.

“He does look sad,” he said.

“So the fairy, disguised as a princess, gently touched his cheek and said, ‘Smile, oh Chevalier of Melancholia!’ ”

“ ‘Ow!’ cried the knight. ‘I can’t do it! It hurts my face!’ ”

The puppet covered his face and the boy giggled.

“Yes, you can, my good man. I will help you smile. And even laugh!”

Vera made the princess puppet do a silly jig, go upside down and do the splits.

“ ‘Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . . ’ Very slowly the knight began to laugh a slow, rusty laugh. A laugh that had been trapped inside a long, long time. ‘Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . .’ ”

She made him walk around in a circle, his neck jutting out like a chicken at each “ha.”

“For the rest of the summer the fairy stayed with him up in the mountains, taking walks, picking flowers, dancing and singing together.”

Vera made the puppets dance and sing, hitting faint though piercing high notes followed by low, gravelly ones. Max’s eyes shone with delight.

“When summer came to an end, the fairy said, ‘My dear Chevalier, the spell is now broken! You are free from the curse of sadness and can be happy as long as you live! However, I must leave you now.’ The princess puppet kissed his cheek and began to walk away. ‘No!’ cried the knight. ‘It is you who brings me happiness! I will be sad again if you go!’ ”

The knight puppet implored her on one knee, his hands lifted in prayer.

“ ‘But I have taught you to smile and laugh, to love the world, and to feel joy in your heart!’ ”

The princess puppet pulled him to his feet, then Vera paused; her voice felt too tight to continue. A tear trapped in her lashes, she looked down at Laszlo’s grandson with affection. Enthralled by the story, he was staring at the puppets, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open. Vera hoped that he would never make another person responsible for his own happiness.

Emma didn’t know whether she felt touched by the tale itself or Vera’s sorrow in telling it. Remembering the old love letters, written twenty years past, she stole a glance at the elderly lady, wondering how their lives would be now if Vera had read them. Max too looked up at the puppeteer, confused by the story’s abrupt ending.

“But, what happened then?”

“Well,” Vera said with a stifled sniffle. “What do you think happened?”

“The fairy . . . goes off to help other people with her magic. And the brave knight,” Max paused a moment. “He kills a dragon and takes its treasure!”

“Just so!” Vera cried. “What a clever boy you are!”

“You tell good stories! And really, you have the best toys!” Max said with admiration, sneaking another peek at the mechanical bank.

“Thank you, young man. In fact, that is the real reason I’ve invited you over today. I’d like for you to have that old bank.”

Max’s mouth fell open.

“Really?” he asked, looking over at his mother for confirmation. When she nodded, he rushed over to the writing table and picked it up with both hands. “It’s heavy!” he said happily. He sat back in his chair, his new possession safe on his lap.

“You know, Max,” Emma murmured to her distracted son. “Mrs. Sinclair here knew your grandfather Richter.”

At once, he looked up at his mother, then at Vera.

“Back when your father was just a little boy. He might have been about your age,” Vera said shyly; Emma’s revelation had come as a surprise. “We met in the mountains one summer.”

“Like Daisy and the knight!” he said.

“Oh, we weren’t as exciting as all that,” she said with a sad chuckle. “There was no fairy magic, no dragons killed. But your grandfather was a very fine man, Max. And he would have been delighted to have had a grandson such as yourself.”

Max looked pleased for a moment, then turned to Vera with a serious expression. “May I ask you something?”

Vera fidgeted on her chair; surely the boy didn’t think she was his grandmother! “Yes,” she breathed. “Of course, Max.”

“Do you have any more centimes?”

Vera threw her head back with a roar of laughter, which in turn caused a coughing fit.

“We should be going,” Emma said, quickly rising to her feet. “Thank you for everything.”

Max popped up beside his mother.

“And thank you for my bank!” he said, cradling it against his chest.

Still seated, Vera looked at the boy at eye level, then patted his head.

“I have so enjoyed meeting you, Max,” she said, her voice now raspy. “Thank you, Mrs. Richter, for allowing me to see him.” The two women shook hands.

When Max and his mother had left, Vera was astounded by the silence in the room. She didn’t hear the foghorn or the wind, only the boy’s absence. She would miss him, she thought, this boy she barely knew.

“I think your fever has gone up, ma’am,” Amandine chided her mistress.

After the guests had been gone only a few minutes, the maid had Vera back in her dressing gown, in bed, with a compress on her head.

“Perhaps,” Vera said, “but I feel much better. Now, even in this storm, I think I can sleep.”

Preparing the dining room had become a formidable task. Julie, nauseated and dejected, felt so weak that the stoneware dishes had grown surprisingly heavy. Slowly divvying up the plates, trudging from one place setting to the next, she could not stop thinking of Nikolai. She felt every ache in her battered body, felt the weight of the gold medallion on her chest, felt his rejection, and marveled at his idea of love. After her visit to the engine room a slow fury had begun seething inside her, an anger coupled with the shame of her own stupidity. Unfortunately, during a storm like this, it was not able to give her strength.

Her second table set, she tumbled down on a bench at the third, unable to continue. She lay her head down and gently stroked the rim of the shallow dent in front of her. These were carved into the table to prevent the plates from sliding in bad weather. Putting her childlike hand inside the hollow, she thought she could have used some kind of restraint herself, something that would have kept her from falling. After a moment’s rest, she felt Pascal’s big, burn-covered hand on her shoulder.

“Juliette!” he said. “You’re white as a ghost! Could you manage to eat something? Or drink? Tell me what you’d like and I’ll make it. Really, it would do you good.”

She accepted a glass of water and took a halfhearted sip.

“It seems that most of the passengers down here are feeling like you do,” Pascal continued. “The others will be able to handle tonight’s dinner crowd. You go lie down.”

“Are you sure?” Julie asked hopefully. “But, what about Madame Tremblay? She’s already scolded me once today.”

“Let me worry about that. Now, off to bed with you! And hopefully, by morning, you’ll be right as rain. Oh—well, forget the rain part.”

The cook gave her a crooked smile and patted her head fondly.

Julie was making her way down the metal corridor when she saw Simone bolt out of the dormitory, rushing toward the dining hall. Since she was already twenty minutes late to work, Julie was surprised to see that she’d taken the time to put on her sister’s powders, thick layers of lipstick and rouge. Maybe she had finally met a beau? One of the third-class passengers, no doubt.

“Where are you going?” Simone stopped in front of Julie, eyeing her suspiciously. Did she think she was deviously heading back up to hatcheck?

“I’m not well,” Julie said shortly. “Pascal thinks I need some rest.”

“Aren’t you just everyone’s pet?” she said. Her bitter remark was followed by a sudden curl of her lips; her voice oozed with sweetness as her eyes narrowed. “Oh, by the way, I saw Nikolai this afternoon. He came up to steerage after the lunch shift.”

“What?” Julie put her hand on the wall to steady herself. “What did he say? Did he leave me a note?”

“Why,” Simone said coyly, starting off again for work, “we didn’t talk about you!”

Her mouth open, Julie watched the swing of Simone’s hips as she swanned off to the dining room. Breathing hard, Julie stomped back to the dormitory, confused. So, while she was below—looking for him but finding only that nasty mattress—Nikolai had been up here. He had come after all. Drained and queasy, she headed straight to her bed, but was distracted by the mess on Simone’s bunk. It was littered with makeup, street clothes, and a few pieces of costume jewelry. Thinking of her sly, tight-lipped smile, she wondered what Simone was planning. What had they talked about, if not about her?

Simone’s jealousy was out of control, going from tattling to insults to blatant lies. It couldn’t be true that Nikolai hadn’t asked about her. Had she accepted a note from him, just to destroy it? Or, when he had finally made his way up to third class, had Simone managed to make him forget why he’d come? Last night, he’d said he loved her. But, for him, was one working girl as good as another?

Julie grabbed her Verne novel from her locker and lay down on her bed. Opening the book, she quickly found the two notes from Nikolai. She was angry with him, but even angrier with herself. Skimming the notes, with their Louis XIV handwriting and terrible spelling, she read the lines aloud in a sarcastic whisper.

“ ‘When you caught my hat, it was a sign.’ A sign of my foolishness. ‘I hope Mary can melt your heart.’ My brain more like!”

