Meanwhile, Alice-Miranda made it out of her suite to look for Millie and Jacinta. As she passed the staircase leading to the Gallery Deck she decided she should take the opportunity to stop by and see Mr and Mrs Headlington-Bear. As she descended the flight of stairs she caught sight of a snowy-haired boy running, another deck below.

‘Neville!’ Alice-Miranda called. The boy stopped and looked up. His eyes were huge, like two lollipops on sticks.

Neville waved Alice-Miranda away.

‘Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Alice-Miranda asked.

Neville ran as quickly as his feet could carry him while the ship lurched and rolled beneath them.

Alice-Miranda didn’t like what she had seen. Something wasn’t right. The poor lad seemed terrified. She took off after him, limping down the stairs. When Alice-Miranda reached the very bottom she realised that the opulent wallpapers and plush carpets had been replaced by an industrial decor. At the end of a fluorescent-lit corridor, there was a huge steel door with a round porthole at the top – far too high for her to see through. Sounds of whooshing and clanking behind it had replaced the muzak which flowed through the upper decks via unseen speakers.

‘Neville,’ Alice-Miranda called over the machinery. ‘Where are you?’

Neville stood quivering like a five-foot blancmange in a storeroom not far from where the tiny girl was shouting.

‘Neville, I’m sure that we’re not supposed to be down here. Even though Aunty Gee gave us the run of the ship, she did mention that it would be best if we steered clear of the engine room, and I suspect that’s where we are now. She said it’s a little bit dangerous. Are you all right? Maybe I can help you?’

Neville’s head was hurting and he wanted that girl to stop shouting at him. Without another thought he opened the door.

‘In here,’ he squeaked.

Alice-Miranda turned and raced inside to join him. Neville hastily pulled the door shut and turned the lock on the inside.

Perspiration was trickling down his brow and the bandage covering his wound was soaked with sweat.

Two dim wall lights shone a sickly yellow glow around the room, enabling Alice-Miranda to see that they were in some type of storeroom. It contained all manner of things, including a row of foldable beds, piles of linen in plastic packages, and several writing desks and chairs similar to those in the suites. They all appeared to be brand new.

High shelves with open mesh doors lined one side of the compartment, loaded with cutlery and crockery, candelabra and other silverware. A strong smell of mothballs made an assault on Alice- Miranda’s nostrils.

She was about to speak when the ship pitched steeply and she was thrown into one of the chairs. The plastic wrap clawed at her bottom, sucking her onto the seat.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s better, actually. Why don’t you sit down too, Neville, and tell me what it is you’re doing down here? At least if we’re sitting we have less chance of falling over.’

Neville steadied himself on the arm of another chair and slid into its seat.

‘It’s a really big storm out there,’ Alice-Miranda noted. ‘I hope there aren’t too many people feeling seasick. I’ve only ever felt seasick when it’s been very calm with a big swell. I don’t mind the waves, actually – there’s something quite fun about them. But you don’t look like you’re having any fun at all. What’s the matter?’

Neville looked at Alice-Miranda with his big blue eyes, like pools of indigo ink.

‘You have to promise not to tell on me,’ Neville finally whispered.

‘What do you mean, tell on you?’ Alice-Miranda asked.

‘You have to keep anything I tell you a secret,’ he tried again. ‘I think I’m in trouble.’

‘Trouble?’ Alice-Miranda quizzed. ‘Why would you be in trouble? Where are your parents?’

‘At home,’ Neville wheezed.

‘What do you mean, they’re at home?’ Alice-Miranda tapped her finger against her cheek. ‘I don’t understand. I thought your parents must have been friends with Uncle Lawrence because I don’t think they’re friends with Aunt Charlotte or I would have met you before now.’

Neville’s eyes were wide. ‘Who’s Lawrence?’ he asked.

‘Aunt Charlotte’s fiancé of course. ‘Who are your parents?’

‘Leonard and Sylvia Nordstrom,’ he mumbled.

‘Oh, I don’t think I know them at all,’ Alice-Miranda replied. ‘And you say that they’re at home? Forgive me for asking, but why did they send you on your own?’

Neville shifted in his seat. ‘They didn’t. I just came. Because I had to,’ he replied.

‘Well, that’s lovely, Neville, that you felt so passionate about the wedding,’ Alice-Miranda smiled.

Neville shook his head. ‘I’m not here for a wedding. I’m going to New York to meet someone. On the Oceania,’ he squeaked.

‘New York?’ Alice-Miranda frowned. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’ Neville looked at her, his eyes filling with tears.

‘Because you’re on the Octavia and we’re going to Venice,’ she replied.