MorePraiseforTheLightBetweenOceans“Amovingtale...Preparetoweep.”—SusannahMeadows,TheNewYorkTimes“Lyrical...Stedman’sdebutsignals

acareercertaintodeliverfuturetreasures.”—People

“Amust-read.”—Ladies’HomeJournal

“Thestunningdebutnovelyouneedtoknowabout.”—Oprah’sBookClub2.0

“This fine, suspenseful debut explores desperation, morality, and loss, andconsiders the damaging ways in which we store our private sorrows, and theconsequencesofsuchterriblesecrets.”—CarmelaCiuraru,MarthaStewartWholeLiving“Anunexpectednovel,bothin

thestoryittellsandthegentlenesswithwhichtheauthor,M.L.Stedman,conveysemotionalviolence...thetensionescalatesinthisintenseandintimate

drama.”—SherrylConnelly,NewYorkDailyNews“StedmanisfromAustralia,andthe

voiceshebringstothenovelislovely.Sheoffersgorgeousdescriptionsofthelandanditsnaturalinhabitants.”—BarbaraEllis,TheDenverPost

“With incredibly visual prose evocative of the time and place, compellingcharacters,themesofforgivenessandredemption,andarivetingplotthatwon’tletyouputthebookdown,thisisagreatdebutnovel.”

—JudyCrosby,IndieBound

“Remarkable . . . Stedman brings this couple and their lives nearly a hundredyearsagotolifesovividlythatit’sasifyou’rewalkingthestairsofthelighthousewith them. . . . You won’t be able to stop reading all the way to theheartbreaking,ultimatelysatisfyingconclusion.”—JenniferHiller,SanAntonioNews-Express“Themiraculousarrivalofachildin

thelifeofabarrencoupledeliversprofoundlovebutalsotheseedsofdestruction.Moraldilemmasdon’tcomemoreexquisitethantheonearound

whichAustraliannovelistStedmanconstructsherdebut.”—KirkusReviews(starredreview)“Haunting...Stedmandrawsthereaderintoheremotionallycomplexstoryrightfromthebeginning,withlushdescriptionsofthissavageandbeautifullandscape,andvividcharacterswithwhomwecan

readilyempathize.Hersisastunningandmemorabledebut.”—Booklist(starredreview)

“[Stedman sets] the stage beautifully to allow for a heart-wrenching moraldilemmatoplayout...MostimpressiveisthesubtleyetprofoundmaturationofIsabelandTomascharacters.”

—PublishersWeekly(starredreview)“Alovestorythatisbothpersuasiveandtender.”

—ElizabethBuchan,TheSundayTimes(UK)“Stedmanwriteswithadelicateandimaginativetouch....Thisisanovelthatcleverlytakesapopulistconceptandturnsitintoanaccessibleandbeautifullywrittenpieceofliterature.Itwillmakeyoucry,itscharacterswillstaywithyoufordaysafteryouhavefinished

withit.”—EmmaCowing,TheScotsman(UK)“Anextraordinarybook...Thetragedyis

asinevitableasHardyathismostdoom-laden.Andasunforgettable.”—SueArnold,TheGuardian(UK)“M.L.Stedmanprovesherselftobean

accomplishedwriterinthis,herdebutnovel....Likealighthouse,itshineslightondarkplaces,anditsemotionalresonancewillstaywithyoufordays.”

—LaurenTurner,IrishExaminer

“The Light Between Oceans stays with you long after you have turned the lastpage....Whatmakesthiswonderfulnovelstandoutfromthecrowdisthecastof emotionally fragile characters, all ofwhom inspire tremendous sympathy inthereader. . . .Beautifullywritten,thenovelposesanimpossibledilemmaandmakesusquestionthejudgmentsofallinvolved.”

—LianneKolirin,DailyExpress(UK)

ThankyoufordownloadingthisScribnereBook.

Joinourmailinglistandgetupdatesonnewreleases,deals,bonuscontentandothergreatbooksfromScribnerandSimon&Schuster.

CLICKHERETOSIGNUP

orvisitusonlinetosignupateBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

Contents

PartOne27thApril1926Chapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9

PartTwoChapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15Chapter16Chapter17Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20Chapter21Chapter22Chapter23Chapter24

PartThreeChapter25Chapter26Chapter27Chapter28Chapter29Chapter30Chapter31Chapter32Chapter33Chapter34Chapter35Chapter36Chapter37

Acknowledgments

Inmemoryofmyparents.

PARTONE

27THAPRIL1926

On thedayof themiracle, Isabelwaskneelingat the cliff’s edge, tending thesmall, newlymade driftwood cross.A single fat cloud snailed across the late-Aprilsky,whichstretchedabovetheislandinamirroroftheoceanbelow.Isabelsprinkledmorewater and patted down the soil around the rosemary bush shehadjustplanted.

“…andleadusnotintotemptation,butdeliverusfromevil,”shewhispered.For just amoment, hermind tricked her into hearing an infant’s cry. She

dismissed the illusion,hereyedrawn insteadbyapodofwhalesweaving theirwayupthecoasttocalveinthewarmerwaters,emergingnowandagainwithaflukeoftheirtailslikeneedlesthroughtapestry.Sheheardthecryagain,louderthistimeontheearly-morningbreeze.Impossible.

From this sideof the island, therewasonly vastness, all theway toAfrica.Here, the IndianOceanwashed into theGreat SouthernOcean and togethertheystretchedlikeanedgelesscarpetbelowthecliffs.Ondayslikethisitseemedso solid shehad the impression she couldwalk toMadagascar in a journeyofblue upon blue. The other side of the island looked back, fretful, toward theAustralianmainland nearly a hundredmiles away, not quite belonging to theland,yetnotquitefreeofit,thehighestofastringofunder-seamountainsthatrosefromtheoceanfloorliketeethalongajaggedjawbone,waitingtodevouranyinnocentshipsintheirfinaldashforharbor.

As if to make amends, the island—Janus Rock—offered a lighthouse, itsbeamprovidingamantleofsafetyforthirtymiles.Eachnighttheairsangwiththe steady hum of the lantern as it turned, turned, turned; even-handed, notblamingtherocks,notfearingthewaves:thereforsalvationifwanted.

Thecryingpersisted.Thedoorofthelighthouseclangedinthedistance,andTom’s tall frame appeared on the gallery as he scanned the island withbinoculars.“Izzy,”heyelled,“aboat!”andpointedtothecove.“Onthebeach—aboat!”

He vanished, and re-emerged amoment later at ground level. “Looks like

there’ssomeoneinit,”heshouted.Isabelhurriedasbestshecouldtomeethim,and he held her arm as they navigated the steep, well-worn path to the littlebeach.

“It’saboatallright,”Tomdeclared.“And—ohcripes!There’sabloke,but—”Thefigurewasmotionless,floppedovertheseat,yetthecriesstillrangout.

Tomrushedtothedinghy,andtriedtorousethemanbeforesearchingthespacein the bow from where the sound came. He hoisted out a woolen bundle: awoman’ssoftlavendercardiganwrappedaroundatiny,screaminginfant.

“Bloodyhell!”heexclaimed.“Bloodyhell,Izzy.It’s—”“Ababy!OhmyLordabove!OhTom!Tom!Here—giveittome!”Hehandedher thebundle, and triedagain to revive the stranger:nopulse.

He turned to Isabel,whowas examining the diminutive creature. “He’s gone,Izz.Thebaby?”

“It’s all right, by the looks.No cuts or bruises. It’s so tiny!” she said, then,turningtothechildasshecuddledit,“There,there.You’resafenow,littleone.You’resafe,youbeautifulthing.”

Tomstoodstill,consideringtheman’sbody,clenchinghiseyestightshutandopeningthemagaintocheckhewasn’tdreaming.ThebabyhadstoppedcryingandwastakinggulpsofbreathinIsabel’sarms.

“Can’t see anymarks on the fellow, andhedoesn’t lookdiseased.He can’thavebeenadriftlong…Youwouldn’tcreditit.”Hepaused.“Youtakethebabyuptothehouse,Izz,andI’llgetsomethingtocoverthebody.”

“But,Tom—”“It’llbeahellofajobtogethimupthepath.Betterleavehimhereuntilhelp

comes.Don’twant the birds or the flies getting at him though—there’s somecanvasup in theshedshoulddo.”Hespokecalmlyenough,buthishandsandfacefeltcold,asoldshadowsblottedoutthebrightautumnsunshine.

JanusRockwasasquaremileofgreen,withenoughgrasstofeedthefewsheepand goats and the handful of chickens, and enough topsoil to sustain therudimentary vegetable patch.The only treeswere two toweringNorfolk pinesplantedbythecrewsfromPointPartageusewhohadbuiltthelightstationoverthirtyyearsbefore,in1889.Aclusterofoldgravesrememberedashipwrecklongbefore that, when the Pride of Birmingham foundered on the greedy rocks indaylight. In such a ship the light itself had later been brought fromEngland,proudlybearing thenameChanceBrothers, a guaranteeof themost advanced

technology of its day—capable of assembly anywhere, no matter howinhospitableorhardtoreach.

Thecurrentshauledinallmannerofthings:flotsamandjetsamswirledasifbetweentwinpropellers;bitsofwreckage,teachests,whalebones.Thingsturnedup in their own time, in their own way. The light station sat solidly in themiddle of the island, the keeper’s cottage and outbuildings hunkered downbesidethelighthouse,cowedfromdecadesoflashingwinds.

Inthekitchen,Isabelsatattheoldtable,thebabyinherarmswrappedinadownyyellowblanket.Tomscrapedhisbootsslowlyonthematasheentered,andrestedacallusedhandonhershoulder. “I’vecoveredthepoorsoul.How’sthelittleone?”

“It’s a girl,” said Isabelwith a smile. “I gaveher a bath. She seemshealthyenough.”

The baby turned to himwithwide eyes, drinking in his glance. “What onearthmustshemakeofitall?”hewonderedaloud.

“Givenher somemilk too, haven’t I, sweet thing?” Isabel cooed, turning itintoaquestionforthebaby.“Oh,she’sso,soperfect,Tom,”shesaid,andkissedthechild.“Lordknowswhatshe’sbeenthrough.”

Tomtookabottleofbrandy from thepine cupboardandpouredhimself asmallmeasure,downingitinone.Hesatbesidehiswife,watchingthelightplayon her face as she contemplated the treasure in her arms. The baby followedeverymovementofhereyes,asthoughIsabelmightescape ifshedidnotholdherwithhergaze.

“Oh, littleone,” Isabel crooned, “poor,poor littleone,”as thebabynuzzledherfaceintowardherbreast.Tomcouldheartearsinhervoice,andthememoryofaninvisiblepresencehungintheairbetweenthem.

