In new country, stay at a waterhole for at least two nights, so you know which birds and animals come to water in this country. You may then look for their flights or tracks to find water for at least a week of droving.

NEW SOUTH WALES, 1883

CLANCY

He walked till it was dark, a matter of ten minutes perhaps, but at least he was alone, could lean against a tree and sob in the night, and have no one pity him or question him. He sank onto the ground, every memory tumbling out, Clementine laughing on Rose’s hip, the native girl teaching her to toddle, black hands on white . . .

‘Mr Clancy?’

She’d followed him. ‘She died,’ he said harshly, not looking at her. ‘Did you know that?’

‘Yes. Mistress Flora and Miss Clementine. I heard.’

‘She would not have died if you’d been there.’ He didn’t know if he meant his wife or his daughter. It didn’t matter. Probably they both would have survived, if Rose had stayed at Overflow.

‘Where’s the horse?’ he asked as an afterthought.

‘I let him go free. Like I was free.’ She stood, looking down at him. ‘I couldn’t know they would die, Mr Clancy. They had others to look after them.’

He stood up, so that he was taller than her. ‘It was your duty to care for them!’

‘No. I was your prisoner. You had chained me,’ she said, still emotionlessly. ‘You would have chained me again if you thought I might escape. I made no bargain with you. I had no wages. I was not your sister or your aunt, and I had no duty to you or Mistress Flora.’

‘But they would have lived if you’d been with them!’

‘They’d have lived if anyone had been with them. You are the one who should have seen to that.’

He had never heard Rose talk like this. Had never heard her speak much at all, except chattering to Clementine in those upper-class English tones. Her voice was slightly more like McKenzie’s now, but the vowels could still cut glass.

‘I’m sorry about their deaths, Mr Clancy. Truly sorry. I liked Mistress Flora, even though she was ill.’

‘She wasn’t sick!’

‘She was. Sick in the spirit. You just would not see it. I loved Miss Clementine.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘I would have given my life to save hers. But I did not know I needed to do that so she could live. I thought that she had family, that you would care for her . . .’

And no one had. He had not. Nor had Ezekiel or Mrs Taylor, a woman who had not offered Flora friendship. Or perhaps she had, he thought wearily, and Flora had rejected it. She had expected servants, not friends.