The storm had left behind swiftly clearing clouds and now and again there was a spatter of rain, which I gobbled at greedily. But it wasn’t enough, and my mouth was already sticky and sour. What I wouldn’t have given for a cup of tea right then. Even better, a cup made by my da. He’d been gone since I was six, but I could still taste the strong tea with the metallic flavor of my own little pewter tankard and the shavings of sugar he saved just for me. My tea days were over when Da died and I went to live with my aunt. She’d have me making tea aplenty, but I’d be lucky if I tasted the cold bottom-pot dregs myself. Nowadays, I was in charge of the tinpot tea, which I made over the fire for the master whenever we camped, and there was never a shortage. Through all our expeditions I must have made hundreds of steaming brews.

We’d always had so much kit with us, and now I had nothing. I shook my head at myself. And here I was, thinking about tea.

I reached a lava field and paused. The solid black flow stretched far inland and was smoother than most we’d seen, so at least it wouldn’t cut my bare feet completely to shreds. It must have been here for some time because there were pits, and the stout chimneys Mr. Darwin called fumaroles. But these ones were long dead, no longer spouting smoke and steam from deep in the earth, and spiky cactuses had sprung up inside and around them. In the distance there might just be a band of greenery I hadn’t been able to see yesterday. The sky was still clear, and the volcano calm. As I walked away from the fumaroles, out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the cactus stems wobble. I stopped still, watching. It must have been the wind.

“Well, it’s hardly surprising I’m a little nervy,” I said. The sound of my own voice made me feel stronger.

Nervy? You’re jumpy as a jackrabbit.

The voice in my head was Scratch replying, like the fiddle sometimes did when I berated him for a duff note.

“What if I am, Scratch?” I replied, tugging on the fiddle strap.

Just watch yourself, clumsy clout. I’ve been through enough.

I smiled and shrugged. Da used to call me a clumsy clout. Then he’d muss my hair and smile, to show he didn’t mean it.

As I walked on, I had the sense of something following me. It reminded me of games I played with my neighbors in the lane back home in Bedford: What’s the Time, Mr. Wolf?

No, wild animals didn’t follow people, not unless they were used to being fed by them, and there were no humans on these islands, as far as we knew. There was a small colony of settlers on Charles Island—Mr. Darwin planned to visit the governor there—but I could not imagine a person living in such a godforsaken place as this.