“She likesyou,”he said.Then,almost tohimself, “Makesme thinkofhowthingsmight have been.”He added quickly, “Imean… I didn’tmean…Youlooklikeyouwereborntoit,that’sall.”Hestrokedhercheek.

Isabel glancedup at him. “I know, love. I knowwhat youmean. I feel thesame.”

Heputhisarmsaroundhiswifeandthechild.Isabelcouldsmellthebrandyonhisbreath.Shemurmured,“OhTom,thankGodwefoundherintime.”

Tomkissedher,thenputhis lipstothebaby’sforehead.Thethreeofthemstayedlikethatforalongmoment,untilthechildbegantowriggle,thrustingafistoutfromundertheblanket.

“Well”—Tomgaveastretchashestoodup—“I’llgoandsendasignal,report

thedinghy;getthemtosendaboatforthebody.AndforMissMuffethere.”“Not yet!” Isabel said as she touched thebaby’s fingers. “Imean, there’sno

rushtodoitrightthisminute.Thepoorman’snotgoingtogetanyworsenow.And this little chicken’s had quite enough of boats for the moment, I’d say.Leaveitawhile.Giveherachancetocatchherbreath.”

“It’ll take hours for them to get here. She’ll be all right. You’ve alreadyquietenedherdown,littlething.”

“Let’sjustwait.Afterall,itcan’tmakemuchdifference.”“It’s all got to go in the log, pet. You know I’ve got to report everything

straightaway,”Tomsaid,forhisdutiesincludednotingeverysignificanteventatornearthelightstation,frompassingshipsandweather,toproblemswiththeapparatus.

“Doitinthemorning,eh?”“Butwhatiftheboat’sfromaship?”“It’sadinghy,notalifeboat,”shesaid.“Then the baby’s probably got amotherwaiting for it somewhere onshore,

tearingherhairout.Howwouldyoufeelifitwasyours?”“You saw the cardigan. The mother must have fallen out of the boat and

drowned.”“Sweetheart,wedon’thaveanyideaaboutthemother.Oraboutwhotheman

was.”“It’s themost likely explanation, isn’t it? Infantsdon’t justwanderoff from

theirparents.”“Izzy,anything’spossible.Wejustdon’tknow.”“When did you ever hear of a tiny baby setting off in a boat without its

mother?”Sheheldthechildafractioncloser.“Thisisserious.Theman’sdead,Izz.”“Andthebaby’salive.Haveaheart,Tom.”Somethinginhertonestruckhim,andinsteadofsimplycontradictingher,he

pausedandconsideredherplea.Perhapssheneededabitof timewithababy.Perhaps he owed her that. There was a silence, and Isabel turned to him inwordlessappeal.“Isuppose,atapinch…”heconceded,thewordscomingwithgreatdifficulty,“Icould—leavethesignaluntilthemorning.Firstthing,though.Assoonasthelight’sout.”

Isabelkissedhim,andsqueezedhisarm.“Better get back to the lantern room. Iwas in themiddle of replacing the

vaportube,”hesaid.

Ashewalkeddownthepath,heheardthesweetnotesofIsabel’svoiceasshesang, “Blow thewind southerly, southerly, southerly,blow thewind southo’erthebonniebluesea.”Thoughthemusicwastuneful,itfailedtocomforthimashe climbed the stairs of the light, fending off a strange uneasiness at theconcessionhehadmade.

CHAPTER1

16thDecember1918

Yes, I realize that,”TomSherbourne said.Hewas sitting in a spartan room,barely cooler than the sultry day outside.The Sydney summer rain pelted thewindow,andsentthepeopleonthepavementscurryingforshelter.

“Imeanvery tough.”Themanacrossthedeskleanedforwardforemphasis.“It’snopicnic.NotthatByronBay’stheworstpostingontheLights,butIwanttomakesureyouknowwhatyou’reinfor.”Hetampeddownthetobaccowithhisthumbandlithispipe.Tom’sletterofapplicationhadtoldthesamestoryasmany a fellow’s around that time: born 28 September 1893; war spent in theArmy; experience with the International Code and Morse; physically fit andwell;honorabledischarge.Therulesstipulatedthatpreferenceshouldbegiventoex-servicemen.

“Itcan’t—”Tomstopped,andbeganagain.“Allduerespect,Mr.Coughlan,it’snotlikelytobetougherthantheWesternFront.”

Theman lookedagainat thedetailson thedischargepapers, thenatTom,searchingforsomethinginhiseyes,inhisface.“No,son.You’reprobablyrighton that score.”He rattledoff some rules: “Youpay yourownpassage to everyposting.You’rerelief, soyoudon’tgetholidays.Permanentstaffgetamonth’sleaveattheendofeachthree-yearcontract.”Hetookuphisfatpenandsignedthe form in front of him. As he rolled the stamp back and forth across theinkpadhesaid,“Welcome”—hethumpeditdowninthreeplacesonthepaper—“to theCommonwealthLighthouseService.”Onthe form, “16thDecember1918”glistenedinwetink.

Thesixmonths’reliefpostingatByronBay,upontheNewSouthWalescoast,withtwootherkeepersandtheirfamilies,taughtTomthebasicsof lifeontheLights.HefollowedthatwithastintdownonMaatsuyker,thewildislandsouth

ofTasmaniawhereitrainedmostdaysoftheyearandthechickensblewintotheseaduringstorms.

OntheLights,TomSherbournehasplentyoftimetothinkaboutthewar.Aboutthefaces,thevoicesoftheblokeswhohadstoodbesidehim,whosavedhis life oneway or another; the oneswhose dyingwords he heard, and thosewhosemutteredjumbleshecouldn’tmakeout,butwhohenoddedtoanyway.

Tomisn’toneof themenwhose legs trailedbyahankof sinews,orwhosegutscascadedfromtheircasinglikeslitheringeels.Norwerehislungsturnedtoglueorhisbrainstostodgebythegas.Buthe’sscarredallthesame,havingtoliveinthesameskinasthemanwhodidthethingsthatneededtobedonebackthen.Hecarriesthatothershadow,whichiscastinward.

Hetriesnottodwellonit:he’sseenplentyofmenturnedworsethanuselessthatway.Sohegetsonwithlifearoundtheedgesofthisthinghe’sgotnonamefor.Whenhedreamsaboutthoseyears,theTomwhoisexperiencingthem,theTomwhoistherewithbloodonhishands,isaboyofeightorso.It’sthissmallboywho’supagainstblokeswithgunsandbayonets, andhe’sworriedbecausehisschoolsockshaveslippeddownandhecan’thitchthemupbecausehe’llhavetodrophisguntodoit,andhe’sbarelybigenougheventoholdthat.Andhecan’tfindhismotheranywhere.

Then he wakes and he’s in a place where there’s just wind and waves andlight,andtheintricatemachinerythatkeepstheflameburningandthelanternturning.Alwaysturning,alwayslookingoveritsshoulder.

Ifhecanonlyget farenoughaway—frompeople, frommemory—timewilldoitsjob.

Thousandsofmilesawayonthewestcoast,JanusRockwasthefurthestplaceonthecontinentfromTom’schildhoodhomeinSydney.ButJanusLightwasthelast signofAustraliahehad seenashis troopship steamed forEgypt in1915.ThesmelloftheeucalyptshadwaftedformilesoffshorefromAlbany,andwhenthe scent faded away hewas suddenly sick at the loss of something he didn’tknowhecouldmiss.Then,hourslater,trueandsteady,thelight,withitsfive-second flash, came into view—hishomeland’s furthest reach—and itsmemorystayed with him through the years of hell that followed, like a farewell kiss.When,inJune1920,hegotnewsofanurgentvacancygoingonJanus,itwasasthoughthelighttherewerecallingtohim.

Teetering on the edge of the continental shelf, Janus was not a popular

posting.Though itsGradeOnehardship ratingmeanta slightlyhigher salary,theoldhandssaid itwasn’tworth themoney,whichwasmeagerall thesame.ThekeeperTomreplacedonJanuswasTrimbleDocherty,whohadcausedastirbyreportingthathiswifewassignalingtopassingshipsbystringingupmessagesin the colored flags of the International Code. This was unsatisfactory to theauthorities for two reasons: first, because theDeputyDirector of Lighthouseshad someyearspreviously forbidden signalingby flagson Janus, as vesselsputthemselves at risk by sailing close enough to decipher them; and secondly,becausethewifeinquestionwasrecentlydeceased.

Considerable correspondence on the subject was generated in triplicatebetween Fremantle and Melbourne, with the Deputy Director in FremantleputtingthecaseforDochertyandhisyearsofexcellentservice,toaHeadOfficeconcernedstrictlywithefficiencyandcostandobeyingtherules.AcompromisewasreachedbywhichatemporarykeeperwouldbeengagedwhileDochertywasgivensixmonths’medicalleave.

“Wewouldn’tnormallysendasinglemantoJanus—it’sprettyremoteandawife and family can be a great practical help, not just a comfort,” theDistrictOfficer had said to Tom. “But seeing it’s only temporary… You’ll leave forPartageuseintwodays,”hesaid,andsignedhimupforsixmonths.

Therewasn’tmuchtoorganize.Noonetofarewell.Twodayslater,Tomwalkedupthegangplankoftheboat,armedwithakitbagandnotmuchelse.TheSSPrometheusworked itsway along the southern shores ofAustralia, stopping atvariousportsonitsrunbetweenSydneyandPerth.Thefewcabinsreservedforfirst-class passengers were on the upper deck, toward the bow. In third class,Tomsharedacabinwithanelderlysailor.“Beenmakingthistripforfiftyyears—theywouldn’thavethecheektoaskmetopay.Badluck,youknow,”themanhadsaidcheerfully,thenreturnedhisattentiontothelargebottleofover-proofrumthatkepthimoccupied.Toescapethealcoholfumes,Tomtooktowalkingthe deck during the day. Of an evening there’d usually be a card gamebelowdecks.

Youcouldstilltellataglancewho’dbeenoverthereandwho’dsatthewaroutathome.Youcouldsmellitonaman.Eachtendedtokeeptohisownkind.Beingin thebowelsof thevesselbroughtbackmemoriesof the troopships that tookthemfirsttotheMiddleEast,andlatertoFrance.Withinmomentsofarriving

onboard, they’ddeduced,almostbyananimal sense,whowasanofficer,whowaslowerranks;wherethey’dbeen.

Justlikeonthetroopships,thefocuswasonfindingabitofsporttolivenupthe journey. The game settled on was familiar enough: first one to score asouvenir off a first-class passenger was the winner. Not just any souvenir,though. The designated article was a pair of ladies’ drawers. “Prize money’sdoubledifshe’swearingthematthetime.”