A letter from Loïc slipped out of the novel and, with a deep breath, she picked it up. She compared the old envelope, addressed in her brother’s cramped hand, sent from the trenches, to the notes from Nikolai. These clean, new ones had been written in the safety of an ocean liner to fool her into his arms. How Julie wished she still had brothers! Four brothers who could straighten out a scoundrel who dared insult their little sister.

With tears in her eyes, she remembered a discussion she’d had with Loïc when they were about twelve years old. They were sitting on the dock, their legs hanging down, talking about a tale their father had told them the night before. “The Ridiculous Wishes” was about a poor woodcutter granted three wishes by a genie, but who makes such terrible choices that in the end his life is no better than it was in the beginning. There, under the sun, their bare shins occasionally spattered with seawater, they debated what the best, most risk-free wishes would be, ones that no genie could twist into something bad.

“Gold!” Loïc had said, tossing a pebble into the sea. “How can you go wrong there? Or perhaps to find buried treasure on the banks of the Seine? That way, you could have fun and adventure as well as money.”

“But in the stories, greedy wishes always bring bad luck,” Julie had countered. “I think the best bet would be to wish for a good job. You make your own money that way.” Looking out into the port, she’d pointed at an enormous ocean liner, the France. “Can you imagine working on board a ship like that? Talk about adventure!”

After discussing the obvious wish for wealth, Julie had shyly mentioned her other, less practical desire: a man’s love and devotion. Loïc had teased her a bit, then thrown his arm around her.

“I’m sure you’ll find a good man one day, Julie!” He’d smiled. “And if not, well, you’ll always have me!”

Julie looked at Nikolai’s notes again, the scrolling curlicues, the flattery, his extravagant gift. It seemed her wishes had come true. She had the exact job she’d thought she’d wanted. However, far from an adventure, she found the work tedious, and life under the waterline, with no sun or air, wretched. As for the love of a man . . .

She reread Nikolai’s words with a snort, and then balled the paper up in her hand, squeezing it tight. In the end, she had made ridiculous wishes like the woodcutter; she too had been fooled by the genie.

With the seas in such a state, Constance was growing nervous alone in her cabin. Wiping the notions of sea creatures and impossible loves from her mind, she put on her hat and gloves and headed out. Unsure of where to go, she decided to start with the drawing room, hoping to see those amusing Brits. However, she was disappointed to find that almost no one had turned up for tea, and the ones who had all seemed stern and sullen. (Was everyone imagining giant cuttlefishes and icy waters? Or were they simply fighting impending nausea?) She debated having her hair done again, but, still pleased with her appearance, she didn’t want to risk it. She couldn’t venture outdoors in the storm, and, with the sway it caused indoors, she doubted any exotic sport—fencing or boxing—was taking place in the gymnasium. Running out of options, she eventually settled on the library.

Arranging herself in a deep-seated armchair, she absentmindedly thumbed through the latest issue of Lady’s Companion and wondered what Serge was doing. Constance was disappointed that he hadn’t checked in on her and could only imagine what interesting procedures he was performing on which patients. She was terribly ill at ease. She couldn’t get the song “When the Lusitania Went Down!” out of her head, no matter how hard she tried to supplant it with the ditty “Fancy You Fancying Me.”

She gave out a long sigh, tossed the magazine onto the table, then watched it slowly slide off with the roll of the ship. This wasn’t working; the library was too quiet and she had been alone with her thoughts long enough. Constance decided to move on.

As she was walking past the second-class bar, she heard laughter. She paused for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of gaiety and remembering again the diversion she’d found with the English group the previous day. Why not, Constance thought to herself. Perhaps this was exactly what she needed.

Constance opened the door and stepped inside. A chrome bar was wedged into a snuggly fitted room where a mirror was shining through liquor bottles, jiggling and clinking with the sea. Roosting on stools, leaning on the bar, four middle-aged men were drinking cocktails.

At her entrance, they all turned in unison. Constance hesitated, looked back out the door, then stood still, smiling with embarrassed uncertainty. She hadn’t expected the group to be made up solely of men, but now that they’d seen her (and were watching her still), she felt even more awkward turning on her heel and walking out.

“Hello! Hello!” The men burst out greetings in American accents. “Come in! Please join us!” they cried together.

Constance shyly walked up to the bar, where one of the men offered her his stool.

“I’ll have a cup of tea,” she told the barman.

“Tea? No, have a cocktail with us! Let us treat you to something special!”

Crowded around her, they all grinned playfully, their eyes shining. Constance shook her head, protesting mildly, but after a few minutes’ insistence, she finally agreed. After all, she could use the distraction.

“Right then!” called one in a brown suit. “What would you like? Rum punch? A manhattan?”

“For a day as wet as this, I’d recommend a dry martini!” said one with gray hair, raising his glass and laughing at his own joke. “Or, how about a white lady for the lady?

“Hey, Lou-ee!” this one cried to the barman. Constance noticed the familiarity of his tone, as if this Paris bar had been his regular haunt for ages. She too had experienced the strange passage of time aboard ship, each day at sea equaling several years on land. “A white lady for our friend.”

“Now then, what’s your name? Where are you from? Tell us about yourself!”

Alcohol, it seemed, made one take shortcuts around routine civilities. Constance, however, was rather pleased to have such a captive audience.

“I’m Constance Stone, from Worcester, Massachusetts,” she replied with a smile, as her drink was being served.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Constance Stone from Worcester, Massachusetts,” the gray-haired gentleman said with a wink. “I’m John Crenshaw and this here is Martin, Albert, and Cy. We’re all from New York.”

Martin lifted his glass to make a toast: “To friends, old and new!”

“Here, here!”

Constance found the white lady, served in a long-stemmed glass and decorated with a cherry and a slice of orange, rather imposing. She balanced it in her hand a moment, trying to decide how to drink it without spilling the fruit into her lap. Finally she took a small sip, and though it was far too strong for her taste, she made a good-natured grimace, raising her glass to her delighted companions.

Enjoying their martinis, the four men swapped travel anecdotes: amusing misunderstandings in foreign languages, mishaps on the railways, interesting characters met abroad. During their second round, Constance chimed in to tell them about the bohemian artists she’d met in Paris, making them laugh with her humorous descriptions of their eclectic fashions and untidy artwork. She didn’t mention her sister or her mission; none of that mattered here.

Constance felt agreeably risqué, having a fancy drink (two!) in the company of men. So unlike her! She caught her own reflection in the mirror behind the bar, swinging her glass and grinning like the Cheshire cat. Constance hardly recognized herself. She glanced over at barman Louis and saw boredom in his heavy-lidded eyes, his utter lack of surprise at her inclusion in this group. How refreshing to be unknown.

Suddenly the ship heaved and Constance, perched daintily on the edge of her stool, tipped over and onto the floor. The man introduced as Albert helped her up with a “No harm done?” but gray-haired John gave her a playful wag of his finger.

“I think our white lady has had enough!” He laughed at her blush.

She suddenly remembered her dinner plans and looked at her watch; quarter to seven. Serge was coming for her at eight.

“Oh my!” she exclaimed, covering her mouth with her fingertips. “I do need to run! But, thank you, gentlemen, for a most amusing afternoon!”

“Our pleasure,” they declared, tipping their heads, saluting her with a single finger.

“Let me walk you back to your cabin, miss,” said John. “I’d never forgive myself if you tumbled into the sea.”

Vera lay in bed, shivering under the blankets. She had abruptly woken from a deep sleep an hour before, immediately aware her temperature had spiked. She idly wondered whether this was the fever Robinson Crusoe called ague, chills that alternate with sweats, making one always yearn for the opposite extreme.

“Maximilian,” she mumbled. “Maximilian Laszlo.”

Ever since she’d woken up, she had been thinking about that boy, children in general, her own sterility. About dying with “no issue,” which sounded every bit like the fate of a doomed Roman emperor or an inbred royal. Laszlo had been fortunate in that respect; his elegant mouth and hands would be carried on in that adorable child.

Vera thought she might have enjoyed motherhood, but, very likely, she would have repeated her parents’ mistakes. Along with their fortune, she had inherited their selfishness. Like them, she would have inevitably left sons and daughters to servants to better enjoy herself (though they would have been spared a grandmother).

