In fact, all the Joyners have proved amazingly adept at ignoring me, even on this tiny boat. Just this morning I caught little Olive, their daughter, staring at me as I stacked poles. But the moment her mother noticed, her gaze darted away. I suppose it’s for the best. Wouldn’t do to have little ones milling about, pestering me with questions I’m not willing to answer.

In the end, I’ll never be fully crew or pioneer. The men are friendly enough, but they know I’m leaving when we reach the Missouri shore, and they have a whole history together before this trip that I’ll never be a part of.

The crew’s music is still going strong as I curl up in Peony’s stall, Mrs. Joyner’s blanket around my shoulders and Mama’s locket clutched in my fist. The tightness in my belly spreads to my lower back and sets it to aching. I remind myself that Jefferson will be waiting for me in Independence. He’s the closest thing I have to family now.

The morning sun hasn’t yet peeked over the hills, and the air is clammy with fog. We push off from shore, and I congratulate myself at being an old hand with the poles now. We slide past the sleepy, low-lying city of Cairo, and suddenly, impossibly, the river breaks wide.

I gape, my pole dangling uselessly. We’ve reached the massive, muddy confluence of the Ohio and the Mississippi Rivers, and never have I seen so much water. With the fog clinging thick to the surface, and the shores a distant blur, I can almost imagine we’re poling through the calmest ocean.

A bell echoes behind us, chased by the sound of churning water. Captain Chisholm orders us to the sweeps and runs forward to the gouger. Together we steer the boat out of the main channel.

A giant paddleboat materializes in the fog. It’s two hundred feet long if it’s a yard, with a pair of giant chimneys belching black smoke. The Western Hope is painted in gold letters on the side, surrounded by the yellow rays of a rising sun. I’ve never been superstitious, despite being a girl with witchy powers, but the coincidence of this moment and our intentions could make me reconsider my notions.

“That’s a good omen,” Mrs. Joyner says in a wistful voice.