The ringleader, a man by the name of McGowan, with a mustache, andfingers yellowed from his Woodbines, said he’d been chatting to one of thestewardsaboutthepassengerlist:thechoicewaslimited.Thereweretencabinsinall.Alawyerandhiswife—bestgivethemawideberth;someelderlycouples,apairofoldspinsters(promising),butbestofall,sometoff’sdaughtertravelingonherown.

“I reckon we can climb up the side and in through her window,” heannounced.“Who’swithme?”

Thedangeroftheenterprisedidn’tsurpriseTom.He’dhearddozensofsuchtales since he got back.Men who’d taken to risking their lives on a whim—treatingtheboomgatesatlevelcrossingsasagallopjump;swimmingintoripstoseeiftheycouldgetout.Somanymenwhohaddodgeddeathovertherenowseemedaddictedtoitslure.Still,thislotwerefreeagentsnow.Probablyjustfulloftalk.

Thefollowingnight,whenthenightmareswereworsethanusual,Tomdecidedto escape thembywalking the decks. Itwas two a.m.Hewas free towanderwherever he wanted at that hour, so he paced methodically, watching themoonlightleaveitswakeonthewater.Heclimbedtotheupperdeck,grippingthestairrailtocounterthegentlerolling,andstoodamomentatthetop,takinginthefreshnessofthebreezeandthesteadinessofthestarsthatshoweredthenight.

Outofthecornerofhiseye,hesawaglimmercomeoninoneofthecabins.Even first-class passengers had trouble sleeping sometimes, he mused. Then,some sixth sense awoke inhim—that familiar, indefinable instinct for trouble.Hemovedsilentlytowardthecabin,andlookedinthroughthewindow.

In the dim light, he saw awoman flat against thewall, pinned there eventhoughthemanbeforeherwasn’ttouchingher.Hewasaninchawayfromherface, with a leer Tom had seen too often. He recognized the man from

belowdecks,andrememberedtheprize.Bloodyidiots.Hetriedthedoor,anditopened.

“Leaveheralone,”hesaidashesteppedintothecabin.Hespokecalmly,butleftnoroomfordebate.

Theman spun around to seewho itwas, and grinnedwhenhe recognizedTom.“Christ!Thoughtyouwereasteward!Youcangivemeahand,Iwasjust—”

“Isaidleaveheralone!Clearout.Now.”“ButIhaven’tfinished.Iwasjustgoingtomakeherday.”Hereekedofdrink

andstaletobacco.Tomputahandonhisshoulder,withagripsohardthatthemancriedout.

HewasagoodsixinchesshorterthanTom,buttriedtotakeaswingathimallthesame.Tomseizedhiswristandtwistedit.“Nameandrank!”

“McKenzie. Private. 3277.” The unrequested serial number followed like areflex.

“Private,you’llapologizetothisyoungladyandyou’llgetbacktoyourbunkandyouwon’tshowyourfaceondeckuntilweberth,youunderstandme?”

“Yes, sir!”He turned to thewoman. “Beg your pardon,Miss.Didn’tmeananyharm.”

Stillterrified,thewomangavetheslightestnod.“Now, out!” Tom said, and theman, deflated by sudden sobriety, shuffled

fromthecabin.“Youallright?”Tomaskedthewoman.“I—Ithinkso.”“Didhehurtyou?”“He didn’t…”—shewas saying it to herself asmuch as to him—“he didn’t

actuallytouchme.”He took in thewoman’s face—hergray eyes seemedcalmernow.Herdark

hair was loose, in waves down to her arms, and her fists still gathered hernightgowntoherneck.Tomreachedforherdressinggownfromahookonthewallanddrapeditoverhershoulders.

“Thankyou,”shesaid.“Musthavegotanawfulfright.I’mafraidsomeofusaren’tusedtocivilized

companythesedays.”Shedidn’tspeak.“Youwon’tgetanymoretroublefromhim.”Herightedachairthathadbeen

overturnedintheencounter.“Uptoyouwhetheryoureporthim,Miss.I’dsay

he’snotthefullquidnow.”Hereyesaskedaquestion.“Beingovertherechangesaman.Rightandwrongdon’tlooksodifferentany

more to some.”He turned togo,butputhisheadback through thedoorway.“You’vegoteveryrighttohavehimuponchargesifyouwant.ButIreckonhe’sprobably got enough troubles. Like I said—up to you,” and he disappearedthroughthedoor.

CHAPTER2

PointPartageusegotitsnamefromFrenchexplorerswhomappedthecapethatjuttedfromthesouth-westerncorneroftheAustraliancontinentwellbeforetheBritishdashtocolonizethewestbeganin1826.Sincethen,settlershadtricklednorthfromAlbanyandsouthfromtheSwanRiverColony,layingclaimtothevirginforestsinthehundredsofmilesbetween.Cathedral-hightreeswerefelledwith handsaws to create grazing pasture; scrawny roads were hewn inch bystubborn inchbypale-skinned fellowswith teamsof shirehorses, as this land,which had never before been scarred by man, was excoriated and burned,mapped and measured and meted out to those willing to try their luck in ahemispherewhichmightbringthemdesperation,death,orfortunebeyondtheirdreams.

The community of Partageuse had drifted together like somuch dust in abreeze,settlinginthisspotwheretwooceansmet,becausetherewasfreshwaterand a natural harbor and good soil. Its port was no rival to Albany, butconvenient for locals shipping timber or sandalwood or beef. Little businesseshad sprung up and clung on like lichen on a rock face, and the town hadaccumulated a school, a variety of churches with different hymns andarchitectures, a good few brick and stone houses and a lot more built ofweatherboardand tin. Itgraduallyproducedvarious shops,a townhall, evenaDalgety’sstockandstationagency.Andpubs.Manypubs.

Throughout its infancy, theunspokenbelief inPartageusewas that real thingshappenedelsewhere.Newsoftheoutsideworldtrickledinlikeraindrippedoffthetrees,asnippethere,arumorthere.Thetelegraphhadspeededthingsupabitwhenthelinearrivedin1890,andsincethenafewfolkshadgottelephones.ThetownhadevensenttroopsofftotheTransvaalin1899andlostahandful,butbyand large, life inPartageusewasmoreof a sideshow, inwhichnothingtooevilortoowonderfulcouldeverhappen.

OthertownsintheWesthadknownthingsdifferent,ofcourse:Kalgoorlie,

forexample,hundredsofmilesinland,hadundergroundriversofgoldcrustedbydesert.There,menwanderedinwithawheel-barrowandagold-pananddroveout inamotorcarpaidforbyanuggetasbigasacat, inatownthatonlyhalfironically had streets with names like Croesus. The world wanted whatKalgoorlie had. The offerings of Partageuse, its timber and sandalwood, weresmallbeer:itwasn’tflashyboom-timelikeKal.

Thenin1914thingschanged.Partageusefoundthatittoohadsomethingtheworld wanted. Men. Young men. Fit men. Men who had spent their livesswinginganaxorholdingaplowandliving ithard.Menwhoweretheprimecuttobesacrificedontacticalaltarsahemisphereaway.

Nineteen fourteen was just flags and new-smelling leather on uniforms. Itwasn’t until a year later that life started to feel different—started to feel as ifmaybe this wasn’t a sideshow after all—when, instead of getting back theirprecious, strapping husbands and sons, the women began to get telegrams.Thesebitsofpaperwhichcouldfallfromstunnedhandsandblowaboutintheknife-sharpwind, which told you that the boy you’d suckled, bathed, scoldedand cried over, was—well—wasn’t. Partageuse joined the world late and in apainfullabor.

Ofcourse,thelosingofchildrenhadalwaysbeenathingthathadtobegonethrough.Therehadneverbeenguarantee that conceptionwould lead to a livebirth,orthatbirthwouldleadtoalifeofanygreatlength.Natureallowedonlythefitandtheluckytosharethisparadise-in-the-making.LookinsidethecoverofanyfamilyBibleandyou’dseethefacts.Thegraveyards,too,toldthestoryofthebabieswhosevoices,becauseofasnakebiteorafeverorafallfromawagon,had finally succumbed to theirmothers’ beseeching to “hush,hush, littleone.”The surviving children got used to the newway of setting the tablewith oneplace fewer, just as they grew accustomed to squishing along the benchwhenanothersiblingarrived.Likethewheatfieldswheremoregrainissownthancanripen,Godseemedtosprinkleextrachildrenabout,andharvestthemaccordingtosomeindecipherable,divinecalendar.

The town cemetery had always recorded this truthfully, and its headstones,somelollinglikeloose,grimyteeth,toldfranklythestoriesoflivestakenearlybyinfluenza and drownings, by timber whims and even lightning strikes. But in1915, itbeganto lie.Boysandmenfromacross thedistrictweredyingby thescore,yetthegraveyardssaidnothing.

Thetruthwasthattheyoungerbodies lay inmudfaraway.Theauthoritiesdidwhattheycould:whereconditionsandcombatpermitted,gravesweredug;

whenitwaspossibletoputtogetherasetoflimbsandidentifythemasasinglesoldier, everyeffortwasmade todo so, and toburyhimwitha funeral riteofsorts.Recordswerekept.Later,photographsweretakenofthegraves,and,forthesumof£21s6d,afamilycouldbuyanofficialcommemorativeplaque.Laterstill, thewarmemorialswouldsproutfromtheearth,dwellingnotonthe loss,but onwhat the loss hadwon, andwhat a fine thing it was to be victorious.“Victoriousanddead,”somemuttered,“isapoorsortofvictory.”

AsfullofholesasaSwisscheesetheplacewas,withoutthemen.Notthattherehadbeenconscription.Noonehadforcedthemtogoandfight.

Thecruelestjokewasonthefellowseveryonecalled“lucky”becausetheygottocomebackatall:backtothekidssprucedupforthewelcomehome,tothedogwith a ribbon tied to his collar so he could join in the fun.Thedogwasusually the first to spot that something was up. Not just that the bloke wasmissing an eye or a leg;more that he wasmissing generally—still missing inaction,thoughhisbodyhadneverbeenlostsightof.BillyWishartfromSadler’sMill, forexample—threelittleonesandawifeasgoodasamanhasarighttohope for, gassed and can’t hold a spoon anymorewithout it sputtering like achaff-cutterandsprayinghis soupallover the table.Can’tmanagehisbuttonsbecauseoftheshakes.Whenhe’saloneatnightwithhiswifehewon’tgetoutofhisclothes,andjusthugshimselfintoaballonthebedandcries.OryoungSamDowsett,whosurvivedthefirstGallipolilandingonlytolosebotharmsandhalfhisfaceatBullecourt.Hiswidowedmothersitsupatnightworryingwho’lltakecareofherlittleboyonceshe’sgone.There’snotagirl inthedistrict’dbesillyenoughtotakehimonnow.HolesinSwisscheese.Somethingmissing.

