Page 16

“Yes, and I’ve seen quite enough.”

“—won’t return for at least another half hour.”

Sophie stiffened. “What?”

“I said I sent Chenoweth away. He won’t return with the carriage for some time.”

She gritted her teeth to keep an oath down. A breeze brushed over her skin, bringing with it the heavy scent of sunbaked rain puddles. Someone by the ship’s gangplank put out a final call for seamen to disembark.

“I believe they’re holding a service in the chapel just now, but the Painted Hall should still be accepting visitors,” Mr. Balfour said.

“Very well.” She scarcely heard her own voice. The group of seamen nearby had leant nearer to each other, whispering and smiling, and curse her curiosity, she wanted to know what they were saying.

“I’d rather lose my left eye than my left arm, that’s for certain,” said one man, and then he put his calloused hands to his mouth and called out, “Hurry it along, Bonnie, and we might share a bit of our prize with you!”

The group’s chuckles faded as Sophie followed their gazes to where Iphigenia was docked. Her heart seized.

A final passenger was crossing onto dry land. He lifted his chin in answer to the men’s calls, revealing plump, freckled cheeks, and dark lashes around pale eyes. The top of his hat didn’t meet Sophie’s shoulder as he scurried past, his right hand clamped around the strap of the overlarge satchel he carried.

His only hand.

Sophie couldn’t breathe as she watched him move through the courtyard with quick, imbalanced steps.

“If you’re hoping to break my arm,” Mr. Balfour’s voice cut in, “that’s a commendable effort.”

“I’m sorry?” She realized the strength of her own grip as she pivoted toward him. “Oh.” She released him, and a pinched smile crossed his features.

“That boy—” She scanned the crowd until she spotted his narrow shoulders. What had they called him? Bonnie? “What on earth was he doing on that ship? He’s just a child.”

She began to follow him, compelled by a force she didn’t fully understand. Mr. Balfour was close at her heels; she felt the breath of his next words against her nape. “Do you know the lad?”

The answer was no, of course, but she left it unspoken. The boy had paused by the edge of one of the porticos and set down his baggage. He only looked smaller beside these great buildings.

“Excuse me, sir.” Sophie paused a few paces away, and his round eyes shot up in alarm. Silence settled between them for a moment. “What is your name?”

His lips were red and chapped; he rubbed them together.

She crouched until she was eye-to-eye with him. “My name is Sophie.”

“G’day, Miss Sophie.” His voice was soft, full of reticence.

“Might I ask how old you are?”

His cheeks, so round and youthful, pinkened. He tipped his chin down as he answered, “Two and ten, ma’am.”

Something like a gasp mingled with her exhale. Twelve. Twelve years of age. His left arm lost forever, no matter how long he should live. And what horrors had he seen during his service? What unfathomable pain and fear had he experienced on that ship, surrounded by men double and triple his age, suffering the same injuries and—

Death. No doubt he had seen death. Had longed for his mother and father, or even the simple salve of dry land and his home country.

“Miss St. Quinton,” Mr. Balfour’s voice was soft but firm in her ear. “Miss St. Quinton.”

She startled. Mr. Balfour was bending to look at her, his eyes questioning. The boy took a step backward toward his satchel, his cheeks fully red now. How long had she been staring?

“I believe those men called you Bonnie?” she asked with the best smile she could muster.

“My name’s Barnard.” His voice had gone even gentler, but he studied her with cautious interest. “I hate Bonnie.”

“I believe Barnard fits you better, anyhow. Do you know why?”