She glanced at the guard. Hazel followed her gaze. A convict had slipped in the mud, and he was prodding her to her feet.

“I had to let ye know,” Olive stage-whispered. “Buck’s the reason ye lost Ruby. He got his mate from the ship to smuggle the ledgers to Hutchinson.”

Hazel’s mouth went dry. “How do ye know?”

“Buck was here. On a crew building the new cells. He was bragging about it. Thing is, he escaped. Climbed over the wall.”

“That’s enough, ye two,” the guard called. “C’mon now, up!” he said gruffly, poking the woman in the mud with his shoe as she struggled to rise.

Olive stuck her hands in the water and sucked her teeth. “Forgot how bloody cold it is.” Splashing loudly, she said, “He’s out there talking revenge to anybody who’ll listen. Says it’s just a matter of when.”

Hazel thought of the way Buck’s eyes had bored into her as she stood before the captain on the ship, telling him what she’d seen.

“He wants Ruby. He’s been asking around, trying to find someone to get her from the orphanage.”

Hazel’s heart seized. “No. They wouldn’t allow it. I’m the . . .”

Olive tilted her head. “You’re not, though. Are ye?”

Hazel looked at the stone walls rising all around her. The laundry dripping icicles. The woman still splayed on the cobbles. Buck was out there, trying to get to Ruby, and she was in here. Trapped.

All day long, muddling the laundry and slopping it into buckets and running each piece through the ringer and dragging it to the clothesline, she turned the situation over in her mind. Lying in the straw in the stone cell that night, she stared up into the dark. Would anyone be willing to intervene? Mrs. Crain? Mrs. Wilson? Maeve? One of the mothers with a child at the orphanage? She thought of how impossible it had been for her to see Mathinna and was overcome with despair.

The convict women were powerless. The people with power had no reason to help.

Except . . . maybe . . .

She sat up, gripped by an idea.

The next morning, Hazel took the tin ticket from around her neck. Pressing it into Olive’s hand, she told her what to do.

Six weeks later, when Hazel was released from the crime yard, Olive was waiting.

“It’s done,” she said.

The assignables stood in the long, narrow main yard in two straight lines, facing each other. Shifting nervously from one foot to the other, Hazel scanned the faces of the free settlers as they filed in through the wooden gate. At the end of the line was a man in a long black coat, light gray trousers, and a black top hat. His dark hair curled over the collar of his shirt, and he wore a short-cropped beard.

Once inside the courtyard, he removed his hat and smoothed his hair. Hazel gulped.

It was Dunne.

When he looked over at the rows of women, Hazel caught his eye. He raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment.

A jowly man in shiny leather boots had stopped in front of her. “Ever worked as a cook?”

“No, sir,” she mumbled.

“Can you sew?”

“No.”

“How’re you at laundry?”

“No good, sir.”

“What’s that, prisoner?” the man said loudly, looking around to see if anyone else had witnessed her impudence.

“I’m not any good at all at laundry. Sir.”

“Ye never been a housemaid?”

She shook her head.

“Useless wench!”

“How are you at needlepoint?” asked the next person, a matronly housekeeper.

“Dreadful, ma’am,” Hazel said.

The woman flared her nostrils and moved along.

Finally Dunne was standing in front of her. She did not dare look up. “Your hair is so short,” he said quietly, moving a step closer. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Self-consciously, she touched the nape of her neck.

He cleared his throat and stepped back. “I have a child in my care and need someone to look after her,” he said. “Have you any experience, prisoner?”

“I have.” She looked up, searching his eyes, but remembered herself. Looking down, she added, “Sir.”

“Of what sort?”

“I—I worked in the nursery. Here, at the Cascades.”

“Do you know how to treat scrapes and runny noses?”

“Of course.”

“Crankiness?”

She smiled. “I am an expert.”

“I will need someone to teach her to read. Are you literate?”

“‘You may deny me, but I’ll be your servant / Whether you will or no,’” she said softly.

He paused. The corners of his mouth twitched. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She couldn’t help it; she smiled again.