Foralongtime,peopleworethebewilderedexpressionofplayersinagamewhere the rules had suddenly been changed. They tried hard to take comfortfrom the fact that the boys hadn’t died in vain: they had been part of amagnificent struggle for right. And there were moments where they couldbelievethatandswallowdowntheangry,desperatescreechthatwantedtoscrapeitswayoutoftheirgulletslikeoutofamotherbird.

Afterthewar,peopletriedtomakeallowancesforthemenwho’dcomebackabittoofondofadrinkorastoush,ortheoneswhocouldn’tholddownajobformorethanafewdays.Business inthetownsettleddownafterafashion.Kellystill had the grocer’s. The butcher was still old Len Bradshaw, though young

Lenwasitchingtotakeover:youcouldtellbythewayhetookupjustabittoomuchof his dad’s space at the counterwhenhe leanedpast him to pick up achoporapig’scheek.Mrs.Inkpen(whoneverseemedtohaveaChristianname,though her sister called her Popsy in private) took over the farrier’swhen herhusband,Mack,didn’tmakeitbackfromGallipoli.Shehadafaceashardastheironthe ladsusedtonailontothehorses’hooves,andaheart tomatch.Greathulks ofmen she hadworking for her, and itwas all “Yes,Mrs. Inkpen.No,Mrs. Inkpen. Three bags full,Mrs. Inkpen,” even though any of them couldhavepickedherupwithbarelymorethanafinger.

Peopleknewwhotogivecreditto,andwhotoaskformoneyupfront;whotobelievewhentheybroughtgoodsbackandaskedforarefund.Mouchemore’sdraper’s and haberdasher’s did best aroundChristmas and Easter, though therun-uptowinterbroughtthemaswift trade inknittingwool.Didaprofitableline in ladies’unmentionables, too.LarryMouchemoreusedtopathispointedmustache ashe correctedmispronunciations of his name (“It’s like ‘move,’ notlike ‘mouse,’”), andwatchedwith fearandbileasMrs.Thurklegot it intoherhead to open a furrier’s next door. A fur shop? In Point Partageuse? If youplease! He smiled benignly when it closed within six months, buying up theremainingstock“asanactofneighborlycharity”andsellingitatatidyprofittothecaptainofasteamerboundforCanada,whosaidtheyweremadforthatsortofthingthere.

Soby1920,Partageusehad thatmixtureof tentativepride andhard-bittenexperience that marked any West Australian town. In the middle of thehandkerchiefofgrassnearthemainstreetstoodthefreshgraniteobelisklistingthemenandboys,somescarcelysixteen,whowouldnotbecomingbacktoplowthefieldsorfellthetrees,wouldnotbefinishingtheirlessons,thoughmanyinthe town held their breath, waiting for them anyway. Gradually, lives wovetogetheronceagainintoapracticalsortoffabricinwhicheverythreadcrossedand recrossed theothers through school andworkandmarriage, embroideringconnectionsinvisibletothosenotfromthetown.

AndJanusRock,linkedonlybythestoreboatfourtimesayear,dangledofftheedgeoftheclothlikealoosebuttonthatmighteasilyplummettoAntarctica.

The long, thin jetty at Point Partageuse wasmade from the same jarrah thatrattled along it in rail carriages to be hauled onto ships. The wide bay abovewhichthetownhadgrownupwasclear turquoise,andonthedayTom’sboat

dockeditgleamedlikepolishedglass.Menbeetledaway,loadingandunloading,heavingandwrestlingcargowith

theoccasional shoutorwhistle.Onshore, thebustlecontinued,aspeoplewentaboutwithapurposefulair,onfootorbyhorseandbuggy.

Theexceptiontothisdisplayofefficiencywasayoungwomanfeedingbreadto a flock of seagulls. Shewas laughing as she threw each crust in a differentdirectionandwatchedthebirdssquabbleandscreech,eagerforaprize.Agullinfull flightcaughtamorsel inonegulpandstilldivedforthenextone,sendingthegirlintonewpealsoflaughter.

It seemed years since Tom had heard a laugh that wasn’t tinged with aroughness,abitterness.Itwasasunnywinter’safternoon,andtherewasnowherehehadtogorightthatminute;nothinghehadtodo.HewouldbeshippedouttoJanusinacoupleofdays,oncehehadmetthepeopleheneededtomeetandsigned the forms he needed to sign. But for now, there were no logbooks towrite up, no prisms to buff, no tanks to refuel. And here was someone justhavingabitoffun.Itsuddenlyfeltlikesolidproofthatthewarwasreallyover.Hesatonabenchnearthejetty,lettingthesuncaresshisface,watchingthegirllark about, the curls of her darkhair swirling like a net cast on thewind.Hefollowed her delicate fingers as they made silhouettes against the blue. Onlygradually did he notice she was pretty. Andmore gradually still that she wasprobablybeautiful.

“Whatareyousmilingat?”thegirlcalled,catchingTomoffguard.“Sorry.”Hefelthisfaceredden.“Neverbesorryforsmiling!”sheexclaimedinavoicethatsomehowhadasad

edge.Thenherexpressionbrightened.“You’renotfromPartageuse.”“Nope.”“Iam.Livedhereallmylife.Wantsomebread?”“Thanks,butI’mnothungry.”“Notforyou,silly!Tofeedtheseagulls.”Sheofferedhimacrustinheroutstretchedhand.Ayearbefore,perhapseven

a day before, Tom would have declined and walked away. But suddenly, thewarmthandthefreedomandthesmile,andsomethinghecouldn’tquitename,madehimaccepttheoffering.

“BetIcangetmoretocometomethanyoucan,”shesaid.“Righto,you’reon!”saidTom.“Go!”shedeclared,andthetwoofthembegan,throwingthepieceshighin

theairoratcraftyangles,duckingasthegullssquawkedanddive-bombedand

flappedtheirwingsatoneanotherfuriously.Finally,whenallthebreadwasgone,Tomasked,laughing,“Whowon?”“Oh!Iforgottojudge.”Thegirlshrugged.“Let’scallitadraw.”“Fairenough,”hesaid,puttinghishatbackonandpickinguphisduffelbag.

“Betterbeonmyway.Thanks.Ienjoyedthat.”Shesmiled.“Itwasjustasillygame.”“Well,”hesaid,“thanksforremindingmethatsillygamesarefun.”Heslung

the bag over his broad shoulder, and turned toward town. “You have a goodafternoonnow,Miss,”headded.

Tomrangthebellattheboardinghouseonthemainstreet.ItwasthedomainofMrs.Mewett,awomanofsixty-odd,asstoutasapepperpot,whosetuponhim.“Yourlettersaidyou’reabachelor,andyou’reEasternStates,soI’llthankyouforrememberingyou’re inPartageusenow.This is aChristian establishment, andthere’stobenotakingofalcoholortobaccoonthepremises.”

Tomwas about to thank her for the key in her hand, but she clutched itfiercelyasshecontinued,“Noneofyourforeignhabitshere:Iknowwhat’swhat.IchangethesheetswhenyouleaveandIdon’texpecttohavetoscrubthem,ifyouknowwhat Imean.Thedoors are lockedat ten,breakfast is served at sixa.m., and if you’re not there you go hungry. Tea’s at five thirty, and likewiseapplies.Lunchyoucanfindsomewhereelse.”

“Muchobliged,Mrs.Mewett,”saidTom,decidingagainstasmileincaseitbrokesomeotherrule.

“Hotwater’sanextrashillingaweek.Uptoyouwhetheryouwantit.Inmybook,coldwaterneverdidamanyourageanyharm.”Shethrusttheroomkeyathim.Asshelimpedoffdownthepassageway,TomwonderedwhethertherewasaMr.Mewettwhohadsoendearedmentoher.

Inhissmallroomatthebackofthehouse,heunpackedhisduffelbag,settinghissoapandshavingthingsneatlyontheoneshelfprovided.Hefoldedhislongjohns and socks into the drawer, and hung his three shirts and two pairs oftrousers,togetherwithhisgoodsuitandtie,inthenarrowwardrobe.Heslippedabookintohispocketandsetouttoexplorethetown.

TomSherbourne’s final duty inPartageusewasdinnerwith theHarbormasterandhiswife.CaptainPercyHasluckwasinchargeofallthecomingsandgoingsattheport,anditwasusualforanynewJanuslightkeepertobeinvitedtodine

withhimbeforesettingofffortheisland.Tomwashedandshavedagainintheafternoon,putBrilliantine inhishair,

buttonedonacollarandhauledonhissuit.Thesunshineofthepreviousdayshad been replaced by clouds and a vicious wind that blew straight fromAntarctica,sohepulledonhisgreatcoatforgoodmeasure.

Still working on Sydney scales, he had left plenty of time to walk theunfamiliarroute,andarrivedatthehouseratherearly.Hishostwelcomedhimwithabroadsmile,andwhenTomapologizedforhisprematurearrival, “Mrs.CaptainHasluck,”asherhusbandreferred toher, clappedherhandsandsaid,“Graciousme,Mr.Sherbourne!Youhardlyneedtoapologizeforgracinguswithyourpresencepromptly,especiallywhenyou’vebroughtsuchlovelyflowers.”Sheinhaledthescentof the late rosesTomhadnegotiatedtopick, fora fee, fromMrs. Mewett’s garden. She peered up at him from her considerably lowervantagepoint. “Goodness!You’renearly as tall as the lighthouseyourself!” shesaid,andchuckledatherownwit.

ThecaptaintookTom’shatandcoatandsaid,“Comeintotheparlor,”afterwhichhiswifeimmediatelychimed,“Saidthespidertothefly!”

“Ah,she’sacard,thatone!”exclaimedtheCaptain.Tomfeareditcouldbealongevening.

“Now,somesherry?Orthere’sport?”offeredthewoman.“Show some mercy and bring the poor devil a beer, Mrs. Captain,” her

husbandsaidwithalaugh.HeslappedTomontheback.“Youhaveaseatandtellmeallaboutyourself,youngman.”

Tomwasrescuedbythedoorbell.“Excuseme,”saidCaptainHasluck.Downthe hall Tom heard, “Cyril. Bertha. Glad you could come. Letme take yourhats.”

