“Could you inform him?”

The sailor stared at them for a moment, clearly unsure of what to do. He swiped his hand at Hazel. “She don’t need to stay.”

“She’s a”—would it help or hurt to say it?—“a midwife.”

“Huh. Me auntie’s a midwife.”

“Is she, now?” Evangeline winced theatrically. “Oof. Will you please . . .”

As they watched him cross the deck and disappear down the ladder, Hazel whispered, “Well done.”

“Wish I’d thought of it earlier.”

A few minutes later, the sailor reemerged, followed by Dr. Dunne, grimly pale.

Evangeline stepped forward. “Is Olive—”

“She’s resting.”

“And the baby?” Hazel asked, behind her.

“Stillborn. I did what I could.”

“The cord around its neck,” Hazel said.

He nodded. Running his hands along the buttons of his jacket, he found the top one undone and buttoned it. “I was told a prisoner is in labor. Is that a lie?”

Evangeline swallowed. “I think it was . . . a false alarm.”

He gave her a sharp look. Turning to the sailor, he said, “To the orlop deck with both of them.”

Olive appeared on the main deck the next afternoon, her face as pale as dough, with deep hollows under her eyes. Evangeline brought her tea with purloined sugar. Hazel crushed dried chamomile blossoms and stirred them into the tea. “To soothe your nerves,” she said.

Olive had given birth to a boy, with a shock of dark hair and pearly fingernails. She glimpsed him for only a moment before he was covered with a towel and taken away.

They didn’t ask what became of him. They knew.

Clutching her bosom, Olive said, “Christ, they hurt.”

“Just your body doing what it’s meant to do. I can give ye something,” Hazel said.

She shook her head. “No. I want to feel it.”

“Why, Olive?” Evangeline asked.

She sighed. “I didn’t want the child. Many times I wished I was rid of it. But then . . . he was perfect. A perfect baby boy.” Tears glinted in her eyes. “God’s punishment.”

“Not God. Just the way it is sometimes,” Hazel said.

Evangeline nodded. For a moment all of them were quiet. Then she said, “Well, I don’t know if this will help, but . . .” She took a breath. “When you cut down a tree, you can tell how old it is by the rings inside. The more rings, the sturdier the tree. So . . . I imagine I’m a tree. And every moment that mattered to me, or person I loved, is a ring.” She put the flat of her hand on her chest. “All of them here. Keeping me strong.”

Olive and Hazel exchanged dubious glances.

“I know it sounds silly. But what I’m trying to say, Olive, is that I think your child is still with you. And he always will be.”

“Maybe so.” Shaking her head, Olive managed a small smile. “I never thought of meself as a tree, Leenie, but it doesn’t surprise me that ye do.”