They boarded the Pocahontas at four o'clock in the afternoon. The tiered steamboat was a welcome change—passengers of all races and ages mingled on the various decks. Some carried picnic baskets and parasols, while others appeared to be traveling on business. Several families boarded with bags of popcorn they'd purchased on shore. Even the dense afternoon humidity felt less suffocating on the crowded decks than on the Harts' plantation. JB watched Sam's demeanor shift from fraught to frolicsome as they boarded. He felt his own muscles relax the further they drifted up the Chesapeake Bay. It wasn't just the fact that they were leaving that miserable house; it was also a relief to stop worrying that Sam would blow their cover. He hated to admit it, but Cira had been right about one thing: Sam could only conceal her discomfort for so long. Though she managed to keep calm in front of the Harts, she expressed a manic sort of friendliness toward the enslaved workers on the plantation. Their frightened reactions only made her more determined to prove herself an ally. No matter how hard she tried to take JB's advice and tone it down, she seemed incapable of containing the intense conflict inside her. Sam was not the kind of woman to do anything halfway—a quality JB loved about her, but one that would get them into trouble under the wrong circumstances. At least here, aboard the steamboat, she had new distractions.

"Do you think the stops are long enough for us to get off and check out some of the cute beaches on the way?" she said, her face buried in the Old Bay Line brochure. "One of them has an ice cream shop. Can you imagine? Getting ice cream on the beach in the 1840s!"

"We're not on vacation," JB reminded her, though the lingering scent of popcorn and ocean air implied otherwise. "I will not risk having to tell Cira that time is about to collapse because you wanted ice cream."

She closed the brochure and smirked. "It's not just ice cream, JB, it's ice cream on a beach in the 1840s."

"Oh, okay then. In that case, I'm sure Cira will understand." He rolled his eyes and shook his head, smiling. He knew she didn't seriously expect to get off for a day trip to the beach, but it was nice to hear her joke again.

She sat beside him on a bench, wearing a sunny yellow dress under a green paisley shawl. Decorative buttons lined the v-necked bodice and appeared in two rows all the way down the skirt. Underneath, a white blouse-like garment that she'd called a "chemisette" fastened at her neck with a brooch. She scanned the area and JB followed her gaze across the populated deck. A group of children in straw hats and cotton frocks peered through the rails and marveled at the vast waters below. An elderly man with a monocle squinted at an open newspaper on a bench across from them. A younger couple bickered over the husband's use of his pipe outside the smoking room. Seabirds skipped and skidded on the breeze, trolling the deck for discarded food. For about the tenth time that day, Sam asked, "Have you spotted Poe yet? Are you sure he's here?"

JB swallowed. He wasn't sure. The writer very well could have bought a cheaper ticket and ended up on the lower deck with the boilers and cargo. Cira's research showed that in original time, a friend had helped Poe pay for an upper deck ticket, but with everything in flux, who knew if that was still the case? What if Poe had taken another boat entirely? What if he was already dead? Even with all of the time agency's projections telling them to take certain steps, there was always a risk that a time traveler's decisions could change the course of history, especially without the convenience of tracers and invisibility.

He closed his eyes and willed himself to breathe. You're doing the best you can. That's all you can do. He'd repeated this mantra to himself several times throughout the mission, but the anxiety always returned.

"Wait, is that him?"

JB snapped to attention. Sam was pointing at a dark-haired man who'd just emerged from the deck below. He was slightly shorter than average, with a mustache and a worn but otherwise respectable coat. He shooed some seagulls away with his walking stick as he paced back and forth across the deck, gazing serenely at no one and nothing in particular. JB recognized him instantly from the photos Cira had sent him of Poe.

"Yes, I think that is him—don't!" he whispered as Sam leaned forward a little too excitedly.

Sam crossed her arms and widened her eyes at him with a look of innocence JB didn't buy for a second. "What?"

"Come on, Sam, I know that look."

"What look?" She shrugged, but her lips twitched upward in a suppressed grin.

"Let's just wait and watch for a bit, okay? What's that twenty-first century phrase… 'Just be chill'?" As soon as he said it, he felt his face burn up. Why did he ever think any of those old phrases would sound natural coming from him?

Sam covered her mouth and erupted in hushed giggles. "Okay, first of all, never say that again, lest I die of second-hand embarrassment. Second, we both know that I'm basically incapable of any semblance of 'chill.'"

She was right about that. "Okay, fine. Just please don't go over there begging for an autograph and trying to change his mind about slavery the second he acknowledges you. I know how badly you want him to be a good guy, but now is really not the time."

"Give me some credit, JB," she huffed. "The plan was never to act like a pathetic fangirl. I just figured I'd ask him for directions or something and see if that leads to a conversation."

JB glanced at their surroundings. "Directions to where? The bottom of the ocean?"

"No. I said directions or something. Jeez."

"How about we just observe? No need to approach him unless something looks off."

Sam crossed her arms and frowned at him, but a gust of wind blew her bonnet backwards and her stern expression turned frantic. JB chuckled as she scrambled to secure the bonnet back on her head. She flushed and he felt himself grin even wider.