AsMrs.Captainreturnedtotheparlorwithabottleofbeerandglassesonasilvertray,shesaid,“Wethoughtwe’dinviteafewpeople,justtointroduceyoutosomelocals.It’saveryfriendlyplace,Partageuse.”

TheCaptainusheredinthenewguests,adourcouplecomprisingtheplumpChairmanoftheLocalRoadsBoard—CyrilChipperandhiswife,Bertha,whowasthinasayardofpumpwater.

“Well,whatdoyoumakeoftheroadshere?”launchedCyrilassoonastheyhad been introduced. “No politeness, mind. Compared with over East, howwouldyouratethem?”

“Oh, leave thepoormanalone,Cyril,” said thewife.Tomwasgratefulnotonlyforthatinterventionbutalsoforthedoorbell,whichrangagain.

“Bill.Violet.Grandtoseeyou,”saidtheCaptainasheopenedthefrontdoor.“Ah,andyougetlovelierbytheday,younglady.”

He showed into the parlor a solid man with gray whiskers, and his wife,sturdy and flushed. “This is Bill Graysmark, his wife, Violet, and theirdaughter…”Heturnedaround.“Where’sshegotto?Anyway,there’sadaughterheresomewhere,she’llbethroughsoon,Iexpect.Bill’s theheadmasterhere inPartageuse.”

“Pleasedtomeetyou,”saidTom,shakingthemanbythehandandnoddingpolitelytothewoman.

“So,”saidBillGraysmark,“youthinkyou’reuptoJanus,then?”“I’llsoonfindout,”Tomsaid.“Bleakoutthere,youknow.”“SoIhear.”“NoroadsonJanus,ofcourse,”threwinCyrilChipper.“Er,well,no,”Tomsaid.“NotsureIthinkmuchofaplacewithnoroadsatall,”Chipperpursued,ina

tonethatimpliedthereweremoralimplications.“Noroadsistheleastofyourproblems,son,”rejoinedGraysmark.“Dad,layoff,willyou?”ThemissingdaughternowenteredasTomhadhis

backtothedoor.“Thelastthingthepoormanneedsisyourtalesofdoomandgloom.”

“Ah! Told you she’d turn up,” said Captain Hasluck. “This is IsabelGraysmark.Isabel—meetMr.Sherbourne.”

Tomstoodtogreetherandtheireyesmet in recognition.Hewasabout tomakea reference to seagulls,but she silencedhimwith, “Pleased tomeetyou,Mr.Sherbourne.”

“Tom,please,”hesaid,speculatingthatperhapsshewasn’tsupposedtospendafternoons throwing bread to birds, after all. And he wondered what othersecretslaybehindherplayfulsmile.

Theeveningproceededwellenough,with theHaslucks tellingTomabout thehistoryofthedistrictandthebuildingofthelighthouse,backinthetimeoftheCaptain’s father. “Very important for trade,” the Harbormaster assured him.“TheSouthernOceanistreacherousenoughonthesurface,letalonehavingthatunder-searidge.Safetransportisthekeytobusiness,everyoneknowsthat.”

“Of course, the real basis of safe transport is good roads,” Chipper began

again,aboutto launchintoanothervariationonhisonlytopicofconversation.Tomtried to lookattentive,butwasdistractedoutof thecornerofhis eyebyIsabel.Unseenbytheothers,thankstotheangleofherchair,shehadbeguntomakemock-seriousexpressionsatCyrilChipper’scomments,keepingupalittlepantomimethataccompaniedeachremark.

Theperformancewenton,withTomstrugglingtokeepastraightface,untilfinallyafulllaughescaped,whichhequicklyconvertedintoacoughingfit.

“Are you all right, Tom?” asked the Captain’s wife. “I’ll fetch you somewater.”

Tomcouldn’t lookup,and, still coughing, said, “Thankyou. I’ll comewithyou.Don’tknowwhatsetmeoff.”

AsTomstoodup,Isabelkeptaperfectlystraightfaceandsaid,“Now,whenhecomesback,you’llhavetotellTomallabouthowyoumaketheroadsoutofjarrah,Mr.Chipper.”TurningtoTom,shesaid,“Don’tbelong.Mr.Chipper’sfull of interesting stories,” and she smiled innocently, her lips giving just amomentarytrembleasTomcaughthereye.

Whenthegatheringdrewtoaclose,theguestswishedTomwellforhisstayonJanus. “You look like you’re made of the right stuff,” said Hasluck, and BillGraysmarknoddedinagreement.

“Thankyou. It’sbeenapleasure tomeetyouall,” saidTom,shakinghandswiththegentlemen,andnoddingtotheladies.“AndthankyouformakingsureIgotsuchathoroughintroductiontoWesternAustralianroadconstruction,”hesaidquietly toIsabel. “PityIwon’thaveachance torepayyou.”Andthe littlepartydispersedintothewintrynight.

CHAPTER3

TheWindwardSpirit,thestoreboatforallthelightstationsalongthatpartofthecoast,wasanold tub,but trustyas a cattledog,RalphAddicott said.OldRalphhadskipperedthevesselfordonkey’syears,andalwaysboastedhehadthebestjobintheworld.

“Ah, you’ll beTomSherbourne.Welcome tomypleasure launch!”he said,gesturingtothebarewoodendecksandsalt-blisteredpaintasTomcameaboardbeforedawnforhisfirstjourneyouttoJanusRock.

“Pleasedtomeetyou,”saidTomasheshookhishand.Theenginewasidlingandthedieselfumesfilledhislungs.Itwasn’tmuchwarmerinthecabinthaninthebitingairoutside,butatleastitbluntedthesnarlofthewind.

Amessofredcorkscrewcurlsemergedthroughthehatchatthebackofthecabin.“Reckonwe’reready,Ralph.She’sallfixednow,”saidtheyoungmantheybelongedto.

“Bluey,thisisTomSherbourne,”saidRalph.“Gedday,”repliedBluey,haulinghimselfthroughthehatch.“Morning.”“Talk about brass-monkey weather! Hope you’ve packed your woolen

underduds. If it’s like this here, it’ll be a bloody sight worse on Janus,” saidBluey,breathingonhishands.

WhileBluey showedTom over the boat, the skipper ran through his finalchecks.Hegavethebrine-smearedglassinfrontofhimawipewithascrapofold flag, then called, “Ropes at the ready now, lad. Prepare to cast off.” Heopened the throttle. “Come on, old girl, offwe go,” hemuttered, to coax theboatoutofitsberth.

Tomstudiedthemaponthecharttable.Evenmagnifiedonthisscale,Januswasbarelyadotintheshoalsfaroffthecoast.Hefixedhiseyesontheexpanseofseaaheadandbreathedinthethicksaltair,notlookingbackattheshoreincaseitmadehimchangehismind.

Asthehourspassed,thewaterdeepenedbelowthem,itscolortakingonthe

quality of a solid. From time to time Ralph would point out something ofinterest—a sea eagle, or a school of dolphins playing at the bow of the boat.Once, they saw the funnelofa steamer, just skirting thehorizon.Periodically,Blueyemergedfromthegalleytohandoutteainchippedenamelmugs.RalphtoldTomstoriesofevilstormsandgreatdramasoftheLightsonthatpartofthecoast. Tom talked a little of life at Byron Bay and on Maatsuyker Island,thousandsofmilestotheeast.

“Well, if you’ve lived through Maatsuyker, there’s a chance you’ll surviveJanus.Probably,”Ralphsaid.Helookedathiswatch.“Whynotgrabfortywinkswhileyoucan?We’vegotawaytogoyet,boy.”

WhenTomre-emergedfromthebunkbelow,BlueywasspeakinginalowvoicetoRalph,whowasshakinghishead.

“Ijustwanttoknowifit’strue.Noharminaskinghim,isthere?”Blueywassaying.

“Askingmewhat?”saidTom.“If…”Bluey lookedatRalph.TornbetweenhisowneagernessandRalph’s

bulldogscowl,heblushedandfellsilent.“Fairenough.Noneofmybusiness,”saidTom,andlookedoutatthewater,

whichhadnowturnedseal-gray,astheswellrosearoundthem.“Iwastooyoung.Mawouldn’t letmebumpupmeageto joinup.Andit’s

justthatIheard…”Tomlookedathim,eyebrowsraisedinquestion.“WelltheyreckonyougottheMilitaryCrossandthat,”Blueyblurted.“Told

meitsaidonyourdischargepapers—fortheJanusposting.”Tomkepthiseyesonthewater.Blueylookedcrestfallen,thenembarrassed.

“Imean,I’mrealproudtobeabletosayI’veshakenthehandofahero.”“Abitofbrassdoesn’tmakeanyoneahero,”Tomsaid.“Mostoftheblokes

whoreallydeservethemedalsaren’taroundanymore.Wouldn’tgettooworkedupaboutitifIwereyou,mate,”hesaid,andturnedtoporeoverthechart.

“Theresheis!”exclaimedBluey,andhandedthebinocularstoTom.“Home,sweethome,forthenextsixmonths.”Ralphchuckled.Tomlookedthroughthelensesatthelandmasswhichseemedtobeemerging

from the water like a sea monster. The cliff on one side marked the highestpoint, fromwhich the island slopeddowngently until it reached the opposite

shore.“OldNeville’llbegladtoseeus,”Ralphsaid.“Hedidn’ttakekindlytobeing

draggedoutofretirementforTrimble’semergency,Icantellyou.Still.Onceakeeper…There’snotamanintheservice’dleavealightgounattended,howevermuchhecarriedonaboutit.Iwarnyou,though,he’snotthehappiestcorpseinthemorgue.Notmuchofatalker,NevilleWhittnish.”

Thejettystretchedagoodhundredfeetoutfromtheshoreline,whereithadbeenbuiltuptall, towithstandthehighestoftidesandfiercestofstorms.Theblockandtacklewasrigged,readytohoistthesuppliesupthesteepascenttotheoutbuildings. A dour, craggy man of sixty-odd was waiting for them as theydocked.

“Ralph.Bluey,”hesaidwithaperfunctorynod.“You’rethereplacement,”washisgreetingtoTom.

“TomSherbourne.Pleasedtomeetyou,”Tomreplied,puttingouthishand.Theoldermanlookedatitabsentlyforamomentbeforerememberingwhat

thegesturemeant,andgave itaperemptory tug,as if testingwhether thearmmightcomeoff.“Thisway,”hesaid,andwithoutwaitingforTomtogatherhisthings,startedthetrudgeuptothelightstation.Itwasearlyafternoon,andaftersomanyhoursontheswell,ittookTomamomenttogetthefeeloflandagainashegrabbedhiskitbagandstaggeredafterthekeeper,whileRalphandBlueypreparedtounloadthesupplies.