She’d never really regretted not bringing life into this world and the overwhelming responsibility that it implied. But—if she’d only had siblings!—Vera would have dearly loved having nieces and nephews. She imagined being their godmother and choosing their names: Charles Alexis, Percival Campbell, Cassandra Grace. She could have criticized her brother or sister for all their parenting blunders, then, when she was in the mood, spoiled the children with extravagant gifts and outings. When they came of age, she would have taken them for lobster at the Plaza, talked to them about sex, and offered them their first cigarette. They would have adored her in the way one can never love one’s parents.

Vera imagined how delighted they would have been to discover her memoirs. Truly, these imaginary relations were their only possible recipients. Her cousins’ children were nothing to her (and even worse, she was nothing to them!) and didn’t deserve such wealth. She had considered giving the three tomes to Charles, but knew a proper heir had to be of another generation, not a contemporary. He could not read them with youth’s open-eyed fascination, marveling at days past. And, of course, Laszlo’s grandson was out of the question.

Absently stroking her pearls, she leafed through the journals, page by page. Here were her earliest memories: B for P. T. Barnum’s Museum of Oddities on Broadway. C for Cornelia, their Negro maid who had walked from Maryland to freedom. Here was Paris in the belle epoque and the writers and artists she’d known: N for Natalie Barney and her Sapphic Circle, S for Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare and Company.

She picked up another volume, the first of two organized by number, remembering, reliving. Here were raw accounts of her private life: 1 Child Lost; rue Monge, number 5 . . . Her many travels: 28 Days in the Holy Land; 101 Degrees in Athens (in a long skirt, mutton sleeves, and corset); A Dozen Fjords. She thumbed through the pages of the last volume, smiling at the drawings and caricatures, until she came to the Great War: 350 Shells, the blasts on Paris from a railway gun, the constant panic, the fear; 16 Friends Departed, both soldier and civilian, all sacrificed to the war. She kept turning the pages, rereading fragments, until she got to the last, unwritten entry: X Crossings.

All of these things, from the queer to the conventional, from horror to beauty, from delight to sorrow: this was her life. Nothing to regret or lament. No one to blame. She had made choices and embraced chance, and this was who she was. Now, what to do with this heirless treasure? She looked again at the pirate map, wondering exactly what spot the X was marking.

Vera took off her glasses and pressed her fingers against the moist skin beneath her eyes, blotting away the beads of sweat. Suddenly, she heard the disconsolate cries of a newborn. Crisp, short, urgent blasts. Odd, she thought, this was the first time she’d heard a baby on this crossing. At first she thought it must be something else—some kind of machinery?—but no, that wail was unmistakable. Her Parisian neighbor had had eight children and Vera knew perfectly well what an unhappy newborn sounded like.

This child was clearly in agony or in great need of being fed or changed. Vera was tempted to rise, to go and see to it herself; it sounded like it was right outside her door. But, there must be someone—a mother, a nanny—trying to soothe the babe, to quiet it.

Ignoring the sounds, it occurred to Vera that these diaries—with battered covers, fading ink, and pages well-worn from constant perusal; authored not by a famous explorer or a well-known statesman but by a little old lady with a secondhand fountain pen—might not be such a fortune after all. Perhaps an outsider, without the benefit of the original memories, would not find them as rich and powerful as she.

Putting the three books side by side on her bed, Vera had to admit that these tales, written years after the events, were not always fair. Many things were deliberately left untold, giving her story a warped perspective. Some close friends were left out, her family rarely mentioned, yet at times virtual strangers received meticulous descriptions. And then, there was Laszlo.

Two days before, he had been a rather insignificant detail in her memoirs, an anecdote. In her telling, he was not a life-altering person, an indispensable event. And yet, ever since she’d met his son and learned the news of his death, Laszlo Richter had been haunting her like a ghost. The importance of their brief time together (and moreover, what their relationship could have been) had been playing constantly in her mind.

Her eyes darted to the door; the newborn’s cries continued. She blew out a long gust of air. Dependent and frail, with poor eyesight and a toddling gait, this past year Vera had sometimes felt like a baby herself.

Vera knew she was in denial about her illness, her approaching death. For months now she had been fleeing from it in these journals, returning to her past, trying to remain safe in her youth, her prime. Now Vera wondered whether she had also been in denial about her life. Was she going to spend the rest of her days rereading half-truths about her former self, the spirited though self-centered person who predated her illness? Tales that evoked her best qualities while downplaying her faults, prose that was written, therefore, with an audience—a sympathetic reader—in mind? Vera would have never guessed that she herself would become that reader.

Pathetic, she thought, shaking her head. Truly, was this way of dying any better than her grandmother’s? During her final years, Camilla Wright Sinclair had gradually let go of her past to live exclusively in the present. Each moment was her first, every experience unique and new.

She looked over at Amandine, who was sitting by the window, watching the furious sky, stroking Bibi’s silken ear with one hand.

“Have you ever heard such a baby?” Vera exclaimed, suddenly cross. She was agitated, mostly by her somber thoughts, but preferred to find fault with the infant and its incessant wailing. “It’s been crying now for a full half hour!”

Amandine looked at her in surprise. “I don’t hear anything, ma’am.”

After an hour of cocktails and pleasantries with the gentlemen from New York, Constance had felt more relaxed about her upcoming dinner in Serge’s quarters; she was ready to chat and laugh with him as she had with John Crenshaw and the others. However, as she dressed—changing her stockings, buttoning her chemise, buckling up her fine black heels—she began to grow nervous. Did this French doctor truly fancy her? Was he sincere? If he took her in his arms, would she be able to resist? Should she tell him about her family straightaway? Ask about his?

At half-past eight, Constance heard a series of jaunty taps on the door. She hesitated, wondering again whether she should go. Checking herself in the mirror, she gave herself a comical little frown, which in turn made her smile. She’d been overreacting. After a quick dinner, Serge would escort her to the magnificent ballroom, where she would take part in one of high society’s most fashionable galas. Certainly, that was nothing to worry about! She crammed the detective novel into her beaded handbag, smoothed out her dress, and opened the door.

“I’m terribly sorry I’m late, Constance,” Serge said, presenting her with a handsome bouquet of tulips and a sheepish grin; he was still in his work clothes. “But the infirmary was so crowded today. It seemed for every patient I treated, four more would walk through the door!”

Constance took the tulips with a trembling hand. Now that he was there, next to her, she could no longer pretend he was just a pleasant companion, like those men in the bar. She peeked up at him with a slight blush.

“Thank you, Serge,” she murmured, shifting the flowers from one hand to the other. “They’re beautiful.”

“You don’t have a vase, do you?” he said, looking around. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Here, I’ll just prop them in the washbasin for now.”

His hand grazed hers as he took the flowers; she swallowed hard.

“Shall we?” he asked, turning toward her with an extended arm.

They walked down a long corridor to the front of the ship, where the doctor’s quarters were found. The halls were empty; most people were already in the dining room or tucked away in their cabins, indisposed.

“I’m afraid the gala tonight will be nearly ruined by the rain and rough seas,” Serge told her. “Many people are feeling ill, which will make for a thin crowd. But also, when the weather is fine, they put fairy lights or Chinese lanterns out on the deck and the orchestra plays until dawn.”

“It really is too bad about the weather,” she replied, wishing for wit; at his side, it was so difficult to find words.

Passing under an arcade, she realized that he’d mentioned dancing in the moonlight twice now; she could only assume that he’d waltzed until the wee hours with other female passengers over the years. Again, Constance wondered whether he had special feelings for her.

“Here we are!” Serge opened the door to his chambers.

They walked into a small sitting room, equipped with built-in shelves, a desk, a table, a plump armchair, and a two-person settee. The window was larger than the one in her room, a simple porthole, but tonight there was no view.

“Since this is the Paris’s first time out, it’s not quite home yet”—he shrugged—“but it’s comfortable enough. Please, take a seat. As you can see, I didn’t have time to dress for dinner—I was running so late—but I won’t be a moment.” He bowed slightly and retired to the adjoining room.

Constance set her purse on the table but did not sit down. Rather, she studied his quarters, curious to learn more about him. She looked at his desktop. It was covered with thick glass, and he had slid some postcards underneath: Niagara Falls, Edinburgh, Mont Blanc. She noted his slanted handwriting on a neat pile of official-looking papers, organized in a fixed tray next to an elegant marble inkwell and pen stand. It was all screwed down to the wood. Indeed, the sea was much more noticeable here near the bow. She looked at the books on the shelves; among the French medical tomes, there were several works of fiction: alongside A. Conan Doyle, she found Poe, Balzac, Zola, and a recent edition of Le Fantôme de l’Opéra. Her finger trailed along the bindings. Serge Chabron was obviously a man of refined tastes, worldly, well educated, tidy.

