Irene looks flushed; the apples of her cheeks are tinged a warm pink against her pale skin. She glances at the cabin boy and then away. Only the most careful observer would notice the wordless flirting between the two.
“You’re a kind girl,” Emilie says, pulling Irene’s attention away from Werner. “Letting your parents sleep in like this.”
“Kindness has little to do with it, Fr?ulein. My brothers stayed in my cabin last night. I didn’t think it would be right to wake my parents just because they wanted breakfast.”
One of the perks of not having a full flight is that there are cabins to spare. It was easy enough to settle Irene in a room of her own yesterday, right across the hall from her parents. And it’s no surprise that they took full advantage of the chance for a little privacy. Emilie can’t say that she blames them. She doubts they often get a moment to themselves, what with the boys’ perpetual antics. A bit like herding cats, looking after those two.
She winks at Irene, causing the girl’s face to flame even brighter. “Like I said, a kind girl.”
It makes sense now why the boys came to breakfast in yesterday’s rumpled clothes. Emilie had passed it off as a quirk unique to male children. They are not known for their reason or their hygiene. These two in particular. There’s a stain on Walter’s shirt from dinner last night, and little Werner—he has the same name as the cabin boy, good Lord, she’ll never keep them straight—seems to have lost three buttons on his shirt. From wrestling, no doubt. She has never seen children who take such delight in roughhousing. They actually fell down the stairs to B-deck last night, landing in a pile of arms and legs and laughter. She had run after them only to find that they were delighted with the ordeal and wanted to do it again. Emilie had made them sit on their hands in the corridor for ten minutes as punishment.
The boys are slowing their ravenous consumption of eggs, and Emilie clears the empty plates from the table. No sooner has she stepped into the serving pantry to send the dishes down the dumbwaiter than she sees Werner Franz drift toward the table. Werner does nothing inappropriate. He does not look at Irene or speak to her. But, from Emilie’s perspective, the sleight of hand is clear. The pink carnation now lies where Irene’s breakfast dishes once cluttered the table. He hesitates at her side just long enough to see whether his gift will be accepted and is clearly pleased when Irene lifts the flower from the table, sniffs it quickly, and hides it beneath the napkin in her lap. She meets Werner’s gaze for one quick second, offering the sort of smile that no girl of fourteen should know how to wield. Emilie is somewhat surprised that Werner can think, much less walk straight afterwards. But he does. Had Emilie not witnessed the exchange she would not know from his appearance that anything of significance had just passed between the teenagers. Werner is smiling, but in the way he often does. It’s a grin of pleased servitude. A steward’s grin. Damn if that child doesn’t have a rather brilliant poker face.
She returns to clear the remaining dishes from the table only to notice that the American has observed the moment as well. He is stretched out in the promenade, feet propped up on a window ledge, hands behind his head, grinning. The American catches her eye and tips his chin toward Werner. He winks as though this is a secret between them. The fact that he includes her in the observation makes her uncomfortable. The fact that he continues to watch her with a sleepy sort of gaze makes her even more so.
Emilie wonders if she should confront Werner. He doesn’t need to meddle with Irene. But as he brushes past her and sets the dishes in the dumbwaiter she can’t bring herself to say anything. Why shouldn’t someone on this ship be happy? It’s not like this crush can go anywhere. In two days Werner will return to Frankfurt, and the Doehners will travel on to Mexico City. This will end before it has a chance to begin.
The thought makes her anxious. And not because of Werner. Or Irene. But for herself. Max has discovered her plan, and now she feels vulnerable and defensive. Emilie doesn’t realize she is slamming dirty dishes onto the tray until Walter looks up from the table in alarm.
“I didn’t break the plate! It was Werner!” he says, trying to hide a shard in his lap.
God bless a guilty conscience. Who knows what he would have done with the sharp piece of china if he had been able to smuggle it out of the dining room.
She extends her hand, and he surrenders the piece. “Werner?”
He crawls out from under the table with the remaining pieces. Emilie counts them just to be sure. They move so quickly, the little hellions. She never saw them break the plate or try to hide it. She had been too distracted watching the fledgling mating dance of the two resident teenagers.