Read Chapter 9: The Missing Steward

The first-class corridor was too quiet. Evelyn noticed it before she registered why—no stewards gliding past with trays of consommé, no maids with armfuls of pressed linens, only the low thrum of the engines vibrating through the carpet beneath her feet.

“He was supposed to be here,” she said, stopping outside the service pantry where James Fleet had disappeared the previous loop. The door stood ajar. Inside, the copper kettle was cold, the shelf of teacups dusted with a fine film that spoke of hours of disuse.

Julian leaned against the doorframe, scanning the corridor with the practiced ease of a man who made a career of appearing unremarkable. “Perhaps he has a different station this time.”

“This isn't a different station,” Evelyn said. “This is the same door, same morning, same hour. He was here yesterday. He was here the loop before that, and the one before that.” She stepped into the pantry, running a finger along the wooden counter. It came away clean. “He was always here.”

“Until he wasn't.”

She rounded on him. “That's your contribution? Profound observation?”

Julian raised both hands in surrender. “I'm simply noting that the loop is changing. You said it yourself—you've never seen it deviate before. Not like this.”

Evelyn pressed her palms flat against the counter, steadying herself against the unfamiliarity of the moment. The last twenty-four hours had become a kind of liturgy—every face, every door, every glance from the crew predictable as a prayer. But James Fleet's absence felt like a missing verse in a song she knew by heart.

“We need to find him,” she said. “He's the only one who knows where Margaret went.”

They split up through the service corridors, Evelyn taking the port side while Julian worked his way toward the crew quarters. She moved quickly, her skirts gathered in one hand, poking her head into pantries and storage rooms, asking every maid and scullery boy she passed the same question: *Have you seen Steward Fleet?*

Most shook their heads. One old woman with a face like a dried apple squinted at her suspiciously. “Fleet?” she repeated. “Don't know no Fleet.”

“James Fleet. Third-class steward. Dark hair, nervous disposition, scar on his left wrist.”

The apple-faced woman frowned. “We've got no Fleet in third class, miss. You must be mistaken.”

A cold sensation crept up Evelyn's spine. She thanked the woman and hurried onward, her steps quickening until she nearly collided with Julian at the junction of two corridors.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Nothing. They don't know him. One of the maids said there's no James Fleet assigned to third class at all.” She heard the thinness in her own voice. “He's not on the crew list.”

Julian's expression went very still. “What did you say?”

“He's not on the crew list,” Evelyn repeated. “I asked a senior stewardess directly. She consulted the rotation sheet. There is no James Fleet aboard the Titanic.”

For a long moment, Julian said nothing. Then he pulled the folded passenger list from his jacket—the one he'd stolen from the purser's office the previous loop—and smoothed it against the wall, scanning the crew register printed along its edge.

His finger stopped about halfway down the page.

“Evelyn,” he said slowly. “James Fleet died in Belfast. March twelfth, 1911.”

The words hit her like a physical blow. She reached out and took the paper, reading the entry herself: *Fleet, James. Deckhand. Dismissed White Star service, November 1910. Deceased, March 1911, dockyard accident.*

“But we saw him,” she said. “We spoke to him. He was here.”

“He was here yesterday,” Julian corrected. “In this loop, no one's seen him. He's gone—and by the look of it, he was never supposed to be here at all.”

Evelyn lowered the paper, her mind racing through every encounter with the nervous steward. The tremor in his hands. The way his gaze kept darting toward the envelope he'd tried to hide. The locket he'd touched when he thought no one was watching.

“My grandmother wore that locket,” she whispered, the words escaping before she could stop them. “In every photograph from my childhood. She never took it off.”

Julian's eyes sharpened. “Your grandmother who died in New York twenty years ago.”

“My grandmother who is currently aboard this ship under an assumed name.” Evelyn folded the crew list carefully and tucked it into her sleeve. “And apparently, so is the steward who was hiding her. Or he was, until he wasn't.”

She turned and began walking, her steps guided by something deeper than intention.

“Where are you going?” Julian called after her.

“To find someone who knew James Fleet before he stopped existing.”

The purser's office was busier than the last time they'd broken in—two clerks hunched over ledgers, a porter dropping off a stack of manifests. Evelyn didn't bother with stealth. She approached the senior clerk and fixed him with her most imperious expression.

“I require information about a member of your staff,” she said. “A steward who was apparently struck from the roster without proper documentation. My father will be most displeased if he learns White Star keeps irregular records.”

The clerk, a balding man with spectacles perched on his nose, blinked up at her. “Ma'am, I'm sure there's been a misunderstanding—”

“James Fleet,” Evelyn said. “Third-class steward. Frequented the passenger corridors near berth E-87. Tell me everything you know about him.”

The clerk's face went pale. He glanced at his colleague, then back at Evelyn. “Miss, I don't know any James Fleet. And I've been with White Star for fifteen years.”

“Then who cleared his papers when he boarded?” Julian asked smoothly, stepping forward. “Someone must have processed his documentation. There's a trail.”

The clerk shook his head slowly. “There's no trail, sir. I checked the manifests the moment the young lady described him. James Fleet never boarded the Titanic. He has no passenger ticket, no crew assignment, no record of any kind.”

Evelyn held the clerk's gaze until he looked away. “But we saw him. My companion and I both spoke to him. Multiple times.”

“Then you spoke to a ghost, miss.” The clerk wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “And I'd advise you not to speak of it again. There's enough talk of bad omens aboard this ship already.”

Julian touched Evelyn's elbow. “We should go.”

She allowed herself to be guided from the office, but her mind was churning. When they reached the comparative privacy of the grand staircase landing, she rounded on Julian.

“This loop is different,” she said. “You said it yourself. And now the man who was guarding Margaret has been erased from existence entirely.”

“Erased, or removed,” Julian said quietly. “Someone is rewriting the passenger manifest of this ship while we stand on it.”

“Fleet was never real. He was placed here—inserted into this loop to keep Margaret hidden.” Evelyn pressed a hand to her temple, trying to organize the chaos of her thoughts. “Which means someone knew we would come looking for her.”

“Which means someone knows about the loop.”

The words hung between them, heavy and terrible.

Evelyn lowered her hand. “My father,” she said. “Margaret has been dead to our family for twenty years. Dead, and buried, and mourned. And now she's alive aboard a doomed ship, hidden by a man who doesn't exist, on first-class stationery.” She met Julian's eyes. “He's not just my father, Julian. He's been controlling this before we ever woke up in it.”

Julian was silent for a moment. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew the torn envelope fragment they'd found in Fleet's hiding spot, smoothing it between his fingers.

“This paper is engraved,” he said. “But not with the Ashworth family crest.”

Evelyn frowned. “What do you mean?”

He turned the fragment toward her, and she saw it clearly for the first time—a small embossed monogram at the corner of the sheet, nearly hidden beneath the torn edge.

Not an A.

A small, elegant double-O.

Evelyn's breath caught in her throat. “O'Leary,” she said. “Margaret's own monogram.”

“Your grandmother wrote the letter that connected her to your father,” Julian said. “She knew he was coming for her. She was preparing for him.”

“Or she was preparing for us.” Evelyn took the fragment from his hands, tracing the embossed letters with her fingertips. “She knew we would find her. She's been trying to lead us to her all along.”

She looked up at Julian, a new resolve hardening in her chest.

“James Fleet is gone because his purpose was served,” she said. “He led us to Margaret's own handwriting. Whatever message she has for us is already here, hidden somewhere on this ship.”

Julian's expression shifted—something like admiration flickering beneath the surface of his careful composure. “Then we don't need to find the steward,” he said. “We need to find the rest of the letter.”