She caught sight of a photograph poking out of the phantom book, as if it was being used as a bookmark. With a guilty glance at his bedroom door, she pulled the book from the shelf and opened it, hoping to find a picture of a boyish Serge. Would he be surrounded by a large French family, or perhaps in his military uniform?

Instead she saw a photograph of three small children. Constance examined them closely, their bright eyes and impish smiles, and guessed their ages to be similar to her own children. Were they his? She thought she could detect a family resemblance. With a sigh, she stuck the photo back in the book and dropped onto the settee. If she continued looking, she could probably find a portrait of a wife as well.

She’d suspected that Serge was not a bachelor—he was too handsome, too desirable to have gone unnoticed—but had never wanted to broach the topic. Silence speaks volumes, as they say, and he too had chosen to ignore his family. When Serge had arrived at her cabin door, brimming with charm and tulips, she had wanted to forget George and the girls, to pretend she was an unmarried woman, available for romance. However, after seeing the three children in the photograph—not unlike her own precious daughters—she didn’t think she could. Should she leave?

Serge came back into the room, in his evening suit, his mustache snappy, his smile dashing.

“The waiters should be here any moment now,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. “I told them to come around nine.”

As he sat down on the settee next to Constance, she could smell a mixture of lavender soap and freshly applied cologne.

“With all the rush, I haven’t told you how beautiful you look tonight.” He reached for her hand and gave it a kiss. “I took the liberty of ordering champagne. I hope you like it?”

Constance nodded politely, but, even more skittish now, she didn’t trust her voice. She sighed in relief when their privacy was interrupted by a knock, followed by two waiters pushing a cart covered with a long, white tablecloth.

They put the brake on the cart, and one brought out champagne flutes while the other pulled out a bottle and popped the cork. Watching them set the table for two (was it her imagination, or were they giving each other knowing looks?), Constance made the decision that, indeed, this would be a dinner between friends. Nothing more. She heard the doctor excuse them (“I’ll serve, boys!”), and with a prompt bow, they left the room. Her mind made up, Constance already felt more at ease.

“À votre santé! To your health!” He raised his glass up at her.

“Cheers!” she returned, and took a sip. The bubbles, cold and airy, seemed to clear her head even more. In a moment, she found her glass empty.

“Ah!” He cocked his eyebrow with a grin. “You do like champagne!”

Serge raised a silvery dome to expose a dozen raw oysters on a bed of lettuce. He picked one up and squeezed lemon on it (did it shrink and quiver?) and handed it to her.

“I’m sure there is a variety of cumbersome cutlery—tongs and so forth—one could use to eat these. But truly, the best way is with one’s hands. Go ahead, now—give it a try!”

He watched her in amused expectation as she brought the shell to her mouth and sucked the oyster inside. It sat on her tongue, an unpleasant blob, until finally, with a sip of champagne, she took it like a large pill.

“As bad as all that?” Serge laughed at her expression, then quickly ate two or three. Wiping his hands on his napkin, he looked back up at Constance. “Tell me, what have you been doing today? What adventures have you had?”

Looking into his expectant face, she decided against telling him about her newly made friendships from the bar. She feared he would misunderstand (as if she routinely drank gin with a handful of men!) and think less of her.

“Oh, just braving the storm, like everyone else. Reading, mostly,” she said. “Which reminds me, I have something for you.”

She extracted the novel from her smallish bag, then placed it in his hand.

“I finished it today and wanted you to have it,” she said, returning his smile. “As a souvenir of our friendship.” This last word she said with resolve.

“Thank you, Constance.” He immediately opened it to the front page, but found she hadn’t written anything in it. “Could you dedicate it, please?”

“Of course,” she said. “Though my hand may not be too steady in this weather.”

With the dip pen from his desk, she quickly scrawled, “Your friend, Constance Stone.”

He read it with mild disappointment, then lit a Gauloise and thanked her again.

“This will prove invaluable on the voyage back to France. I have no doubt that I will enjoy reading this feminine mystery—indeed, women have always seemed rather mysterious to me!” he said with a light chuckle, then took a puff of his cigarette. “But, I must say, I like even more the idea that you had read it before me. That you had this very book in your hands,” he added, already nostalgic. “How I shall miss your company.”

“I’ve enjoyed spending time with you too, Serge,” she said quietly, catching her breath. She stared at his hand as he refilled her champagne glass; she didn’t trust herself to look at his face.

“Some journeys are far too short,” he declared. “Did I tell you that, before the war, I was on the West Indies line? I loved traveling to the tropics in my white uniform on a white ocean liner, putting into port in Trinidad, the Antilles, Venezuela . . . Ah, Constance, how I wish that you and I were on our way to Trinidad right now!” He gently caught her chin in his hand, to make her face him, to look into her eyes.

“It does sound wonderful,” she murmured, then remembered herself. “Um, shouldn’t we eat a little something before the gala?”

“How right you are!” he said, pulling off other shiny domes, and began preparing plates: cold sliced ham, deviled eggs, white asparagus.

He gazed over at her again, then dropped the dish on the table, shaking his head.

“Constance, around you, I can hardly think of food,” he said, sliding next to her, letting their legs touch. “Just looking at you . . . Did you know your features are perfect?” he whispered, stroking her cheek. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Serge,” she began nervously, but he brought his fingertips to her lips, delicately closing her mouth.

“I don’t want our arrival in New York to end this,” he said. “But tonight, our last night together on the Paris . . .”

His hand found the nape of her neck and brought her to him. As his fingers wove into her hair, he nuzzled her ear, then found her lips. He kissed her with playfulness and passion, gentleness and force. A warm electric current went through her, relaxing her while putting her on edge; her body throbbed: her breasts, her thighs, her belly. Although she wanted him to continue, she backed away, breathless but determined.

“Serge,” she repeated, a half-hearted reproach.

She sat up and shakily reached for her glass, her mind racing for an appropriate topic of conversation. She needed to make small talk until they left for the safety of the party, the crowd. After taking a slow sip, she wedged herself into the corner of the sofa. Dizzy—from the champagne, the ship’s roll, the tobacco smoke mingling with perfume, his heat—she struggled desperately for something to say.

“Do you think this rain will end before the party?” she finally managed, stuttering politely.

“Ah, Constance, I must say”—he took her hand with a heaving sigh—“I’m enjoying our little party à deux. Having you all to myself.” He raised his glass to her: “To Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty.”

He pulled her into his arms, kissing her expertly. Wobbly, she closed her eyes with a soft moan; his hands tentatively began exploring her ample breasts, her soft hips. She was returning his kiss, his fire, when the photograph came to mind. Not the one of those unknown children, but the one of her own. In that picture she knew so well, her daughters’ innocent smiles began to shift into grimaces of confusion, fear, disgust. She pulled away.

“No, Serge,” she said, almost in tears. “I can’t.”

“But, Constance, I’m crazy about you! And I know you feel the same way about me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said as she got up. “I truly am.”

She stood in the open door, steadying herself on the frame, breathing in the fresh air. The chill of the night was already casting off the champagne haze. He remained on the settee, still too excited to move.

“Don’t go, Constance!” Serge called out. “Constance!”

She turned to him from the doorway.

“Exactly,” she said, then walked away.

The steerage workers’ noisy entrance into the women’s dormitory—harsh laughter rendered their words unrecognizable—woke Julie up from a hard sleep. The dinner shift was over. Groggy, the taste of rank mold in her mouth, she sat up slowly, feeling like she weighed a thousand pounds. As she got up to go to the bathroom, she noticed the other girls whispering and sneaking glances at her. Julie’s uniform, after sleeping in it, was thoroughly wrinkled and fell askew. The other girls neither teased her nor greeted her. Their leader, Simone, was absent.

After splashing her face and rinsing her mouth, she drifted back into the corridor. She didn’t want to go back into the dormitory; the steerage girls’ rejection and the others’ indifference made the bunk-lined room a hostile territory. Julie thought again of Nikolai. Since that first morning on board, still in the docks of Le Havre, he had been friendly to her. He had pursued her, wanted her, claimed to love her. She thought of his love notes, torn and crumpled under her pillow, his necklace against her skin. Had he merely been a few hours late?

