One morning, after chores, Evangeline found Hazel sitting alone, her curly hair half covering her face, whispering to herself and tapping at words in the Bible open in her lap. When she looked up and saw Evangeline, she shut it quickly.

“Do you mind if I sit?” Without waiting for an answer, Evangeline perched on a corner of the crate.

The girl gazed at her. “I have chores.”

“Just for a minute.” Evangeline cast about for something to talk about. “I keep thinking about Psalm 104: ‘There is the sea, vast and spacious, teeming with creatures beyond number—living things both large and small.’ You know the one I mean?”

Hazel shrugged.

Evangeline noticed the smattering of freckles across the girl’s nose, her eyes, as blue gray as wood pigeon feathers, the russet fringe of her lashes. “Do you have a favorite?”

“No.”

“You’re a Presbyterian, aren’t you?” When Hazel frowned, Evangeline added, “Scotland. I assumed.”

“Hah. Well. Never been much of a churchgoer.”

“Your parents didn’t take you?”

She almost looked amused. “Me parents . . .”

They sat in awkward silence for a moment. Evangeline tried a different tack. “I noticed your tattoo.” She touched her own neck. “A moon. It’s a fertility symbol, isn’t it?”

Hazel made a face. “I saw this play once. The characters were drunk, talking nonsense. ‘I was the man i’ the moon when time was.’ I thought it was funny.”

“Oh!” Finally, common ground. “The Tempest.”

“Ye seen it?”

“It’s one of my favorites. ‘O brave new world, / That has such people in’t!’”

Hazel shook her head. “I don’t remember much, to be honest. It was confusing. But it made me laugh.”

“You know . . . the surgeon has a whole shelf of Shakespeare in his office. Maybe I could ask to borrow one.”

“Eh. Don’t have much use for reading.”

Ah, Evangeline thought. Of course. “You know . . . I could teach you to read, if you want.”

Hazel gave her a hard look. “I don’t need help.”

“I know you don’t. But . . . it’s a long journey, isn’t it? Might as well have something to do.”

Hazel bit her lip. Her fingers strayed absently over the cover of the Bible. But she didn’t say no.

They started with the alphabet, twenty-six letters on a piece of slate. Vowels and consonants, sound and sense. Over the next few days, as they sat together, knitting words, Hazel shared small bits and pieces of her past. Her mother had built a thriving practice as a midwife, but something happened—someone had died, a mother or child or both. She lost her reputation, and with it, her paying clients. She started drinking. Leaving Hazel alone at night. She pushed her out the door to beg and pick pockets on the streets when Hazel was eight years old. Hazel was no good at thievery; she was nervous and indecisive, and kept getting nabbed by the police. The third time she was hauled into court—when she was fifteen, for stealing a silver spoon—the judge had had enough. He sentenced her to transport. Seven years.