What interesting trees were the Norfolk pines! Those felled to make the road had been cut off right at ground level with a cross saw and were already crumbling, sinking slowly beneath the surface. In two years, with a little rubble to fill the craters in, no one would ever know that pines had once occupied every inch. Aware that the sun was lower than he had counted on, he quickened his pace as he walked through the clearing around Phillipburgh, where Ross was heroically following in King’s footsteps by attempting to establish a canvas-from-flax industry, and set off into the forested section that led to the fairly flat crest to which the Lieutenant-Governor had banished the men off Sirius. Captain Hunter had declined to join them; he had elected to move in with Lieutenant William Bradley at what was beginning to be known as Phillimore’s Run, from the strength of the stream which ran through Dick Phillimore’s land.

Well, he was safe for yet another day. None of the women had taken a fancy to him, none had lacked eager takers acceptable to them—though all had fancied Stephen best, the devil. With any luck, Richard thought as he strode along, I will wriggle out of having to care for anybody save John Lawrell, even if that does mean I will not qualify for a sow.

Something mewed. Richard stopped, frowning. The settlers had a few cats brought on Sirius, but they were greatly prized as pets and ratters and did not need to wander this far in search of food. Sirius’s crew had cats too, but loved them, so it was hardly likely to belong to the sailors. Unless it had strayed, climbed a tree and could not get down.

“Here, kitty, kitty!” he called, ear tilted for a response.

Another mew, but less catlike. Skin prickling, he left the road and entered the realm of vine-choked pine buttresses. Once off the cleared ground the darkness increased dramatically; he paused long enough to allow his eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom, then started off again, suddenly sure that the sound was a human one. What a pity. He had hoped for a cat, longing to be able to gift Stephen with a replacement for his beloved Rodney, which, as ship’s cat, had remained behind on Alexander when Stephen moved to Sirius and Johnny Livingstone’s arms.

“Where are ye?” he asked in an ordinary but loud voice. “Sing out to me, then I can find ye.”

Silence save for the creaking of the pines, the sound of the wind high up in them, the flutters of birds.

“Come, it is all right, I want to help ye. Sing out!”

A faint mew, some distance farther in. Richard looked back to fix his landmarks, then ventured toward the sound.

“Sing out,” he said at normal volume. “Let me find you.”

“Help me!”

After that it was no trouble to find her, crouched inside the cavity time and perpetually gnawing beetles had carved out of an enormous pine; a refugee might have made a dwelling out of it, which lent credence to the stories of the occasional convict who absconded into the wilderness, only to reappear in Sydney Town weeks later, starving.

A little girl, or so at first she seemed. Then he saw that it was a woman’s breast showed amid a great tear in her dress. Crouched on his heels, he smiled and held out his hand.

“Come, it is all right. I will not hurt you. We must leave this place or it will be too dark to see the way back to the road. Come, take my hand.”

She put her fingers into his palm and let him draw her out, shivering with cold and terror.

“Where are your things?” he asked, careful to touch no more of her than those trembling fingers.

“The man took them,” she whispered.

Mouth compressed to a thin line, he led her to the road, there to look at her in the dying light. No taller than his shoulder, very thin, with what might have been fair hair, though it was too dirty to tell. Her eyes, however, were—were—his breath caught. No, sunshine would give the lie to them, had to! William Henry’s eyes had belonged to him alone, they had no like on the face of the globe.

“Are ye able to walk?” he asked, wanting to give her his shirt but afraid of frightening her into running off.

“I think so.”

“At the next clearing I will get a torch. After that we can take our time.”

She flinched, shuddered.

“No, no, it is all right! We have three more miles to get home, and we will need to see our way.” He held her hand strongly and began to move onward. “My name is Richard Morgan, and I am a free man.” How wonderful to be able to say that! “I am the supervisor of sawyers.”

Though she did not reply, she walked with him more confidently until they reached the Sirius settlement. The sailors were living in tents until the carpenters could erect proper barracks and huts, and a few men were moving about in the distance. A big fire burned adjacent to the road, but no one sat at it. They were probably all drunk on rum. So no one saw him pick up a torch and kindle it, nor saw the waif still clinging for dear life to his hand.

“What is your name?” he asked as they set off again into the pines, more exposed to the south and beginning to roar now that the full force of the wind struck into them like a hammer into thin copper sheeting—boom, boom, boom.

“Catherine Clark.”

“Kitty,” he said instantly. “Kitty.”

She jumped. “How did you know that?”

“I did not,” he said, surprised. “It is just that when I first heard ye, I thought I heard a kitten. Ye’re off Lady Juliana?”

“Yes.”

Sensing that she was foundering but afraid to carry her for fear of frightening her—who was the cur had attacked her?—he said, “We will not waste our time or breath on talking, Kitty. The most important thing is to get ye home.”

Home.The most beautiful word in the world. He uttered it as if it genuinely meant something to him, as if he promised her all the things she had not known in so long. Since years before she was convicted and sent briefly to the London Newgate, then sent to Lady Juliana on the Thames to wait for months before the ship finally sailed for Botany Bay all alone. That had not been utter horror because no sailor had lusted after her; with 204 women to choose from, why should a mere 30 men select any but the strapping girls with hips, breasts, nicely rounded bellies? A few of the men were given to prowling, not satisfied with one conquest, but Mr. Nicol had made sure no girl was raped. Most of the crew had behaved like potential buyers at a horse fair and fastened upon just one “wife,” as he called her. Like a hundred others on board, Catherine Clark had never attracted male attention. In Port Jackson they had not been landed, had remained upon Lady Juliana until 157 of them were picked at random to transfer to Surprize for the voyage to Norfolk Island, a place she had never, never heard of. Nor had she heard of Port Jackson: all she had known was “Botany Bay,” a petrifying name.

Surprize had been far worse than Lady Juliana. Seasick even in the Thames, desperately ill for most of Lady Juliana’s leisurely progress, Catherine had descended into a nightmare only terrible seasickness had rendered endurable without madness. The place where they were put crawled with vermin, slopped with a noisome fluid the nature of which no one dared to guess, stank so badly that the nose never got used to it, and there was no fresh air, no deck privilege.

To be rowed ashore and flung like a doll onto the rock had terrified her, but a handsome man with a beautiful smile and the bluest eyes had caught her, reassured her, given her a gentle push and asked her if she could manage to climb that awful crevice. Wanting to please him, she had nodded and set off, her bundle and her bedding serving as props while she toiled upward. By some quirk of fate she had not set eyes upon Richard Morgan, who had come down on a more precipitous track at the moment she was crawling into the cleft. At the top she paused to catch her breath, then set off along the road, realizing that so much seasickness and so little food for the past year and more had not equipped her for this walk, however far it might be, wherever its termination might be. A group of men passed her by at a run, took no notice of her.