Although she wanted to hear his side of the story, she could not bear another trip down to the engine room. She would have to wait until he came back to her. That was best, anyway; she didn’t want to appear overly eager. She poked her head into the kitchen, but Pascal was already gone; she wandered into the common room, but its thick cigarette smoke made her back right out. What she needed was fresh air. Although the seas were far from calm, Julie decided to go out on the mooring deck.

She pushed open the heavy door and braced herself for the chill. It was no longer raining and the air—thin and piercing—revived her from the fog of sleep. Breathing deeply, Julie was walking out onto the deck, past a gigantic spool of rope and a few upended deck chairs, when she saw someone in the corner. A big man was leaning against the wall. She smiled to herself; it was Nikolai.

Without worrying about what to say, Julie crept toward him. It was easy to surprise someone with the moon nearly covered in clouds and every sound lost to the wind. Standing alone, his eyes were closed, his mouth ajar, and his large hands—shining pale in the dark—were resting on something in front of him. A barrel, an air vent? What was he doing out here in the cold? Then, when she was just a few steps away from him, Julie saw his face change; his head jerked up and his whole body clenched. His hands gripped that thing before him, pulling up fistfuls of hair. It was a woman’s head.

Julie did not move. She watched as Nikolai opened his eyes, slowly focused on her, and smirked; as the woman kneeling at his feet wiped her mouth on her hand, then, steadying herself with his long legs, shot up to his side.

“You see, Nikolai? I know how to make a man happy!”

The voice was Simone’s. She was reaching up to kiss him, but Nikolai brusquely turned her around.

“Simone,” he said, clearly amused. “You remember Julie.”

Simone spun around. When she saw Julie’s blank face, she burst out laughing.

“What?” she called, tossing her chin up and grabbing on to Nikolai. “Are you here to take lessons?”

Julie stood there another moment, gawking at them, waiting for Nikolai to provide some kind of explanation. He didn’t say a word. Instead, staring into Julie’s eyes with that self-satisfied grin, he reached up and snatched Simone’s breast. As Julie turned around, ready to fly, she heard Simone shriek in delight: “Naughty boy!” Almost at the door, Julie tripped over a deck chair and skinned her knee. She felt their laughter, but only heard the wind.

Back inside, Julie walked quickly, wondering whether Nikolai would follow her. But what could he possibly say now? With a long shiver, she wrapped her arms across her chest. Why had she ever let him touch her? She thought of Simone’s shining pig eyes. Did she imagine this—kneeling on a freezing metal floor, filling her mouth to bursting—her latest triumph? She could have him. Julie hated them both.

With nowhere to go, no one to talk to, Julie ducked into the dim kitchen. She slid her fingertips down the long counter, cool and clean. Passing Pascal’s block of knives, she picked up the longest one, the one for filleting large fish, and felt it in her hand. Suddenly, she heard something move in the shadow. With a gasp, she froze, pressing herself against the wall, hoping to make herself even smaller. With the knife outstretched and shaking, she listened for the echo of Nikolai’s heavy boots, straining her eyes to see to the end of the room. Finally, next to the doorway, she caught a glimpse of a cat’s hindquarters.

“Stormy,” she muttered, letting out a huge gush of air; she didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath.

Bold and proud, the cat turned around to face her. Julie saw it was carrying a dead mouse in its jaws. Recoiling, Julie gagged. She threw the knife on the counter and ran out of the galley. Cat and mouse. Yes, she knew that game. And she, like that stupid mouse, had allowed herself to be caught.

She had to get out of steerage. Heading toward the middle of the ship, she lumbered along thinking back on Nikolai’s brutality. She had tried to make excuses for it—her man’s uncontrollable passion and so forth—but now saw it for what it was. She’d trusted him, a man she’d just met, and he had used her cruelly. Julie, who had read her brother’s vivid accounts, could not have dreamed of such savagery outside of war.

She climbed stairs and passed through corridors—riveted metal trenches; rotting, idiotic trenches—trying to escape the uncomfortable warmth of the ship’s bottom, the noise of its ever-beating heart. In a long hallway of closed doors, she became disoriented but kept on, grasping the handrail, indignant to feel the ship pitching still.

When she finally arrived to the top deck, already midship, she filled her lungs with the cold air and walked directly to the side, glaring at the mighty, tumultuous sea that had turned her insides out.

Her hands grabbed the rail, held it tight, her knuckles white. She swung her head down to look straight down the hull. From this inverse perspective, her eyes flitted across the specks of lit portholes, trying to make out each level above the waterline (six? seven?). She stretched through the railing and leaned out on the icy metal to stroke the black-painted rivets (the ship’s numberless birthmarks), which made their way down and into the sea. It seemed impossible that only a few days had passed since the launch. That day, gazing down this hull, she had been awestruck by the ocean liner’s height, the surprising distance from the deck to the water. She thought of the boys standing next to her and, with another shuddering gag, the tall one’s joke about his meat.

Nikolai . . . she felt her skin prickling, the bitter pain between her legs. She had not needed a clever genie to be fooled, but just a man who could muster a few honeyed words. She wondered whether Nikolai had told Simone—with her toad skin and missing teeth—she was beautiful. Had he said he loved her too? Remembering his repulsive grin as he groped Simone, Julie rolled her eyes, her face red with shame. She was the poor dupe, she decided, her hand reaching up to her birthmark, she was the idiot. Flawed, she was easily flattered.

She stood back up and reached for the Virgin: the Melter of Hard Hearts. Simone would probably be wanting it tomorrow, think it her due. How many women had worn Nikolai’s golden lure? How many other beauties had he deceived with it?

“I will be the last,” Julie mumbled.

She looked down at Her demure face, then spit on it. She peeled off the necklace and, throwing as hard as she could—a pitch trained by four brothers—cast it overboard. She turned away, refusing to watch its descent. Glancing down the deck, Julie became aware of another figure hobbling toward the wavering rail.

An elderly woman in a tartan bathrobe was slowly making her way to the edge, leaning her slight weight onto her cane as she carried a bundle on her hip. Was it a baby wrapped in a blanket? Julie watched her steady progress, her steps short and cautious, her long, white hair flying recklessly in the wind. The old lady lunged forward and grabbed the rail, letting the cane fall. Was she weeping? She clutched the bundle to her breast, then kissed it.

Watching the woman in terror, Julie began slinking down the rail toward her. As she came closer—the lady still hadn’t noticed her—Julie recognized the skinny frame, the lined face: it was the rich woman who wouldn’t have passed the third-class health inspection, the one who’d smiled at her when she and Nikolai were dancing on deck. What was she doing? Surely she wasn’t going to hurt that helpless creature?

The old woman hesitated; she sat her bundle on the rail, wiping her eyes. Now only a yard away, Julie watched as her face quickly changed and became determined. The lady then took it with both hands and pitched it overboard, nearly falling in the process.

“No!” Julie cried. “No!”

She had rushed over and tried to snatch it from her, but was too late.

Vera turned to the voice, confused. Ah, it was the egg-faced, waltzing girl from steerage. Why was she so upset? Was it she, the heir to her journals? She studied her face with curiosity. How could this be?

“The baby! The baby!” Julie shouted, beginning to sob, finally releasing a mighty backlog of tears.

“Oh, did you hear it too? Is it crying still?” Vera asked, heartened, looking from side to side. “Where is it?”

Constance was rushing back to her cabin, engrossed in her thoughts, when she heard a cry. Two women were at the rail. One was very small, wearing only a light dress against the cold night, and the other was in her bedclothes with wild, white hair. The taller one was throwing something—a small, soft form—into the sea. Did she hear the word “baby”?

Without thinking, she ran toward them. As she came out on deck, a stream of ice water from the upper level drained down her back, dousing her hair and dress, taking her breath away. Constance dashed to the ship’s edge.

Julie was crying, inconsolable. Vera, baffled, was trying to comfort her with one arm, as she held on to the rail, her strength waning.

“What’s happened here?” Constance asked, breathless. She immediately recognized the pair of them from the infirmary and their acquaintance with the ship’s surgeon: the French working girl, in a rumpled uniform, and the elderly dowager, wearing her pearls even now. What were they doing here? Together?