"Well, at least one of us is having a good time," she said.

Poe remained on the top deck for the next hour, and JB watched him carefully. Sam whispered something into the stuffer-sack and then pulled out the copy of A Christmas Carol that she'd bought in town that morning. She opened it to the middle pages, evidently meaning to use it as a prop, but JB thought she looked about as convincing as a cartoon villain behind a newspaper. Since that particular trope wouldn't catch on until movies were invented, he let it slide.

As it turned out, Poe's demeanor was far from the solemn, brooding presence that emanated from most daguerreotypes of Poe. He made light conversation with the group of children at the railing until their mother arrived, and he then proceeded to chat with her. Well-spoken and charming, he joked that he'd almost mistaken her for their older sister. The woman blushed and apologized for any trouble the kids may have caused him while she was downstairs, to which he responded, "None at all, Ma'am. You have some delightful little conversationalists on your hands."

It soon became evident that Poe made quite an impression on the women he met aboard. He presented as the perfect gentleman and appeared genuinely interested in what they had to say, which was likely appealing in an era where women's voices were often ignored. Still, JB sensed the behavior was somewhat superficial.

"Isn't he supposed to be engaged?" he asked Sam. "He seems to be flirting with every woman he meets."

Sam shrugged and peered up from her book. "Poe was known to get along better with women than with men. It got him into trouble in New York, but I don't think the intention is to be flirtatious. I think he just prefers women's company. He often wrote vicious literary reviews of male writers, but generally spoke highly of female poets." JB must have looked skeptical because she added, "What? It makes sense. He didn't exactly have the best father figures growing up."

"That's fair," said JB. "It does explain why Emily Dickinson is supposed to have a big influence on his beliefs in a few years."

"Exactly!" said Sam. "Come to think of it, most published abolitionists are men in the 1840s, so that's probably the only exposure he's had to abolitionist ideals so far. Maybe that's why Emily Dickinson is the one who eventually convinces him that slavery's wrong. He just needs to hear it from an intelligent woman."

JB thought she looked far too pleased with this theory of hers. "I hope this doesn't mean you plan to try and change his mind early."

"No!" said Sam, a little too quickly.

He raised his eyebrows at her.

"No," she repeated. "Besides, what are the odds he'll notice us when there's so many people on board?"

Just then, JB watched as Poe finished a conversation with a honeymooning couple and started walking toward him and Sam. It was like the universe was taunting him.

Poe cleared his throat and said to Sam, "Is it not a bit early for Christmas stories, my dear?" Sam blinked at him, speechless. Poe's mustache quivered as he laughed under his breath. "I'm only teasing, Ma'am. In fact, Charles Dickens is a friend of mine and I am happy to see his work is to your liking." After regaining something close to composure, Sam replied, "I believe it's never too early for Christmas stories."

Poe nodded. "My late wife used to sing Christmas carols in June, actually." For a minute, something akin to the melancholy JB had seen in photographs of Poe appeared in his eyes.

"If that is true, I think I would have gotten on quite well with Mrs. Poe," said Sam. As soon as the words left her mouth, her eyes bulged. It was only for a second, but JB knew she had just realized her mistake—she'd let it slip that she knew who Poe was.

"I see you recognize me," Poe said quietly.

"Yes, of course," Sam replied. "I, like many, was quite taken with 'The Raven.'" Good, yes. She was playing it cool. "Of course, I also love your more recent poem, 'Eureka.'" Maybe playing it a little too cool now, JB thought. It was clear that Sam was now trying to impress Poe by mentioning one of his lesser known works. "One of my favorite lines from that one," she added pointedly, "is 'no one soul is inferior to another.'"

JB glared at Sam. She really could not help herself, could she? There was no doubt in his mind that she'd chosen that specific line to bait Poe into a conversation about slavery.

Luckily, Poe simply thanked her and asked, "May I ask your name, and that of your companion?" He tipped his hat at JB. JB returned the gesture.

"I am Arabella Evangeline Blossom." Arabella Evangeline Blossom! Was she serious? One glance at the expression of sheer satisfaction on her face convinced him she was.

"And I'm her husband, Joseph," JB said before Sam had a chance to come up with any more absurd names. "Joseph…Blossom." The surname tasted as ridiculous coming out of his mouth as it sounded when Sam said it.

Poe tipped his hat again. "A pleasure, Sir."

"What brings you aboard the Pocahontas, Mr. Poe?" Sam asked. Finally, a safe topic.

"I have business in Philadelphia," said Poe, "but I must first stop in Baltimore for a few days."

JB and Sam exchanged looks. So his plan was never to head directly to Philadelphia?

"We, too, are disembarking in Baltimore," said Sam.

Poe brightened. "Indeed! And do you have plans tomorrow afternoon? I will be performing a little reading of my most recent poem for a ladies-only group, if that is of interest to you, Mrs. Blossom."

"Certainly!" exclaimed Sam, all but leaping off the bench. "That sounds delightful."

And so it was settled. Within just five minutes, they had secured themselves access to Poe's affairs for at least the next twenty-four hours. Even if it did mean calling themselves Mr. and Mrs. Blossom.