“Keeper’scottage,”saidWhittnishastheyapproacheda lowbuildingwithacorrugated-ironroof.Atrioof largerainwater tanksrangedbehind it,besideastringofoutbuildingshousingstoresforthecottageandthelight.“Youcanleaveyourkitbaginthehallway,”hesaid,asheopenedthefrontdoor.“Gotalottogetthrough.”Heturnedonhisheelandheadedstraighttothetower.Hemightbelonginthetooth,buthecouldmovelikeawhippet.

Later,whentheoldmanspokeaboutthelight,hisvoicechanged,asthoughheweretalkingaboutafaithfuldogorafavoriterose.“She’sabeauty,still,afteralltheseyears,”hesaid.Thewhitestonelighttowerrestedagainsttheslateskylikeastickofchalk.Itstoodahundredandthirtyfeethigh,nearthecliffattheisland’sapex,andTomwasstrucknotonlybyhowmuchtalleritwasthanthelightshehadworkedon,butalsobyitsslenderelegance.

Walkingthrough itsgreendoor, itwasmoreor lesswhatheexpected.Thespace could be crossed in a couple of strides, and the soundof their footstepsricocheted like stray bullets off the green-gloss-painted floors and curved,whitewashedwalls.The few pieces of furniture—two store cupboards, a small

table—werecurvedatthebacktofittheroundnessofthestructure,sothattheyhuddledagainstthewallslikehunchbacks.Intheverycenterstoodthethickironcylinderwhichranallthewayuptothelanternroom,andhousedtheweightsfortheclockworkwhichhadoriginallyrotatedthelight.

Asetofstairsnomorethantwofeetwidebeganaspiralacrossonesideofthewall anddisappeared into the solidmetal of the landing above.Tom followedtheoldmanuptothenext,narrowerlevel,wherethehelixcontinuedfromtheoppositewall up to thenext floor, andon again until they arrived at the fifthone, just below the lantern room—the administrative heart of the lighthouse.Hereinthewatchroomwasthedeskwiththelogbooks,theMorseequipment,thebinoculars.Ofcourse,itwasforbiddentohaveabedoranyfurnitureinthelighttoweronwhichonecouldrecline,buttherewasatleastastraight-backedwoodenchair,itsarmswornsmoothbygenerationsofcraggypalms.

Thebarometercoulddowithapolish,Tomnoted,beforehiseyewascaughtbysomethingsittingbesidethemarinecharts.Itwasaballofwoolwithknittingneedlesstuckthroughit,andwhatlookedlikethebeginningsofascarf.

“OldDocherty’s,”saidWhittnishwithanod.Tomknewthevarietyofactivitiesthekeepersusedtowhileawayanyquiet

moments on duty: carving scrimshaw or shells; making chess pieces. Knittingwascommonenough.

Whittnish ran through the logbook and theweather observations, then ledTomtothelightitself,onthenextlevelup.Theglazingofthelightroomwasinterrupted only by the crisscrossing of astragals that kept the panes in place.Outside,themetalgallerycircledthetower,andaperilousladderarchedagainstthedome,uptothethincatwalkjustbelowtheweathervanethatswunginthewind.

“She’s abeautyall right,” saidTom, taking in thegiant lens, far taller thanhimself,atoptherotatingpedestal:apalaceofprismslikeabeehivemadefromglass.ItwastheveryheartofJanus,alllightandclarityandsilence.

Abarelyperceptible smilepassedover theoldkeeper’s lips ashe said, “I’veknownhersinceIwasbarelyaboy.Ahyes,abeauty.”

Thefollowingmorning,Ralphstoodonthejetty.“Nearlyreadyfortheoff,then.Wantustobringoutallthenewspapersyou’vemissednexttrip?”

“It’shardlynewsifit’smonthsold.I’drathersavemymoneyandbuyagoodbook,”repliedTom.

Ralphlookedabouthim,checkingeverythingwasinorder.“Well,that’sthatthen.Nochangingyourmindnow,son.”

Tomgavearuefullaugh.“Reckonyou’rerightonthatscore,Ralph.”“We’llbebackbeforeyouknowit.Threemonthsisnothingaslongasyou’re

nottryingtoholdyourbreath!”“Youtreatthelightrightandshewon’tgiveyouanytrouble,”saidWhittnish.

“Allyouneedispatienceandabitofnous.”“I’llseewhatIcando,”saidTom.ThenheturnedtoBluey,whowasgetting

readytocastoff.“Seeyouinthreemonthsthen,Blue?”“Youbet.”The boat pulled away, churning thewater behind it and battling thewind

with a smoky roar. The distance pressed it further and further into the grayhorizonlikeathumbpushingitintoputty,untilitwassubsumedcompletely.

Then,amoment’sstillness.Notsilence:thewavesstillshatteredontherocks,thewindscreechedaroundhisears,andaloosedoorononeofthestorageshedsbangedadisgruntleddrumbeat.ButsomethinginsideTomwasstillforthefirsttimeinyears.

Hewalkeduptotheclifftopandstood.Agoat’sbellclanged;twochickenssquabbled.Suddenlythesepinpricksofsoundtookonanewimportance:soundsfromlivingthings.Tomclimbedthe184stairstothelanternroomandopenedthedoortothegallery.Thewindpouncedonhimlikeapredator,slamminghimbackintothedoorwayuntilhegatheredthestrengthtolaunchhimselfoutwardandgriptheironhandrail.

Forthefirsttimehetookinthescaleoftheview.Hundredsoffeetabovesealevel, he wasmesmerized by the drop to the ocean crashing against the cliffsdirectly below. The water sloshed like white paint, milky-thick, the foamoccasionally scraped off long enough to reveal a deep blue undercoat. At theotherendofthe island,arowof immenseboulderscreatedabreakagainstthesurfandleftthewaterinsideitascalmasabath.Hehadtheimpressionhewashanging from the sky, not rising from the earth.Very slowly, he turned a fullcircle,takinginthenothingnessofitall.Itseemedhislungscouldneverbelargeenoughtobreatheinthismuchair,hiseyescouldneverseethismuchspace,norcould he hear the full extent of the rolling, roaring ocean. For the briefestmoment,hehadnoedges.

Heblinked,andshookhisheadquickly.Hewasnearingavortex,andtopullhimselfbackhepaidattentiontohisheartbeat, felthisfeetonthegroundandhisheelsinhisboots.Hedrewhimselfuptohisfullheight.Hepickedapoint

on the door of the light tower—a hinge that had worked itself loose—andresolved tostartwith that.Somethingsolid.Hemust turn to somethingsolid,becauseifhedidn’t,whoknewwherehismindorhissoulcouldblowawayto,likeaballoonwithoutballast.Thatwastheonlythingthathadgothimthroughfouryearsofbloodandmadness:knowexactlywhereyourguniswhenyoudozefortenminutesinyourdugout;alwayscheckyourgasmask;seethatyourmenhave understood their orders to the letter. You don’t think ahead in years ormonths: you think about this hour, and maybe the next. Anything else isspeculation.

He raised the binoculars and scoured the island for more signs of life: heneededtoseethegoats,thesheep;tocountthem.Sticktothesolid.Tothebrassfittingswhichhad tobepolished, theglasswhichhad tobecleaned—first theouterglassofthelantern,thentheprismsthemselves.Gettingtheoilin,keepingthe cogsmoving smoothly, topping up themercury to let the light glide.Hegrippedeachthoughtliketherungofaladderbywhichtohaulhimselfbacktotheknowable;backtothislife.

Thatnight, ashe lit the lamp,hemovedas slowly andcarefully asoneof thepriests might have done thousands of years earlier in the first lighthouse atPharos.Heclimbedthetinymetalstairs that ledto the innerdeckaroundthelightitself,duckedthroughtheopeningandintotheapparatusofthelight.Heprimedtheoilbylightingaflameunderitsdishsothatitvaporizedandreachedthemantleasagas.Hethensetamatchtothemantle,whichtransformedthevapor into awhite brilliance.Hewent down to the next level and started themotor.The lightbegantoturnwiththeexact,evenrhythmofthefive-secondflash.Hepickedupthepen,andwroteinthewide,leather-boundlog:“Litupat5:09 p.m. Wind N/NE 15 knots. Overcast, squally. Sea 6.” Then, he added hisinitials—T.S.HishandwritingtookoverthetellingofthestorywhereWhittnishhad left off only hours before, andDocherty before that—hewas part of theunbrokenchainofkeepersbearingwitnesstothelight.

Oncehewassatisfiedeverythingwas inorder,hewentbackto thecottage.Hisbodycravedsleep,butheknewtoowellthatifyoudon’teatyoucan’twork.Inthelarderoffthekitchen,tinsofbullybeefandpeasandpearssatonshelvesbeside sardines and sugar and a big jar of humbugs, of which the late Mrs.Dochertyhadbeenlegendarilyfond.Forhisfirstnight’ssupperhecutahunkofthedamperWhittnishhadleftbehind,apieceofcheddarandawrinkledapple.

At the kitchen table, the flame of the oil lamp wavered occasionally. Thewind continued its ancient vendetta against thewindows, accompanied by theliquidthunderofwaves.Tomtingledattheknowledgethathewastheonlyonetohearanyofit:theonlylivingmanforthebetterpartofahundredmilesinanydirection.Hethoughtofthegullsnestledintotheirwiryhomesonthecliffs,thefishhovering stilly in the safetyof the reefs,protectedby the icywater.Everycreatureneededitsplaceofrefuge.

Tomcarriedthelampintothebedroom.Hisshadowpresseditselfagainstthewall,aflatgiant,ashepulledoffhisbootsandstrippeddowntohislongjohns.Hishairwasthickwithsaltandhisskinrawfromthewind.Hepulledbackthesheetsandclimbed in, falling intodreamsashisbodykeptup the swayof thewavesandthewind.Allnight,farabovehimthelightstoodguard,slicingthedarknesslikeasword.

CHAPTER4

Once he has extinguished the light at sunrise eachmorning,Tom sets off toexploreanotherpartofhisnewterritorybeforegettingonwiththeday’swork.Thenorthernsideof the island isa sheergranitecliffwhichsets its jawstifflyagainst the ocean below. The land slopes down toward the south and slidesgentlyunderthewateroftheshallowlagoon.Besideitslittlebeachisthewaterwheel, which carries fresh water from the spring up to the cottage: from themainland,allthewayoutalongtheoceanfloortotheislandandbeyond,thereare fissures from which fresh water springs mysteriously. When the Frenchdescribedthephenomenonintheeighteenthcentury,itwasdismissedasamyth.Butsureenough,freshwaterwastobefoundeveninvariouspartsoftheocean,likeamagictrickplayedbynature.

