As Mathinna danced in a circle with the others on the white sand, Lady Franklin kept looking at her with a curious smile.

The daughter of the chief of the Lowreenne tribe, Mathinna had long been accustomed to special attention. Several years ago, her father, Towterer—like so many of the Palawa deported to Flinders—had died of tuberculosis. Mathinna was proud to be the chieftain’s daughter, but in truth she hadn’t known him well. When she was three, she’d been sent from her parents’ cottage to live in a brick house with the white schoolteacher, who made her wear bonnets and dresses with buttons and taught her to read and write in English and hold a knife and spoon. Even so, she spent as many hours a day as she could with her mother, Wanganip, and other members of the tribe, most of whom did not speak English or adhere to British customs.

It had only been a few months since Mathinna’s mother had died. Wanganip had always hated Flinders. She’d often climb the spiny hill near the settlement and gaze across the turquoise sea toward her homeland, sixty miles away. This terrible place, she told Mathinna—this barren island where the wind was so strong it spun vegetables out of the ground and fanned small fires into raging infernos, where the trees shed bark like snakes shed their skin—was nothing like her ancestral land. It was a curse on her soul. On all of their souls. Their people were sickly; most of the babies born on Flinders died before their first birthdays. The Palawa had been promised a land of peace and plenty; if they did as they were told, the British said, they’d be allowed to keep their way of life. “But all of that was a lie. Like so many lies we were foolish to believe,” Wanganip said bitterly. “What choice did we have? The British had already taken everything.”

Looking into her mother’s face, Mathinna saw the fury in her eyes. Mathinna didn’t hate the island, though. It was the only home she’d ever known.

“Come here, child,” the governor’s wife said when the dance was over, beckoning with a finger. When Mathinna obeyed, Lady Franklin peered at her closely before turning to her husband. “Such expressive eyes! And a sweet face, don’t you think? Unusually attractive for a native.”

Sir John shrugged. “Hard to tell them apart, quite frankly.”

“I wonder if it might be possible to educate her.”

“She lives with the schoolteacher, who is teaching her English,” Robinson said, stepping forward. “She’s quite conversant already.”

“Interesting. Where are her parents?”

“The girl is an orphan.”

“I see.” Lady Franklin turned back to Mathinna. “Say something.”

Mathinna half curtsied. The arrogant rudeness of the British no longer surprised her. “What shall I say, ma’am?”

Lady Franklin’s eyes widened. “Goodness! I am impressed, Mr. Robinson. You are turning savages into respectable citizens.”

“In London, I hear, they’re dressing orangutans like lords and ladies and teaching them to read,” Sir John mused.