“She’s thrown a baby overboard,” Julie screamed through her tears, pointing at Vera with horror.

“What?” Vera was astonished. “What are you talking about? I haven’t even seen the baby!”

“I saw you throw it! It was swaddled in a blanket!” Julie looked at her in wide-eyed accusation. “I was right here when you did it!”

For another moment Vera stared at her, then slowly smiled.

“Well, I suppose it was my baby.” She looked at the two young women’s faces and saw shock, aversion. “They were my journals,” she quickly explained. “Wrapped up in my shawl. That was all, just my journals.”

Julie, who had been so sure of what she’d seen, was dumbfounded. She stood there shaking, sobbing still.

“So scandalous were they?” Constance asked, surprised at the notion that a little old lady could have anything to hide. “That you had to pitch them into the ocean?”

“That wasn’t the problem.” Vera’s face twitched a bit; her smile suffered. “I couldn’t stop reading them. And, here lately, I had begun to wonder if any of it was even true.”

For an instant, they stood in silence, suddenly noticing sounds from the Grand Gala in the wind. The festivities in the ballroom sounded every bit like New Year’s Eve: the music and applause, the outbursts of laughter and noisemakers. Out on the cold, empty deck, the muted celebration seemed to come from another world.

“It’s chilly here,” Constance said. She pushed the damp hair out of her eyes, her teeth chattering. “We should be going in.” None of them was dressed for the weather and they had all managed to get wet on the slippery, rolling deck.

“I’m so sorry I frightened you,” Vera said to Julie, the two of them still holding the rails. “But, they were just . . . books.” This last word fell out of her mouth at an awkward angle. “Now then, let’s go inside and get warm.”

“Not yet,” Julie said with a grimace, looking straight out toward the black horizon, which could not be distinguished from the sea. She couldn’t bear the idea of returning to third class; she wasn’t ready to face Simone and she certainly didn’t want to see Nikolai. Again, the decks seemed her only option.

“I can’t go back down to steerage. Not yet,” Julie repeated with a trembling chin. She began crying again, though a few last words spurted from her mouth: “God, how I hate this ship!”

Vera stripped a hand off the rail and put it around Julie’s slight shoulders. Constance stood firmly on her other side.

“Have you ever been in a first-class cabin?” Vera asked her kindly. “Why don’t you come to my rooms? Both of you. We could order some tea.”

Julie stared at the wispy old woman, with her bright eyes and windblown hair; she looked every bit a fairy-tale character. A good witch, a fairy godmother, someone who could grant wishes that would not go awry. With a nod, she let go of the rail.

Constance picked the cane off the deck and handed it to the elderly woman. “I’d be pleased to join you,” she said, giving them both a warm smile despite the chill. She was curious about these two.

The three of them walked back inside the ship, arms linked, helping one another. Vera’s whole body ached; she needed to sit down. When they arrived at her cabin, they found Amandine sitting on the chair, the old Scotty in her lap.

“Sorry, ma’am, to disturb you. I know I should be in my own room.” The relief in her face was obvious. “But Bibi was barking so!”

“That’s fine, Amandine.” Vera smiled, sinking down on the edge of the bed. “In fact, you’re sorely needed here. We need some towels—we all got a bit wet, I’m afraid—and a pot of strong tea. And . . . chocolate cake. Yes, why not? Oh, and Amandine,” she added, looking at Julie, “this girl’s uniform is in terrible shape. Could you find her something to wear? Perhaps a dress that comes to midcalf?” she suggested, taking in Julie’s small frame.

Amandine looked over at the young woman, who offered her a clumsy curtsy, then at the lady she recognized from the infirmary. If she wasn’t mistaken, these were the same two women who stood near her mistress in that shoddy launch photograph from L’Atlantique. The old servant shook her head as she reached for the clean towels. Miss Vera had always been full of surprises. She’d been concerned about her, though, and was glad to see her looking well if rather unkempt. Going out in this weather with a fever! The old servant handed out the towels, then began rifling through a trunk.

Constance looked into the mirror and sighed. The hairdresser’s careful curls lay on her shoulders like seaweed. Just as well, she thought. Tonight she would brush it straight and tomorrow she would just pile it on top, in its usual bun.

Vera too glanced into the mirror and, behind her cracked portrait, saw the three of them reflected there. Quietly drying their arms, fingering their long hair, three women in different stages of life. Here we are, she thought, the maiden, the mother, and the crone. I am at the end.

“These should do,” Amandine said, handing Julie a collection of garments. She turned to Vera. “I’ll put in that order with service now.”

Julie had been examining the room: the fine wood, porcelain, and fabric. No bare steel here! She sniffed the air; it was filled with fresh flowers, beeswax, and perfume. Up here, she could understand why people enjoyed traveling by ocean liner.

“You can breathe in here,” she told Vera.

“Quite so.” Vera nodded, brushing her long, tangled hair. “Go ahead and get out of that uniform, dear. The bathroom is in here.”

When Julie returned from the bathroom, the other two had wrapped towels around their shoulders and settled into armchairs. Dressed in one of Vera’s simpler gowns, she’d managed to alter its length by gathering up the material and holding it in place with a tightly pulled sash. In this ill-fitting finery, Julie already felt better, as if she were someone else, not the seasick steerage girl whom the engineman had taken on a dirty mattress. The ugly uniform seemed an accomplice to the suffering she’d endured under the waterline. If the luxury cabin had only come equipped with a fireplace, she’d have been happy to burn it. Lacking a fire, she sat down in the chair next to the others.

“You look pretty in those clothes.” Constance smiled. “Brand new.”

“It’s nice to be out of black,” Julie said.

Vera handed Julie a thin shawl.

“Wrap yourself up in this. Silly me,” she said, teasing herself, “I’ve thrown my good cashmere into the ocean! Now”—she turned back to Constance—“you were just about to tell me about your trip. Are you traveling alone as well, dear?”

Constance, who had decided to reveal nothing about her family on this voyage, suddenly found herself stammering through the truth of it.

“It’s my mother, you see. She’s always been . . . quite fragile. This year, at Christmastime, she just fell apart.” Constance bit her lip and glanced at them both, who were quietly nodding in understanding. “She’s stopped speaking, washing.” Constance paused to gather her breath. “My father—he’s at his wits’ end—he sent me to Paris to retrieve my younger sister.”

“Your sister lives in Paris?” Julie asked.

“She’s been there about a year,” Constance said. “She was traveling in Europe last summer and . . . stayed. In spite of my parents’ wishes, of course.”

“But your sister isn’t coming home with you,” Vera said.

“No, she refused.” Constance frowned bitterly. “She only thinks about herself. She’s just too happy in Paris—with her French beau and artist friends—to bother with her family. Just thinking about it makes me so angry!”

“I am sure it’s been unsettling for all of you,” Vera agreed. “Perhaps it has even caused a stir in your town.” Constance nodded grimly in reply. “But, tell me, what was your sister to do when she arrived home?”

“Help with the family burden!” she cried.

Constance looked from one woman’s face to the other, hoping to see support and encouragement; instead, she found confusion.

“The truth is”—Constance spoke to the floor, batting back tears—“there’s nothing we can do. My mother needs special care. In an institution. My sister couldn’t have changed that.”

“I’m so sorry,” Julie whispered.

“Every family is so complex,” Vera said with a sigh. “And so difficult to understand! As for your sister, I find it’s not always easy to persuade yourself to do the right thing.”

“True,” Constance said softly, remembering the feel of the doctor’s tickly mustache on her neck not an hour before.

“I lived in Paris for a long time myself,” Vera said. “And I rarely returned home. Living in France is more than beauty, history, baguettes . . . It’s a question of freedom. A woman, an American woman at least,” Vera added, with a deferential nod to Julie, “feels free there. To reinvent herself and do what truly pleases her.” Vera gave the younger woman a sad smile. “The seduction of it! I’m sure that it was not her French beau; your sister has been seduced by freedom.”

Constance opened her mouth, uncertain of what to say. It was true that Faith’s current life—her friends, her fashions, her creative endeavors—would be impossible in Worcester.

At that moment, Amandine rapped on the door, then let herself in. She was followed by a waiter, who set the tea service and cake on the writing table.

