“What makes ye so special?” a loud, coarse woman in the hammock beside her said one night, back at the Cascades. “We’re working our fingers to the bone, and ye get to sing to babies.”

Hazel didn’t answer. She’d never cared what people thought of her—it was one of the few benefits of having been underestimated for her entire life. Ever since she was old enough to know anything, she’d been preoccupied with survival. That was all. Just trying to stay alive. And now keeping Ruby alive. Nothing else mattered.

Hobart Town, 1841

One morning, when Hazel arrived at the nursery, Ruby was gone. She’d been taken to the Queen’s Orphan School in New Town, the guard said, four miles away.

“But I received no notice,” Hazel sputtered. “She’s only nine months old!”

He shrugged. “The nursery’s overcrowded, and another ship is arriving in a few days. Ye can visit ’er at the end of the week.”

Every minute Hazel spent at the nursery reminded her that Ruby was alone. Worry lived inside her like a parasite, gnawing at her as she went about her days and causing her to wake, gasping, in her hammock at night. Ruby, Ruby . . . four miles away, in the hands of strangers. Her big brown eyes. Her high hairline and curly brown hair. Old enough to smile when she saw Hazel and pat her cheeks with her hands, but not old enough to know why she was alone, and what she’d done to deserve her exile.

Hazel could hardly hold another baby without crying. Before the week was out, she had requested a new assignment.

That Sunday Hazel stood with nearly two dozen convicts at the front gate of the Cascades to make the slow trek on foot to the orphanage. Some brought small gifts, toys and trinkets they’d bartered for or fashioned out of scraps, or clothing they’d sewn, but Hazel brought nothing. She hadn’t known that she could.

The soft light of late morning washed over Mount Wellington. The air was cool and mild. Making their slow way to New Town, the women passed apple orchards, yellow marigolds, fields of wheat. Though it was a beautiful day, Hazel barely noticed. Her stomach was twisted in knots. All she could think about was Ruby.

They tramped up an incline. The large parish church flanked by two low buildings looked welcoming, with its pretty sandstone turrets and arches. But inside the rectory it was dark and austere.

One by one, the children were brought to their waiting mothers.

“Ma-ma,” Ruby said, choking on the word. Her nose was crusted, and she had dark bruises on her arms and scabs on her knees.

“Ruby, Ruby, Ruby,” Hazel whispered over and over.

The walk home was an agony.

The next morning, Hazel watched a new group of convicts stream in through the wooden gates of the Cascades, bedraggled and wide-eyed. She felt nothing but resentment toward them: more women fighting for food and hammocks and space. More babies crowding the nursery. More misery all around.