Hebeginstoshapehisroutine.RegulationsrequirethateachSundayhehoisttheensignandhedoes, first thing.Heraises it toowhenany“mano’war,”asthe rules put it, passes the island. He knows keepers who swear under theirbreathattheobligation,butTomtakescomfortfromtheorderlinessofit.Itisaluxury to do something that serves no practical purpose: the luxury ofcivilization.

HesetsaboutfixingthingsthathavefallenintodisrepairsincethedeclineofTrimbleDocherty.Mostimportantisthelighthouseitself,whichneedsputtyintheastragalsofthelanternglazing.Nexthegetsrottenstoneandsandsthewoodonthedeskdrawerwhereithasswollenwiththeweather,andgoesoveritwiththewolf’s-headbrush.Hepatches the greenpaint on the landingswhere it isscuffedorwornaway: itwillbea longwhilebeforeacrewcomes topaint thewholestation.

The apparatus responds to his attention: the glass gleams, the brass shines,and the light rotates on its bath ofmercury as smoothly as a skua gliding oncurrentsofair.Nowandagainhemanagestogetdowntotherockstofish,ortowalk along the sandy beach of the lagoon.Hemakes friendswith the pair ofblackskinkswhichresideinthewoodshed,andoccasionallygivesthemsomeof

thechooks’ food.He’s sparingwithhis rations:hewon’t see thestoreboat formonths.

It’sahardjob,andabusyone.Thelightkeepershavenounion—notlikethemenon the storeboats—noone strikes forbetterpayor conditions.Thedayscanleavehimexhaustedorsore,worriedbythelookofastormfrontcominginatagallop,orfrustratedbythewayhailstonescrushthevegetablepatch.Butifhedoesn’tthinkaboutittoohard,heknowswhoheisandwhathe’sfor.Hejusthastokeepthelightburning.Nothingmore.

TheFatherChristmasface,allredcheeksandwhiskers,gaveabiggrin.“Well,TomSherbourne,howareyou surviving?”Ralphdidn’twait fora replybeforethrowinghimthe fat,wet rope towindaround thebollard.Tom lookedas fitandwellafterthreemonthsasanykeepertheskipperhadseen.

Tomhadbeenwaitingforsuppliesforthelight,andhadgivenlessthoughttothefreshfoodwhichwouldbedelivered.Hehadalsoforgottenthattheboatwould bring post, andwas surprisedwhen, toward the end of the day, Ralphhandedhimsomeenvelopes.“Almostforgot,”hesaid.Therewasa letter fromthe District Officer of the Lighthouse Service, retrospectively confirming hisappointmentandconditions.A letter fromtheDepartmentofRepatriationsetoutcertainbenefitsrecentlyallowedtoreturnedservicemen,includingincapacitypension or a business loan.Neither applied to him, so he opened the next, aCommonwealth Bank statement confirming that he had earned four per centinterest on the five hundred pounds in his account. He left until last theenvelopeaddressedbyhand.Hecouldnotthinkofanyonewhomightwrite,andfeareditmightbesomedo-goodersendinghimnewsofhisbrotherorhisfather.

Heopenedit.“DearTom,IjustthoughtI’dwriteandcheckthatyouhadn’tbeenblownawayorsweptouttoseaoranything.Andthatthe lackofroadsisn’t causingyou too many problems…” He skipped ahead to see the signature: “Yours truly,IsabelGraysmark.”Thegistofthemiddlewasthatshehopedhewasn’ttoolonelyoutthere,andthatheshouldbesuretostopbyandsayhellobeforehewentofftowhereverhewasgoingafterhis Janusposting.Shehaddecorated the letterwithalittlesketchofakeeperleaningagainsthislighttower,whistlingatune,whilebehindhimagiantwhaleemergedfromthewater,itsjawswideopen.Shehadaddedforgoodmeasure:“Besurenottogeteatenbyawhalebeforethen.”

It made Tom smile. The absurdity of the picture. More than that, theinnocenceofit.Somehowhisbodyfeltlighterjusttoholdtheletterinhishand.

“Canyouhangonatick?”heaskedRalph,whowasgatheringhisthingsforthejourneyback.

Tom dashed to his desk for paper and pen.He sat down to write, beforerealizinghehadnoideawhattosay.Hedidn’twanttosayanything: justsendherasmile.

DearIsabel,Notblownawayorswept(anyfurther)outtosea,fortunately.Ihaveseen

manywhales,butnonehastriedtoeatmesofar:I’mprobablynotverytasty.I am bearing up prettywell, all things considered, and coping adequately

with the absence of roads. I trust youare keeping the local birdlifewell fed. IlookforwardtoseeingyoubeforeIleavePartageusefor—whoknowswhere?—inthreemonths’time.

Howshouldhesignit?“Nearlyready?”calledRalph.“Nearly,”hereplied,andwrote,“Tom.”Hesealedandaddressedtheenvelope,

andhandedittotheskipper.“Anychanceyoucouldpostthatforme?”Ralphlookedattheaddressandwinked.“I’lldeliverit inperson.Gottogo

pastthatplaceanyway.”

CHAPTER5

At the end of his six months, Tom savored the delights of Mrs. Mewett’shospitalityonceagain,foranunexpectedreason:theJanusvacancyhadbecomepermanent.Farfromfindinghismarbles,TrimbleDochertyhadlostthefewhestill had, and had thrown himself over the vast granite cliff-face at AlbanyknownastheGap,apparentlyconvincedhewasjumpingontoaboatskipperedbyhisbelovedwife.SoTomhadbeensummonedtoshoretodiscussthepost,dothepaperwork,andtakesomeleavebeforeheofficially tookupthe job.Bynow he had proved himself so capable that Fremantle did not bother to lookelsewheretofilltheposition.

“Neverunderestimatetheimportanceoftherightwife,”CaptainHasluckhadsaidwhenTomwasabouttoleavehisoffice.“OldMoiraDochertycouldhaveworked the lightherself, she’d beenwithTrimble for so long.Takes a specialkindofwomantoliveontheLights.Whenyoufindtherightone,youwanttosnapherup,quicksmart.Mindyou,you’llhavetowaitabitnow…”

AsTomwanderedbacktoMrs.Mewett’s,hethoughtaboutthelittlerelicsatthe lighthouse—Docherty’s knitting, his wife’s jar of humbugs that satuntouched in the pantry. Lives gone, traces left. And he wondered about thedespairoftheman,destroyedbygrief.Itdidn’ttakeawartopushyouoverthatedge.

Two days after his return to Partageuse, Tom sat stiff as a whalebone in theGraysmarks’loungeroom,wherebothparentswatchedovertheironlydaughterlike eagles with a chick. Struggling to come up with suitable topics ofconversation, Tom stuck to the weather, the wind, of which there was anabundance,andGraysmarkcousins inotherpartsofWesternAustralia. Itwasrelativelyeasytosteertheconversationawayfromhimself.

AsIsabelwalkedhimtothegateafterwardsheasked,“Howlongtillyougoback?”

“Twoweeks.”

“Thenwe’dbettermakethemostofit,”shesaid,asthoughconcludingalongdiscussion.

“Is that so?” askedTom,as amusedashewas surprised.Hehada senseofbeingwaltzedbackward.

Isabel smiled. “Yes, that’s so.” And the way the light caught her eyes, heimaginedhecouldsee intoher: seeaclarity,anopenness,whichdrewhimin.“Comeandvisittomorrow.I’llmakeapicnic.Wecangodownbythebay.”

“Ishouldaskyour father first, shouldn’tI?Oryourmother?”He leanedhisheadtooneside.“Imean,ifit’snotarudequestion,howoldareyou?”

“Oldenoughtogoonapicnic.”“Andinordinarynumbersthatwouldmakeyou…?”“Nineteen.Justabout.Soyoucanleavemyparentstome,”shesaid,andgave

himawaveassheheadedbackinside.Tom set off back toMrs.Mewett’s with a lightness in his step.Why, he

could not say.He didn’t know the first thing about this girl, except that shesmiledalot,andthatsomethinginsidejustfelt—good.

The following day, Tom approached the Graysmarks’ house, not so muchnervousaspuzzled,notquitesurehowitwasthathewasheadingbacktheresosoon.

Mrs. Graysmark smiled as she opened the door. “Nice and punctual,” shenotedonsomeinvisiblechecklist.

“Armyhabits…”saidTom.Isabel appearedwith a picnic basket,which she handed to him. “You’re in

chargeofgettingitthereinonepiece,”shesaid,andturnedtokisshermotheronthecheek.“Bye,Ma.Seeyoulater.”

“Mindyoukeepoutofthesun,now.Don’twantyouspoilingyourskinwithfreckles,” she said to her daughter. She gave Tom a look which conveyedsomethingsternerthanthewords,“Enjoyyourpicnic.Don’tbetoolateback.”

“Thanks,Mrs.Graysmark.Wewon’tbe.”Isabelledthewayastheywalkedbeyondthefewstreetsthatmarkedoutthe

townproperandapproachedtheocean.“Wherearewegoing?”askedTom.“It’sasurprise.”Theywanderedalong thedirt roadwhich ledup to theheadland,bordered

withdense,scrubbytreesoneachside.Thesewerenotthegiantsfromtheforest

amileorso further in,butwiry, stockythings,whichcouldcopewiththesaltandtheblastingofthewind.“It’sabitofawalk.Youwon’tgettootired,willyou?”sheasked.

Tomlaughed.“I’lljustaboutmanagewithoutawalkingstick.”“WellIjustthought,youdon’thaveveryfartowalkonJanus,doyou?”“Believeme,gettingupanddownthestairsofthelightalldaykeepsyouin

trim.”Hewasstilltakingstockofthisgirlandheruncannyabilitytotiphimafractionoffbalance.

The treesbegan to thinout the further theywalked, and the soundsof theocean grew louder. “I suppose Partageuse seems dead boring, coming fromSydney,”venturedIsabel.

“Haven’tspentlongenoughheretoknow,really.”“I supposenot.ButSydney—I imagine it ashugeandbusy andwonderful.

Thebigsmoke.”“It’sprettysmallfrycomparedtoLondon.”Isabelblushed.“Oh,Ididn’tknowyou’dbeenthere.Thatmustbearealcity.

MaybeI’llvisititoneday.”“You’rebetteroffhere,I’dsay.London’s—well,itwasprettygrimwheneverI

wasthereonfurlough.Grayandgloomyandcoldasacorpse.I’dtakePartageuseanyday.”

