At the height of summer, the sun was so hot that it burned the tips of the leaves on the trees and baked the dirt on Macquarie Street until it cracked. But deep in the valley, inside the high stone walls of the prison, it was gloomy and damp. The stone floors were often soupy and slick. When the rivulet overflowed, the entire place was ankle-deep in foul water. It was a relief to leave the premises each day, to walk to the nursery past picturesque cottages with neat picket fences and hills wheaten in the distance, dotted with sheep.

Over the weeks and months, the faces of the women walking to the nursery changed, but the numbers stayed roughly the same. New mothers joined the line; those whose babies were six months old were sent to serve their time in the crime yard. When Ruby turned six months old she was forcibly weaned, and Olive was discharged. Hazel was only allowed to stay in the nursery because of her skills in the delivery room and treating sickly infants. Knowing that the eyes of the overseer were always on her, she was careful to make the rounds, to hold and change the other children, but her heart kept tugging her back to Ruby as if tied to the baby by a string.

“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.

Hazel was accustomed to Glasgow’s harsh winters. The apartment she’d shared with her mother was damp and drafty; wind slithered under the front door and through cracks around the window frame. But the generally temperate weather in Van Diemen’s Land had lulled her into thinking winter would be mild. The brutal cold, when it came, was a shock.

It was bleak and windy when Hazel joined the assignables in the courtyard for the first time one July morning. The cobblestones were slick with ice; the sky was white, mottled with gray, the color of dirty snow. The convicts stood like horses in two lines, stamping their feet. Their breath smoked the air. When the gate was opened, about a dozen free settlers entered, their thick coats and wool hats in marked contrast to the convicts’ thin dresses and wraps.

Hazel’s hair was neatly pulled back and her face washed. She wore a clean white apron over her gray dress, and a shawl over that. Maeve had told her that the more respectable-looking and polite a convict was, the nicer her placement. A fancy house didn’t necessarily mean kinder employers, but it did mean better conditions. Sometimes there were even perks: extra rations, clothes, shoes. Perhaps a discarded toy or book she could give to Ruby.

The settlers strolled up and down the lines, asking questions: What are your skills? Can you cook? Can you sew?

Yes, sir. I was employed as a plain cook and housemaid.

I’m a farm servant, ma’am. I can wash and iron. Milk cows and make butter.

A plump older woman in a navy-blue dress, heavy overcoat, and fur cap paused in front of Hazel and moved on, making her way down the line. A few moments later she circled back. “What is your name, prisoner?”

“Hazel Ferguson, ma’am.”

“I haven’t seen you before. What was your past assignment?”

The woman had a haughty air. She’d probably never been a convict, Hazel thought.

“I worked at the nursery.”

“You have a child?”

“A daughter. She’s at the Queen’s Orphan School now.”

“You hardly look—”

Hazel told the truth. “I’m seventeen.”

The woman nodded. “What are your skills?”

Hazel chewed her lip. No one wanted a nurse or a midwife, Maeve said; they didn’t trust convicts for that. “I’m qualified to be a housemaid, ma’am. And a ladies’ maid.”

“You’re experienced with laundry?”

“Yes.”

“Ever worked in a kitchen?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hazel said, though she hadn’t.

The woman patted her lips with two fingers. “I am Mrs. Crain, housekeeper to the governor of Hobart Town. The standards of my household are exacting. I tolerate no slackness or misbehavior. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I am only here today because I had to let the last convict maid go. Quite frankly, I would prefer not to use prison labor, but it can’t be helped. There are simply not enough free settlers.” Mrs. Crain lifted her arm, and the matron hurried over.

“This one should do all right, Mrs. Crain,” she said. “We’ve had no complaints.”

Hazel followed the housekeeper out onto the street, toward a horse-drawn open carriage with bright blue seats. Mount Wellington, looming above, was blanketed with snow.

“You’ll sit across from me today,” Mrs. Crain said brusquely. “Starting tomorrow, you will travel in a cart with the other convict maids before sunrise.”

Hazel hadn’t been in a proper carriage since she was six years old, visiting the seaside village of Troon, on the only holiday she’d ever taken with her mother. There’d been another person, a man, in the carriage. His breath had smelled of alcohol and he kept putting his hand on her mother’s knee. Her mother had promised that she and Hazel would share crumpets and cream cakes at a tea shop and take long walks along the scenic shore, but as it turned out, Hazel spent a lot of time shivering on the windy beach alone while her mother and her new friend were “exploring the shops,” as her mother put it.

One more disappointment. But the carriage was nice, as Hazel remembered.

Now she sat beside Mrs. Crain, trying not to shiver in her shawl.