“If there will be nothing else,” the waiter said tiredly, then headed out the door; the old servant excused herself as well.

“Good night, dear Amandine.” Vera smiled at her warmly. “You have been indispensable tonight, as always.”

After pouring the tea, Vera raised her cup to her guests.

“Pleased to finally make your acquaintance, ladies,” she said, nodding to each of them. “Although my memory has become quite frail, I know I’ve seen you both on this crossing—and more than once! I am Vera Sinclair.”

“Pleased to meet you too. I’m Constance Stone,” Constance said, marveling at the fact that they were, indeed, still strangers.

“And my name’s Julie Vernet.” At this point—sitting in the old woman’s room, wearing one of her dresses, and with her eyes redrimmed from crying in her arms—introductions seemed almost superfluous.

“A pleasure,” Vera stated, with a firm nod. “I could not have hoped for a more interesting pair of companions for the final night of my final crossing.”

“The final one?” Constance asked. “And why’s that?”

“After many years abroad, I am returning home to New York,” Vera said. “I don’t know why exactly . . . but there I will stay. I shan’t be crossing the Atlantic again.”

“Here’s to crossing together on the Paris, then!” Constance smiled, clinking her teacup with the other two.

“Tell me now, where did our paths first cross?” Vera asked.

“At the infirmary,” Julie answered at once.

“On the first day out,” Constance added.

“And, just last night,” Vera said to Constance, “didn’t I see you on your way to the dining room with the doctor?”

“That’s right. He invited me to have dinner at the captain’s table,” Constance said shyly. She looked at the other two, sipping their tea, listening to her, unsurprised. “It was marvelous.”

“He is a very charming man,” Vera stated with a connoisseur’s appreciation.

“And such a gentleman too,” Julie added, comparing him in her mind to Nikolai.

“Yes . . . well, I don’t know,” Constance said sadly, “he seems perfect, doesn’t he? I have been thinking of little else these past few days.” She paused to take a deep breath. “I was coming from his rooms when I saw you on deck. We’d been having dinner together. But, it was becoming far too . . . romantic.”

“Nothing wrong with that!” Vera proclaimed with a chuckle.

Constance took Faith’s enamel ring off her finger and held up her hand. The wedding band now seemed wire thin, her hand large and plain.

“I’m married,” she said, “and I think he may be too.”

She looked into the two women’s faces, awaiting judgment. Many of the people she knew (Mrs. Thomas would make a fine example) seemed to delight in the faults of others, working under the misguided notion that another person’s failings raised them to greater heights. However, shock and condemnation were notably lacking here.

“I see,” Vera said slowly. “And do you love your husband?”

“I don’t know,” Constance said, stuffing the ring into her handbag; she would not be wearing it again. “Despite his shortcomings—and who doesn’t have a few?—he’s a good man. A good provider . . .” Her voice trailed off as she shrugged uneasily.

“When I was younger,” Vera said, peeking up at her portrait, “I met a man named Laszlo Richter. We were falling in love when he told me about his family, a wife and son. Wanting to do what was proper, I called it off straightaway. But I’ve been thinking about it these last few days. I’m no longer so sure it was the right decision.”

“Why not?” Constance asked, her eyebrows high.

“He’d not been back with his family six months when he killed himself,” Vera said matter-of-factly. Too harsh, the words hung in the air for a moment or two. “I’ve just found out about it.” She paused again, her expression cross, yet stupefied. “I’ve met his son on this ship—he was sitting next to me at dinner!—and naturally, he blames me for everything. I’ve been wondering if we all would have been happier if I hadn’t done the right thing.”

“It’s possible,” Constance said, nodding at Vera. “But I have children, you see. Three daughters. I could never leave them. They are part of me. The best part,” Constance said softly, her eyes moist. “And, although I think the world of Serge Chabron, I don’t even know if he’s available. Or if his attentions are honest and true.”

“Leaving your family would be a tremendous gamble,” Julie said with a sad frankness. “Who could say what would happen in the future? I mean, you might think someone loves you, when in the end, he just wants to use you.”

Vera looked over at the young woman, surprised by the cynicism in her voice.

“What happened, Julie?” she asked. “The last time I saw you, you were smiling in a man’s arms, whirling around the deck.”

“He said he loved me,” Julie said, swallowing hard, “but it was all just a lie. I was so stupid!”

“No,” they both murmured.

“Yes!” she returned. “I’d never had a boyfriend before. Back home, nobody had ever shown any interest in me.” Julie’s finger trickled over her lip to her birthmark, then pressed it down hard, as if to erase it. “He made me feel special, beautiful even.” She shook her head, embarrassed. “I thought we were in love! I know it sounds crazy, we only met a few days ago.”

Constance gave her a sympathetic nod, struck by the similarity of their experiences. On this voyage, they had both met men, become infatuated, and fallen into their arms.

“I would have never,” she stammered, her face melding into complicated creases as she tried not to start crying again. “I told him no . . . I’d never even kissed a boy before!”

“He took advantage of you?” Vera asked. Recalling the Colossus this tiny girl had been dancing with, she winced.

“I said no, but he didn’t listen. He forced me,” she said, breathing heavily, then taking a sip of tea to choke down her sobs. She was tempted to show them the bruises on her arms, but they didn’t seem to need convincing. “And this morning, he’d already forgotten about me. And tonight he was with another girl!”

“Oh my God,” Constance whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Her voice was calm but she was inwardly horrified. She and Julie did not have so much in common after all; Serge had given her not only flowers and champagne, but a choice. Yes, she had been given a choice.

Vera stroked the young woman’s coppery hair.

“And what now? No man will want me!” Julie covered her face with her hands and let the tears come; her mind rang with the names the neighbor ladies called Chantal: tart, slut, pig, whore. “No one!”

“That is not true,” Vera said defiantly. “That is what they would have you believe—that all hope is lost with one’s virginity—but it’s simply not true. Many women approach their wedding night having already had that experience. I confess, that was my case. It did not make me unmarriable. In fact, no one was any the wiser.”

She handed Julie a handkerchief; she wiped her eyes, already calmer.

“Life’s rules are not so strict,” Vera said. “Anything’s possible.”

“I’m sure you’ll meet someone, Julie. You’re a little less innocent now, that’s all. Next time around, you won’t be fooled. And you won’t settle for just anybody,” Constance added, twisting her wedding band around on her finger.

“Maybe you’re right,” Julie said with a sniffle. “He was certainly no great catch. A Russian greaser with tattoos and dirty hands!” She spit the words out in anger, but when she saw the other two smile, she shook her head with a little snicker. “My brothers would have never let him in the door.”

Purged of their secrets, the three women felt lighter but exhausted. Constance took the towel from around her shoulders, folded it, and set it on the floor. Perhaps there was something to Dr. Freud’s “talking cure” after all.

“I really should go back to my cabin and get into dry clothes,” Constance said. She realized that, in her hair, she could still detect the faint odors of Serge’s cologne and black tobacco. “Or, better yet, take a hot bath.”

“And you, Julie?” Vera asked. “Would you like to spend the night here in my cabin? You’re welcome to the bed. I never sleep anymore.”

“Thank you, Madame Sinclair, but I don’t think that’s necessary,” said Julie. “I’m ready to face steerage again.”

“Are you sure?” Vera asked.

“I don’t want anyone to think I’m hiding,” she said, “or that I have something to be ashamed of.”

“Bon courage,” Vera whispered.

“Shall we meet for an early lunch tomorrow?” Constance asked her companions. “Say, around eleven?”

“That sounds lovely,” Vera said. “Let’s meet here. Then, if it’s a nice day, we can watch for the New York islands from the top decks.”

“Great!” said Julie, completely forgetting that she worked aboard the Paris. “I’ll return your clothes then.”

Julie gave each woman four kisses on her cheeks, then turned to go.

“Au revoir!” She waved from the door. “And thank you.”

Julie pulled the shawl around her, then plunged back down to the women’s dormitory, at the bow of the ship, under the waterline.

At the doorway, Vera caught Constance’s arm with just a trace of hesitation.

“Constance, before you go, I’d like to ask you to do something,” Vera said, her eyes serious. “Talk to the doctor again before you leave ship.”

Constance opened her mouth, then quickly closed it. She was unused to maternal advice.

“To avoid regrets,” Vera explained. “You need to have a proper good-bye. If not, someday in the future, you may find yourself wondering what might have been.”

