Evangeline found Olive near the bow, sitting in a circle of women who were ripping apart their Bibles, folding the pages into rectangles to make playing cards and twisting them into curling paper for their hair. Olive looked up, holding her tin disk between her fingers. “From now on ye can call me one twenty-seven. My new friend Liza says it’s a lucky prime, whatever that means.”

A lanky woman with jet-black hair beside her grinned. “Number seventy-nine. Also a lucky prime.”

“Liza’s good with numbers. Managed the ledgers for a boarding house. Though how good are ye if ye get caught cooking the books?”

The women in the circle laughed.

Evangeline spotted Hazel sitting alone on a wide wooden crate, leafing through the Bible on her lap, and went over to her. “This cord around your neck feels strange, doesn’t it?”

Hazel squinted up at Evangeline. “I’ve got used to worse.”

Within the hour Evangeline’s skin was clammy, her mouth full of saliva. Bile rose in her throat.

“Keep your eye on that line.”

She turned.

Beside her was the surgeon. He pointed toward the horizon.

She followed his finger but could barely focus. “Please—stand away—” she said, before heaving the contents of her breakfast over the side. Glancing down the railing, she saw other prisoners leaning over, retching streams of liquid down the side of the ship and into the choppy water.

“Motion sickness,” he said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“How?”

“Shut your eyes. Put your fingers in your ears. And try to move with the ship—don’t fight it.”

She nodded, shutting her eyes and putting her fingers in her ears. But his advice didn’t do much good. The rest of the day was miserable, and nightfall brought little relief. All around her in the darkness of the orlop deck, women moaned and retched. Olive, above her, muttered curses. Across the aisle Hazel was silent, curled like a shrimp toward the wall.

Evangeline had thrown up so many times she felt faint with exhaustion, yet could not sleep. Once again, she sensed the roiling in her gut, her mouth filling with spittle, the sudsy wave rising in her throat. She’d been aiming into her wooden bowl, but now it was full and sloshing. She didn’t care anymore. Leaning over the side of her narrow bed, she emptied what little remained in her stomach in a thin stream onto the floor.

Hazel turned over. “Can ye not control yourself?”

Evangeline lay there dully, without will to speak.

“She can’t help it, can she?” Olive said.

Hazel leaned across the aisle, and for a moment Evangeline thought she might slap her. “Put out your hand.” When Evangeline complied, Hazel put a small knobby bulb in her palm. “Ginger root. Scrape the skin off with your teeth and spit it out. Then take a bite.”

Evangeline held it to her nose and sniffed. The scent reminded her of desserts at Christmastime: glazed cakes and hard candies, gingersnaps and puddings. She did as she was told, breaking the skin with her teeth and spitting it on the floor. The chunk of root was fibrous and tasted sharply sour. Like vanilla concentrate, she thought: seduced by the smell, betrayed by the flavor.