“Convicts are only permitted to visit their own children,” the warden at the Queen’s Orphan School told Hazel when she inquired about Mathinna. “Even that is a privilege.”

“But I was her maid at Governor Franklin’s residence,” she said, stretching the truth only a little.

“That is irrelevant.”

“I promised I’d visit. To make sure she’s all right.”

“If you continue to argue, you may be barred from seeing your own child as well.”

She tried one last tack: “I told the Franklins I’d keep an eye on her.”

“Unlikely. Besides, Lady Franklin was here only a few days ago,” the warden said with a dismissive wave.

Hazel was stunned. “She was? For what reason?”

“She didn’t say. Who knows, perhaps she’d . . . reconsidered. At any rate, the girl had so reverted to her natural savage state, in such a short amount of time, that Lady Franklin chose to leave without seeing her.”

“What do ye mean, her ‘savage state’?”

The warden shook his head, clucking his tongue. “It is a mistake to attempt to civilize the natives. The Franklins meant well, no doubt, but the result is a creature who possesses both the natural belligerence of her race and a rather unnatural precocity. Within the space of only a few days here she had become quite ungovernable. We had to separate her from the general population.”

“But she is only eleven years old.”

The warden shrugged. “It is a pity, but we had no alternative.”

Several Sundays later, when Hazel was waiting with a group of convict mothers at the front gate of the Cascades to begin their walk to the orphanage, the matron pulled her aside.

“The superintendent needs to see you at once.”

“But I’m going to visit my daughter.”

The matron didn’t reply; she simply turned toward the superintendent’s quarters. Hazel hesitated. But she knew she couldn’t disobey.

Inside his office, Mr. Hutchinson stood behind his desk. “We received an anonymous letter, Miss Ferguson, informing us that you are not who you purport to be.”

Her mind raced. Her head felt light. “Sir?”

“You are not the mother of the child you claim as your own.”

Hazel stopped breathing. “But ye have—ye have the birth certificate.” Her voice came out as a croak.

“Indeed we do. So we undertook an inquiry. The convicts and sailors we spoke with said that at no point during the crossing did you appear to be with child. A convict with whom you were frequently seen”—he moved his glasses down his nose as he consulted the sheet on the table in front of him—“a Miss Evangeline Stokes, was, in fact, due to give birth. And . . . where is . . .” He rifled around the desk. “Ah, yes. The death certificate. She was murdered, apparently. There was an investigation, and . . . yes, here it is. A crewman, Daniel Buck, was charged with the crime. He was confined on the ship and later sentenced to life in prison. You, Miss Ferguson, gave testimony as a witness.” He thrust the report toward her across the desk. “Is this your name?”