“Ah, it’s like that, then. How old are ye?”

“Twenty.”

“Pah. If you’re twenty, I’m seventy-five.”

“Quiet!” a woman shouted. “And kill that candle, or I’ll do it for ye.”

“Mind your business,” Olive yelled back. “You’re not a day over twelve,” she said to Hazel.

In the glow of the candle Evangeline could see Hazel scowling at Olive. “I’m sixteen. Now leave me alone.” She leaned across the narrow aisle, looked Evangeline in the face, and blew the candle out.

The ship was at capacity. The day before they were to set sail, Evangeline heard voices from the water and saw the skiff coming toward the ship with three women, Buck, and another sailor in the middle, as usual, pulling on the oars. But this group was different. They were sitting bolt upright, for one thing, whereas convicts stooped; it wasn’t easy to stay erect in chains. And their clothing looked clean. Each wore a neat dark cloak and a white bonnet.

As the skiff pulled alongside the ramp, Evangeline realized it was the Quakers. She recognized the figure in front: the wisps of gray hair, the light blue eyes. Mrs. Fry.

In an uncharacteristic display of gallantry, Buck stepped out of the skiff and held it steady for the women to disembark. He took each woman’s arm as he helped her out of the boat: Mrs. Fry, then Mrs. Warren and Mrs. Fitzpatrick. The captain, who generally made himself scarce, had materialized at the railing in a formal uniform—a peaked cap with gold trim, a black tailcoat with gold buttons, braid, and epaulettes. The surgeon, in his navy blue uniform, was at his side. As the Quakers made their way up the ramp, the sailors below them hauled two large trunks out of the skiff. The sailors at the railing were quiet.

Evangeline had almost forgotten it was possible for women to be treated with such deference.

At the top of the ramp, Mrs. Fry spoke quietly to the captain and surgeon before turning to the small group of convicts nearby. “We’ll begin with those present.” Despite the creaks and clanks and the lapping of water against the hull, her voice was clear. Spying Evangeline, she beckoned her forward. “We have met previously, I believe?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“At Newgate.” When Evangeline nodded, she said, “Ah, yes. You’re literate. Your father was a vicar.”

“You’ve a good memory, ma’am.”

“I make it a point to remember.” Mrs. Fry motioned to Mrs. Warren, who opened a trunk and brought out a small burlap sack, a book, and a bundle tied with twine. Mrs. Fry pressed the book into Evangeline’s hands. A Bible. “May this bring you solace.”

Evangeline rubbed the reptilian skin of the maroon cover with her thumbs. The sensation brought her back to the parish church in Tunbridge Wells, in the front pew, listening to her father’s sermons. All of his talk about sin and redemption that had seemed so theoretical at the time came back to her, painfully, now.