Hazel was accustomed to Glasgow’s harsh winters. The apartment she’d shared with her mother was damp and drafty; wind slithered under the front door and through cracks around the window frame. But the generally temperate weather in Van Diemen’s Land had lulled her into thinking winter would be mild. The brutal cold, when it came, was a shock.

It was bleak and windy when Hazel joined the assignables in the courtyard for the first time one July morning. The cobblestones were slick with ice; the sky was white, mottled with gray, the color of dirty snow. The convicts stood like horses in two lines, stamping their feet. Their breath smoked the air. When the gate was opened, about a dozen free settlers entered, their thick coats and wool hats in marked contrast to the convicts’ thin dresses and wraps.

Hazel’s hair was neatly pulled back and her face washed. She wore a clean white apron over her gray dress, and a shawl over that. Maeve had told her that the more respectable-looking and polite a convict was, the nicer her placement. A fancy house didn’t necessarily mean kinder employers, but it did mean better conditions. Sometimes there were even perks: extra rations, clothes, shoes. Perhaps a discarded toy or book she could give to Ruby.

The settlers strolled up and down the lines, asking questions: What are your skills? Can you cook? Can you sew?

Yes, sir. I was employed as a plain cook and housemaid.

I’m a farm servant, ma’am. I can wash and iron. Milk cows and make butter.

A plump older woman in a navy-blue dress, heavy overcoat, and fur cap paused in front of Hazel and moved on, making her way down the line. A few moments later she circled back. “What is your name, prisoner?”

“Hazel Ferguson, ma’am.”

“I haven’t seen you before. What was your past assignment?”

The woman had a haughty air. She’d probably never been a convict, Hazel thought.

“I worked at the nursery.”

“You have a child?”

“A daughter. She’s at the Queen’s Orphan School now.”

“You hardly look—”

Hazel told the truth. “I’m seventeen.”

The woman nodded. “What are your skills?”

Hazel chewed her lip. No one wanted a nurse or a midwife, Maeve said; they didn’t trust convicts for that. “I’m qualified to be a housemaid, ma’am. And a ladies’ maid.”

“You’re experienced with laundry?”

“Yes.”

“Ever worked in a kitchen?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hazel said, though she hadn’t.

The woman patted her lips with two fingers. “I am Mrs. Crain, housekeeper to the governor of Hobart Town. The standards of my household are exacting. I tolerate no slackness or misbehavior. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I am only here today because I had to let the last convict maid go. Quite frankly, I would prefer not to use prison labor, but it can’t be helped. There are simply not enough free settlers.” Mrs. Crain lifted her arm, and the matron hurried over.

“This one should do all right, Mrs. Crain,” she said. “We’ve had no complaints.”