Hazel eyed her. “This is not a good idea.”

“Hazel, please. ‘Gentle breath of yours my sails must fill, or else my project fails.’”

Hazel rolled her eyes. “‘You cram these words into mine ears against the stomach of my sense.’”

“Oh!” Evangeline said, clasping her hand. “You’re my best student.”

“Well, you’re my best teacher. My only teacher, truth be told.” She smiled that vulpine smile.

Evangeline smiled back. “Look after my daughter while I’m gone, will you?”

“She’s sleeping. She’ll be fine. Hurry back.”

Evangeline’s belly was loose under her gown, her bare feet unsteady. She climbed the ladder slowly, stopping to catch her breath with each rung. At the top she paused, her heart beating in her ears, gazing up into the velvet darkness at a thin disk of moon. Though the sky was clear, the air still smelled of rain. Taking a breath, she crossed the sea-slick deck to the railing. Inky water roiled beneath the ship, glittering in the moonlight. She looked out at the whole beautiful expanse of the sea.

Hearing a noise behind her, she turned.

A figure was sprinting toward her. A man. In the dim light she could see his sandy hair and bare arms, the sharp angle of his jaw. And then he was on her, his hands on her shoulders.

Buck.

“No,” she gasped. “What are you—”

He pushed her against the railing. “You’ll pay.”

She smelled him, alcohol and perspiration. Felt his breath on her neck. He slammed her against the railing again with such force that the brass nails jutted into her back and she felt her legs buckle, her feet slip out from under her. And then he was lifting her up, up, to the top of the rail, the ropy muscles of his arms taut around her back. “No—no! What are you—”

“Stop!” a woman shrieked. It was Hazel. “Stop!”

For a moment Evangeline hovered on the hard wood of the railing. Then Buck let go, and the world tilted. She screamed as she fell backward through the darkness. Her baby lay swaddled in the surgeon’s room, and here she was, falling, falling through the air. Her mind refused to believe it. This couldn’t be happening. It made no sense.

The water hit her shoulder first, a hard slap, a shock of pain. She moved her legs instinctively, though they were tangled in her gown and she didn’t know what she was doing. I don’t know how to swim, she thought; I don’t know how to stay afloat.

Her daughter on the birthing bed, alone.

I left my baby lying here to go and gather blueberries . . .

She was sinking. Sinking. Slowly at first, and then her chin was underwater. Her lips. Her nose, her eyes. She strained to see in the grainy darkness, eyes stinging from the salt. Frantically she moved her arms, struggling in her gown, eyes wide open as she tried to fight her way toward the surface, toward the light. But she was falling, still, suspended in space. Alone, alone, all, all alone, / Alone on a wide wide sea! Her gown rose up, filmy as a handkerchief . . . Cecil’s white handkerchief; lion, serpent, crown . . . And she was fair as is the rose in May. . . . All lost, lost. The ruby ring. The handkerchief. The tin ticket on the red cord.