The Passengers (Book #2)

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔔𝔲𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔇𝔦𝔰𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔰

I stand by the railing, watching the porthole lights reflect off the dark water. A salty breeze blows a couple of wisps of my hair free from their pins, and they tickle my cheek.

"I thought you might need this," says a familiar voice, and I turn around.

Stefan holds my long white coat. I'm surprised to see him after I embarrassed myself in the dinning room. But I'm happy he came looking for me.

"Thank you. I'm sorry I ran out on you during dinner like that." Why did I run out on dinner? I open my mouth to ask him what he remembers, but the question disappears from my thoughts.

I slip my arms into the sleeves as he holds my coat up for me.

"It is of no concern. Lots of passengers are unused to the motion of the ship. I will admit that even I ran from the dining room on the first day."

He watches me intently. I focus on fastening the small silk buttons on the bodice of my coat, but my lace gloves make it nearly impossible to hold on to the slippery things.

"I'm pretty sure the world would be a lot easier if I didn't have to wear these confounded gloves." I shake my hands in the air. Since when do I use the words like "confounded"? I frown. Why don't I sound like myself?

He laughs, breaking my train of thought, and my worry disperses like smoke.

"That is precisely why I make it a point never to wear lace gloves when I have buttons to do," he says.

I laugh, too, and breathe in the ocean air. What was I just thinking about? It must not have been that important. "You were going to tell me a story before I ran away earlier,  believe."

"Ah, yes. The story of how I wound up here with you instead of stuck in France with my insufferable aunt for another week. Shall we walk?"

He offers me his arm and I accept it. My dress limits my movements, and we walk at a slow pace.

"As you know, many transatlantic ships were canceled because of the coal strike, and everyone was rescheduled to board the Titanic."

I nod. That does sound like something I know.

"Well, my father and I had gone to Paris for business and somehow got coerced into staying for my aunt's birthday. We tried every excuse we could think of, but she would not hear of our leaving." He looks at me as we walk. "Sooji, her children screamed all day and all night, her friends were world-class snobs who talked about nothing but diamonds and hat feathers, and she kept finding ways to bring over young women she thought would be good marriage material for me."

"That does sound bad. Especially the marriage part," I examine his face. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Twenty. I'll be twenty-one in January."

"Um, yeah. You're much too young."

He smiles. "Is that so?"

"Not even a question."

"I wish you would tell that to my aunt." A few men in top hats pass us, arguing over which of them is the best chess-player. "Because there I was in Paris, one of the greatest cities in the world, having a perfectly miserable time. And it was no better for my father. My aunt was trying to arrange introductions for him, too."

"Are your parents divorced?"

Stefan looks shocked. Did I say something wrong?

Stefan smiles, and again my question drifts from my thoughts. "My mother passed away when I was small."

I look down. "I'm sorry. I had no idea. I really need to learn to think before I speak."

"I actually quite enjoy your frankness. It is rare that you meet someone who says what they think without trying to manage your impression of them."

His words feel almost familiar, like I've heard them from someone before. "So how did you ever escape your aunt?" I ask.

"With trickery and plotting," he says, and raises his eyebrows dramatically. "I paid the butler to deliver a note to my father at dinner, pleading for his immediate return to New York to handle urgent business matters. Of course, he recognized my handwriting, and he scolded me for it later, but he took advantage of the opportunity without pause."

"But how did you get on this liner? I heard it was completely booked up."

"Aha, well, that is a whole other drama." He gestures toward large windows that look into a gorgeous room with intricately carved walls and velvet armchairs. "Shall we sit for a while in the lounge?"

"Certainly. But then I must retire to my room." Is it wrong for me to spending so much time with him? Will my uncle disapprove? Why am I even worrying about this?

For a moment disappointment flashes on Stefan's face. "Well, then, I must dedicate myself to making my conversation so interesting that you want to stay a bit longer."

A butler opens the door for us and we enter the lounge. Inside, there's abuzz of conversation. We navigate through tables of people playing cards, drinking after-dinner tea, and telling jokes. Near a wide bookcase, an older gentleman with a white beard and a bow tie sits by himself, reading.

"Good evening, Mr. Lam," I say as we pass. How do I know his name? Wait, I met him in the café, right?

The man looks up from his book and smiles. "Good evening. Never a more beautiful nights, if you ask me."

"I could not agree more," says Stefan.

Mr. Lam's smile widens, and he returns to his book. Stefan leads me to a velvet couch that's isolated from the loud socializing groups. He helps me take off my coat and drapes it over a nearby armchair. We sit.

For a second he watches me without speaking.

"What?"

He doesn't break his gaze. "I was just thinking how if I had not finagle my way out of my aunt's house and bartered my way on board, I never would have spent this evening with you."

Before I can respond, Stefan's father approaches us. "Well, good evening, Miss Bae," he says, and bows. "I hope my son isn't bring you with too many stories."

"Not at all," I say. "Only exciting ones."

"Yes, well," he says, and frowns at me. "Stefan, do come find me when you are done. I imagine you will be retiring to your room soon, Miss Bae." His intonation implies it's a statement and not a question.

Is he suggesting that I leave? "Of course," I smile.

He bows again and walks away.

"I don't think your father likes me," I say to Stefan in a hushed voice.

He laughs. "Sometimes I wonder if he likes me. Now, what were we saying?"

"I believe you were going to tell me how you bartered your way on board?"

"Ah, yes. My father paid an Italian immigrant and his brother an unreasonable sum to give us their tickets. The White Star Line told us the first-class cabins were full. But of course, once we arrived on board, we were able to talk to Bruce Ismay and arrange other accommodations. Jackson Morgan and Alfred Vanderbilt canceled their trips at the very last moment, and their suites were available."

"Bruce Ismay?"

"One of the Titanic's owners."

"Oh, right. Well, weren't you fortunate."

He smiles. "I do feel very lucky right now."

His happiness is so infectious that I feel lightened by it myself. "And what will you do with all your newfound luck?" I ask.

"Use it to make a bet."

I raise an eyebrow. "What kind of bet?"

"A bet that before we reach New York, you will dance with me."

I laugh. "You know there's no dance floor on this ship." For a brief moment my confidence falters. How do I know that? Maybe Sophie told me?

"I do," he says, and my lightness returns.

"I'll take that bet. But I—"