Constance nodded at Vera, but didn’t know whether she would be able to go through with it. She was mortified at her own behavior and no longer trusted his; she had rather been planning on hiding from him.

“Here, I’d like to give you something,” Vera added. “It might help.”

She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a fountain pen, a brown and pearl instrument that was far from new.

“I couldn’t bear to throw it into the sea. I’m too sentimental, I suppose. Everything I wrote came out of that pen, you see. And now that I no longer have journals, I don’t need it.” Vera smiled at Constance. “You may find that writing is a good way of dealing with your emotions, of safeguarding your dreams.”

“Thank you so much,” Constance said, blushing slightly. “It’s a beautiful pen.”

“It was left to me by a stranger, so perhaps it’s fitting that a stranger should give it to you.”

“You’re no stranger, Vera Sinclair,” Constance said, giving her worn cheek a kiss. “But I don’t know what I might write.”

“I tried to write the story of my life,” Vera said, her voice weary now. “But found truth to be extremely elusive. Well, good night, dear.”

“See you in the morning,” Constance said. “Sleep well.”

The instant she walked into her room, Constance spied the tulips. She untied the ribbon around the bouquet, recalling each detail of her short-lived affair with Dr. Serge Chabron. His examinations in the infirmary, his gifts of fruit and flowers, the dinners and dancing, his accented compliments, the kisses and caresses. Constance examined the red, feathery flame in each tulip. George had told her once that those beautiful flames were, in fact, caused by a virus.

Feeling very foolish (what had come over her?), she wondered whether this was his secret formula. Did Serge always impress his pretty female passengers with a fruit basket first, followed by dinner with the captain, then invite them for a champagne supper in his quarters? Instead of betting on the vessel’s cruising speed like the other men on board, she reckoned the crew bet on the doctor’s swiftness! Perhaps those postcards (Niagara Falls, Mont Blanc) were keepsakes from former passengers, regretful notes about relationships that could not be.

“ ‘The Singular Affair of the Ship Surgeon,’ ” she said out loud in a theatrical tone, making fun of herself.

Why? She shook her head crossly. Why does a restless, unhappy woman always imagine that thrill and adventure come in the shape of a man? After she’d left Serge’s rooms and flattery, she’d then had a most fascinating encounter with two women: an alarming moment on a storm-tossed deck that somehow grew into an honest, heartfelt conversation in a beautiful suite. How easy it was to talk with Julie and Vera, both understanding and warm, despite their suffering.

Julie was right: love was a gamble. Serge had said that he didn’t want their relationship to end with their arrival in New York, but how long might it have lasted? Another crossing or two? Wait, what was she thinking! She tossed the tulip back into the basin. Dr. Serge Chabron was beside the point! She was unavailable! It didn’t matter whether he was a sincere bachelor in love or a rakish married man who had a fling on every crossing. She was never going to leave her family. George—the only father her children would ever have—would always be her safest bet.

Her eyes welling with tears, Constance opened the porthole and began throwing the tulips, one by one, into the Atlantic. She was not cut out for adventure; she did not need foreign freedoms. Constance was the steadfast daughter. Her place was in her hometown, near her parents, with George and the girls. She brought the last tulip to her nose and smelled it—it let off a vaguely unpleasant odor of waxy pollen—then flung it out into the sea.

The porthole still open, a cold, salty wind in her face, she considered throwing the enamel ring out as well. Constance imagined all the things thrown from these liners, all the rejected treasure slowly falling, drifting past white whales and giant squid, down to the murk below. She decided to keep the ring, a gift from Faith and a souvenir of folly.

She closed the porthole and only then began taking off her damp clothes.

For hours, Vera looked out the dark window, brushing her hair. At first she saw only her ghostly reflection; then, by shifting to the side, she was able to watch as the great storm finally expired, as the ocean became calm.

“Perhaps Neptune was appeased by my sacrifice,” she said to herself, delighting in the irony that the apparent heirs to her journals had surfaced only at the moment she cast them into the sea. No matter. She was finally at liberty to read another’s words.

Vera crossed the room and pulled Charles’s gift out of her carpetbag. On the table sat the chocolate cake, untouched; the three women had been too preoccupied to consider eating. Cutting herself a thick slice, Vera thought of those two young women, so full of spirit and promise. Bestowing them with the journals (at this age, she supposed, hers were literal “old wives’ tales”) was nothing. If only she could pass on to them her real knowledge: the wisdom gained from living unwisely.

Back in the armchair next to the window, she savored the bites of cake on her tongue: the bittersweet chocolate, the tang of apricot, the whipped cream, subtle and light. She hadn’t really eaten since she’d fallen ill. Fluids! She’d had enough of them. Wishing young Max were there to share a piece with her—she could just see his small mouth, overly full and chewing merrily—she recalled his rapt expression as he watched the puppet show. Ah, my love, the Chevalier of Melancholia.

As she licked the spoon, Vera wondered again whether her story—Laszlo’s story—would have been different had she not fled, if they had had a proper good-bye. Why had she thought the farewell note necessary? How dramatic she used to be!

At first, she thought it a terrible misfortune, a dreadful coincidence, to have met the Richters. But now, despite her grief and shame, she was rather glad. Not only had she learned the truth about Laszlo—which had put quite a few things in perspective—but she had seen his future in Max. Usually, Vera considered herself lucky with odds. Horses, backgammon, roulette. Perhaps, after all, this had also been a stroke of good luck.

Having finished the cake, she wiped her hands, then cleared her throat with some cold tea. She was finally ready for Charles’s poem.

Her glasses in place, she ran a finger along the binding of the delicate little booklet. On the train to Le Havre, Charles had explained to her that, when he was twenty-one, he had met Constantine Cavafy in a Turkish bath in Constantinople. They’d had no problems communicating, as the Greek poet from Alexandria had spent part of his childhood in Liverpool. Charles did not elaborate on that encounter (he was always so discreet!), but he did say that, after all those years, they’d never lost touch. He had recently received this booklet in the post, privately printed for friends. For some reason, Charles had wanted her to have it.

She studied the frontispiece—Constantine P. Cavafy. Poems. 1921.—then opened the book. Vera reread the dedication with a sad smile, then noticed for the first time that it was twice inscribed; facing the table of contents, she found an affectionate remembrance from the poet to Charles. This made her grin. “What a rascal!” she thought, amazed Charles had not tried to rub out those sentimental words.

Though the slim volume only contained a handful of poems, she turned directly to the marked page, obviously the one Charles had wanted her to read first. “Ithaca.” She began to mumble the words out loud, to herself:

Ithaca

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,

Pray that the road is long,

Full of adventure, full of knowledge . . .

She stopped. Her throat was already too tight to read aloud, her eyes were beginning to blur. Oh, Charles. Were he not such a coward, so afraid of dying, he would now be by her side. Instead, she was alone with one of his books.

How Vera wished he were there to read it to her, this poem he had handpicked for her final voyage. His lovely voice had not aged, squeaking like an old rocking chair, but was still deep and melodic. She paused for a moment, closing her eyes to better capture the sound of his voice, then continued.

Pray the road is long.

That the summer mornings are many, when,

With such pleasure, with such joy

You will enter ports seen for the first time:

Stop at Phoenician markets,

And purchase fine merchandise,

Mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

And sensual perfumes of all kinds,

As many sensual perfumes as you can;

Visit many Egyptian cities,

To learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.

To arrive there is your ultimate goal.

But do not hurry the voyage at all.

It is better to let it last for many years;

And to anchor at the island when you are old,

Rich with all you have gained on the way,

Not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.

Without her you would have never set out on the road.

She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.

Wise as you have become, with so much experience,

You must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

Vera let out a great sigh. Dear, dear Charles. Yes, Manhattan was her Ithaca. And she had taken a long, zigzagged, wondrous path to get back there. New York . . . She wondered how Odysseus felt as he was finally reaching the shores of Ithaca; was he afraid his hometown would be tedious and dull after such adventures? That Penelope had grown old and stout? Vera fingered her rope of pearls, bought years ago at a port market during this lifelong journey home, and through teary eyes she wondered how much water still separated her from her island.

She watched as the skies slowly began to clear, the faintest yellow-pink light pointing to the horizon. She closed the book and stretched. With the dawn, Vera realized her fever had broken.