Mary swallowed. How could Mrs. Crawford possibly say she was lucky? Her parents were dead, and she was going to live with some old uncle in a horrible house in a strange country! Tears pricked her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry in front of the Crawfords—she wouldn’t!

Pressing her lips tightly together, she nodded and then walked up the stairs. Reaching her bedroom, she shut the door behind her and then threw herself down on the bed, sobbing into the pillow to muffle her bitter tears.

The ship that carried Mary from Bombay to England was crowded and noisy. There were many families on board, all returning to England because of the unrest in India. Mary had to eat with the other children and do what she was told. She hated it—the food was horrible and the other children were rough and loud. On the first day, she had pushed her plate of food away. “This is disgusting!” she said.

A scruffy boy sitting next to her grabbed her plate and emptied the food onto his own plate.

Mary stared at him, outraged. “I didn’t say you could do that!”

“You didn’t say I couldn’t,” the boy replied. “If you aren’t going to eat it, I am.”

“You don’t understand,” Mary exclaimed. “I need better food than this. My parents are dead.”

He shrugged. “We’ve all lost, girl.”

Mary watched as he gobbled up her food. She didn’t like him much, but he was the only person who had spoken to her so far. “Would . . . would you like to hear a story?” she asked tentatively.

He gave her a scornful look. “No, I’m not a child.” He got up and moved away to sit by someone else, leaving Mary on her own. Since then, she had barely spoken a word to anyone.

Standing up, Mary now walked to the side of the ship. A railing ran around the deck, and the deep blue ocean swelled below. She lifted up Jemima. Maybe she could tell her one of Ayah’s tales and escape into it, forgetting everything else. Telling stories had always been her way of coping when Mother didn’t want to see her or when Daddy was too busy to play.

“I’ll tell you a story, Jemima,” she said. “Just like I used to do at home. There once was a lord of the seas. His name was Varuna and he . . . and he . . .”

The words seemed to dry up in her head. She tried again. “Varuna was very powerful. He . . .” She faltered. But it was no use. All Mary could think about was home.

“I don’t have a home, do I, Jemima?” she whispered. “I don’t belong anywhere or to anyone now.”