Evangeline felt a sharp pain in her arm and looked down. A rock skittered in the dirt. Blood trickled from her elbow.

“Nasty buggers!” Olive turned to face the crowd, jangling her handcuffed fists. “I’ll fight the whole boodle of ye.”

“Settle down or I’ll pound ye meself,” the guard said, poking her hip with his truncheon.

Evangeline could feel the earth beneath the thin soles of her shoes. She had an impulse to lean down and rake her fingers through it, to clutch a handful of it. This would almost certainly be the last time her feet would touch English soil.

Far out in the harbor, on the three-masted ship, a line of men leaned over the railing, hooting and clapping. From this distance their catcalls sounded as innocent as birdsong.

The two sailors at the skiff wore wide trousers and tunics tied with rope. Their forearms were covered in ink. One was swarthy and one pale, with a mop of sandy hair. The sandy-haired sailor leapt out and stood on the dock, grinning as the women approached. “Greetings, ladies!”

“We’re glad to be rid of ’em,” the guard told him.

“They’ll have a warm welcome here.”

He laughed. “No doubt.”

“That one should clean up all right.” The sailor jerked his chin toward Evangeline.

The guard made a face. “She’s up the duff. Look at ’er.” He motioned toward her belly. “That one, too,” he said, scowling at Olive, “and she’s a feisty munter. She’ll claw your eyes out.”

“Won’t be so feisty when we’re done with ’er.”

“All talk,” Olive said. “I know your type.”

“Enough outta ye,” the sailor said.

In the skiff the women were seated side by side, front and back, while the crewmen rowed in the middle. Evangeline sat perfectly still, listening to the splashing of the oars in and out of the water, a bell clanging in the distance. The hem of her skirt was soaked with seawater. As they got closer, she saw the name painted on the hull: Medea.

From this angle the ship loomed over them, terrifyingly large.

The sandy-haired sailor appraised Evangeline frankly as he rowed. His small eyes were dishwater gray and he sported a red-and-black tattoo of a topless mermaid on his biceps that writhed as he pulled on the oar. He blew a kiss into the air when he caught her eye.

As they reached the ship, bumping lightly against the side, the whooping of the men at the railing above them grew louder. The sandy-haired sailor jumped onto a small platform attached to a ramp and began tugging the prisoners out of the skiff.

The women were clumsy in their shackles. “Bloody chains,” Olive grumbled as she clambered onto the dock. “Where the hell d’ye think we’ll escape to?”

“Watch your mouth or we won’t take ’em off at all,” the sailor said.

She snorted. “Don’t go actin’ all superior. You’re an ex-con yourself, no doubt.”

“Mind your own—”

“As I thought.”

He yanked the chain between her hands and she stumbled forward. When she caught her footing, he pulled her close to him, like a dog on a lead. “Listen, tart. Ye’ll do well to remember who’s in charge.” With a sudden movement he jerked the chain down and she fell to her knees. He twisted it so the upper half of her body hovered over the water alongside the platform. “These irons are heavy. All I have to do is let go. Ye’ll sink like a stone.”