He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dropped it at her feet. She watched it fall, a crisp white pocket square. Bending down, she picked it up and waved it toward the superintendent.

Mr. Hutchinson strode over. “Good morning, Mr. . . . ,” he said to Dunne.

“Frum,” he said. “Doctor Frum. Good morning.”

“I see you’ve selected Miss Ferguson. For what kind of employment, may I ask?”

“To take care of a child.”

Hutchinson grimaced showily.

“Is that a problem, superintendent?”

“Well . . . I must warn you, Dr. Frum, that this particular convict may not be the most appropriate choice. She was recently sent to the crime yard for a related offense.”

“What was it, may I ask?”

“She impersonated a mother in order to get preferential treatment. To work in the nursery.”

Dunne gave Hazel an appraising look. “And what does the real mother say?”

“The real mother? I believe she is deceased.”

“And the father?”

“I—nothing is known about the . . . father,” Hutchinson stammered.

“So this girl—what is your name?” Dunne asked abruptly, turning to Hazel.

“Hazel Ferguson, sir.”

“This girl, Hazel Ferguson, assumed the care of a parentless child.”

“Well, yes. But—”

“Did she take adequate care of the child?”

“As far as I know.”

“Were there complaints about her conduct?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“And as superintendent you would know, would you not?”

“I suppose I would.”

Dunne stood back on his heels. “Well, Mr. Hutchinson, it is precisely her experience caring for a parentless child that qualifies her to work for me. Her ability to do the job is my only concern.”

The superintendent shook his head and sighed. “If I were you, I might be concerned about the deceit, sir. The . . . impersonation. There are other suitable—”

“I think,” Dunne said, “I’ll take my chances with Miss Ferguson.”

Hazel fought to keep her eyes down and her posture submissive as he made arrangements for the assignment. She felt as if they were conspiring to pull off an escape, or a heist. When he beckoned her forward, she followed him through the wooden gate with her head bowed, like any dutiful convict maid. She trailed him down the street to his dun-colored horse and four-wheeled open buggy, and when he sprang up onto the driver’s seat, she climbed onto the bench behind. Without looking back, he handed her a small parcel, then took the reins. He swatted the horse with a leather whip and they jolted off down the road.

She opened the parcel. Inside was Evangeline’s ticket.

It was a chilly day in early spring. A silver disk of sun washed the grasses on the side of the road in a pale white light. Broom-bristle branches reached toward a sky streaked with wisps of cloud. As they made their way up the hill to Macquarie Street, Hazel looked back at the convicts trudging along on foot and riding in rickety carts.

Dunne flicked the whip again and the horse trotted on, leaving them behind.

Hobart Town, 1842

After some time, they turned from the long stretch of Macquarie Street onto a narrower side street lined with small cottages. When they reached a sandstone cottage with a red tile roof and a blue front door, Dunne pulled down the dirt drive. A sign hung on a post in the yard: Dr. Caleb Dunne, Physician and Apothecarie. It felt quite secluded; the house next door was hidden behind a tall hedge.

Dunne jumped down from the driver’s seat and unbuckled the harness, then freed the horse from its bridle and hitched it to a post.

“Where is she?” Hazel asked, the first words she had spoken since they left the Cascades.

He walked toward the front steps, motioning for her to follow.

Hazel held her breath as she stepped over the threshold into the cottage. Dunne, ahead of her, turned into a room. Her heart racing, she hurried after him.

And there she was: Ruby. Sitting on the floor, building a tower out of wooden blocks.

“Oh,” Hazel breathed.

Ruby looked up, a block in her hand.

It had been more than four months since Hazel had seen her. She was heartbreakingly older. Her face had thinned and lengthened. Brown curls spilled down her back. She gazed at Hazel for a long moment, as if she couldn’t quite place her.

“Give ’er time.” A woman’s voice.

Hazel looked up. “Maeve!” The woman was sitting in the shadows in a rocking chair, holding two knitting needles, a pile of yarn heaped in front of her.

“Welcome. We’ve been waiting for ye.”

“What are ye doing here?”

With a broad smile, Maeve reached up and touched her white braid. “Glad to see yours is growing back.”