“We’regettingneartheprettiestbit.OrIthinkit’stheprettiest.”Beyondthetreesemergedanisthmuswhichjuttedfaroutintotheocean.Itwasalong,barestripoflandafewhundredyardswideandlickedbywavesonallsides.“ThisisthePointofPointPartageuse,”saidIsabel.“Myfavoriteplaceisdownthere,ontheleft,whereallthebigrocksare.”

They walked on until they were in the center of the isthmus. “Dump thebasketandfollowme,”shesaid,andwithoutwarningshewhiskedoffhershoesandtookoff,runningtotheblackgraniteboulderswhichtumbleddownintothewater.

Tom caught her up as she approached the edge. There was a circle ofboulders, inside which the waves sloshed and swirled. Isabel lay flat on thegroundandleanedherheadovertheedge.“Listen,”shesaid.“Justlistentothesoundthewatermakes,likeit’sinacaveoracathedral.”

Tomleanedforwardtohear.“You’vegottoliedown,”shesaid.“Tohearbetter?”“No. So you don’t getwashed away.Terrible blowhole, this. If a bigwave

comeswithoutwarning,you’llbedowninsidetherocksbeforeyouknowit.”Tomlaydownbesideherandhunghisheadintothespace,wherethewaves

echoedandbellowedandwashedabout.“RemindsmeofJanus.”“What’sitlikeoutthere?Youhearstories,butnoonemucheveractuallygoes

thereexceptthekeeperandtheboat.Oradoctor,once,yearsago,whenawholeshipwasquarantinedtherewithtyphoid.”

“It’slike…Well,it’slikenowhereelseonearth.It’sitsownworld.”“Theysayit’sbrutal,theweather.”“Ithasitsmoments.”Isabelsatup.“Doyougetlonely?”“Toobusytobelonely.There’salwayssomethingneedsfixingorcheckingor

recording.”Sheputherheadononeside,halfsignalingherdoubt,butsheletitpass.“Do

youlikeit?”“Yep.”NowitwasIsabelwholaughed.“Youdon’texactlyyackalot,doyou?”Tomstoodup.“Hungry?Mustbetimeforlunch.”HetookIsabel’shandandhelpedherup.Suchapetitehand,soft,withthe

palmcoveredinafinelayerofgrittysand.Sodelicateinhis.Isabelservedhimroastbeefsandwichesandgingerbeer,followedbyfruitcake

andcrispapples.“So,doyouwritetoallthelightkeeperswhogoouttoJanus?”askedTom.“All!Therearen’tthatmany,”saidIsabel.You’rethefirstnewoneinyears.”Tomhesitatedbeforeventuringthenextquestion.“Whatmadeyouwrite?”Shesmiledathimandtookasipofgingerbeerbeforeanswering.“Because

you’refuntofeedseagullswith?BecauseIwasbored?BecauseI’dneversentaletter to a lighthouse before?” She brushed a strandof hair fromher eyes andlookeddownatthewater.“WouldyouratherIhadn’t?”

“Oh,no,Iwasn’ttryingto…Imean…”Tomwipedhishandsonhisnapkin.Alwaysslightlyoffbalance.Itwasanewsensationforhim.

TomandIsabelweresittingattheendofthejettyatPartageuse.Itwasalmostthelastdayof1920,andthebreezeplayedtunesbylappingwaveletsagainsttheboathullsandpluckingtheropesonthemasts.Theharborlightstrailedacrossthewater’ssurface,andtheskywassweptwithstars.

“But I want to know everything,” said Isabel, bare feet dangling above the

water.“Youcan’tjustsay,‘Nothingelsetotell.’”She’dextractedthebasicdetailsof his private-school education, and his Engineering degree from SydneyUniversity,butwasgrowingmorefrustrated.“Icantellyoulots—myGranandhowshetaughtmepiano,whatIrememberaboutmygranddad,eventhoughhedied when I was little. I can tell you what it’s like to be the headmaster’sdaughterinaplacelikePartageuse.Icantellyouaboutmybrothers,HughandAlfie,andhowweusedtomuckaroundwiththedinghyandgoofffishingdowntheriver.”She lookedatthewater.“Istillmissthosetimes.”Curlinga lockofhairaroundherfinger,sheconsideredsomething,thentookabreath.“It’slikeawhole…awholegalaxywaitingforyoutofindoutabout.AndIwanttofindoutaboutyours.”

“Whatelsedoyouwanttoknow?”“Well,aboutyourfamily,say.”“I’vegotabrother.”“AmIallowedtoknowhisname,orhaveyouforgottenit?”“I’mnotlikelytoforgetthatinahurry.Cecil.”“Whataboutyourparents?”Tomsquintedatthelightontopofamast.“Whataboutthem?”Isabel sat up, and looked deep into his eyes. “What goes on in there, I

wonder?”“Mymother’s deadnow. I don’t keep in touchwithmy father.”Her shawl

had slipped off her shoulder, andhe pulled it back up. “Are you getting a bitchilly?Wanttowalkback?”

“Whywon’tyoutalkaboutit?”“I’lltellyouifyoureallywant.It’sjustI’drathernot.Sometimesit’sgoodto

leavethepastinthepast.”“Yourfamily’sneverinyourpast.Youcarryitaroundwithyoueverywhere.”“More’sthepity.”Isabel straightened. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go. Mum and Dad’ll be

wonderingwherewe’vegotto,”shesaid,andtheywalkedsoberlyupthejetty.

Thatnightashelayinbed,TomcasthismindbacktothechildhoodIsabelhadbeensokeentoinvestigate.Hehadneverreallyspokentoanyoneaboutit.Butexploringthememoriesnow,thejaggedpainwaslikerunninghistongueoverabrokentooth.Hecouldseehiseight-year-oldself,tugginghisfather’ssleeveandcrying, “Please! Please let her come back. Please,Daddy. I love her!” and his

fatherwipinghishandawaylikeagrubbymark.“Youdon’tmentionheragaininthishouse.Youhear,son?”

Ashisfatherstalkedoutoftheroom,Tom’sbrother,Cecil, fiveyearsolderandatthatstageagoodmeasuretaller,gavehimacliponthebackofthehead.“Itoldyou,youidiot.Itoldyounottosayit,”andfollowedhisfather,withthesameofficiousstride,leavingthesmallboystandinginthemiddleoftheloungeroom.Fromhispockethetookalacehandkerchief,redolentwithhismother’sscent,andtouchedittohischeek,avoidinghistearsandstreamingnose.Itwasthefeeloftheclothhewanted,theperfume,notitsuse.

Tom thought back to the imposing, empty house: to the silence thatdeadened every roomwith a subtly different pitch; to the kitchen smelling ofcarbolic, kept spotless by a long line of housekeepers. He remembered thatdreadedsmellofLuxflakes,andhisdistressashesawthehandkerchief,washedandstarchedbyMrs.Someone-or-other,whohaddiscovereditinthepocketofhisshortsandlaundereditasamatterofcourse,obliteratinghismother’ssmell.Hehadsearchedthehouseforsomecorner,somecupboardwhichcouldbringbackthatblurrysweetnessofher.Buteveninwhathadbeenherbedroom,therewasonlypolishandmothballs,asthoughherghosthadfinallybeenexorcised.

InPartageuse,astheysatinthetearoom,Isabeltriedagain.“I’m not trying to hide anything,”Tom said. “It’s just that raking over the

pastisawasteoftime.”“AndI’mnottryingtopry.Only—you’vehadawholelife,awholestory,and

I’vecomeinlate.I’monlytryingtomakesenseofthings.Makesenseofyou.”Shehesitated,thenaskeddelicately,“IfIcan’ttalkaboutthepast,amIallowedtotalkaboutthefuture?”

“Wecan’trightlyevertalkaboutthefuture,ifyouthinkaboutit.Wecanonlytalkaboutwhatweimagine,orwishfor.It’snotthesamething.”

“OK,whatdoyouwishfor,then?”Tom paused. “Life. That’ll dome, I reckon.”He drew a deep breath and

turnedtoher.“Whataboutyou?”“Oh, Iwish for all sorts of things, all the time!” she exclaimed. “Iwish for

niceweatherfortheSunday-schoolpicnic.Iwishfor—don’tlaugh—Iwishforagood husband and a houseful of kids. The sound of a cricket ball breaking awindowandthesmellofstewinthekitchen.Thegirls’llsingChristmascarolstogetherandtheboys’llkickthefooty…Ican’timaginenothavingchildrenone

day,canyou?”Sheseemedtodriftawayforamomentbeforesaying,“Ofcourse,Iwouldn’twantoneyet.”Shehesitated.“NotlikeSarah.”

“Who?”“My friend, Sarah Porter. Used to live down the road. We used to play

cubbies together. She was a bit older, and always had to be mother.” Herexpressionclouded. “Shegot… in the familyway—when shewas sixteen.Herparents sent her up to Perth, out of sight. Made her give the baby to anorphanage.Theysaidhe’dbeadopted,buthehadaclubfoot.

“Latershegotmarried,andthebabywasallforgottenabout.Thenoneday,sheaskedmeifI’dcomeuptoPerthwithher,tovisittheorphanage,insecret.The ‘Infant Asylum,’ just a few doors down from the propermadhouse. Oh,Tom,you’veneverseensuchasightasawardfullofmotherlesstots.Noonetolove them.Sarah couldn’t breathe aword to her husband—he’d have sent herpacking.Hehasnoidea,evennow.Herbabywasstillthere:allshecoulddowaslook.Thefunnythingwas,Iwastheonewhocouldn’tstopcrying.Thelookontheir little faces.Itreallygottome.Youmightaswellsendachildstraighttohellassendittoanorphanage.”

“Akidneedsitsmum,”saidTom,lostinathoughtofhisown.Isabelsaid,“SarahlivesinSydneynow.Idon’thearfromheranymore.”

In those two weeks, Tom and Isabel saw each other every day. When BillGraysmarkchallengedhiswifeabouttheproprietyofthissudden“steppingout,”shesaid,“Oh,Bill.Life’sashortthing.She’sasensiblegirlandsheknowsherownmind.Besides,there’slittleenoughchancethesedaysofherfindingamanwith all his limbs attached. Don’t look a gift horse…” She knew, also, thatPartageusewassmall.Therewasnowheretheycouldgetuptoanythingmuch.Dozensofeyesandearswouldreporttheleastsignofanythinguntoward.

ItsurprisedTomhowmuchhe lookedforwardtoseeingIsabel.Somehowshehadcreptunderhisdefenses.HeenjoyedherstoriesoflifeinPartageuse,anditshistory; about how the French had chosen that name for this spot betweenoceansbecauseitmeant“goodatsharing”aswellas“dividing.”Shetalkedaboutthe time she fell froma tree andbrokeher arm, theday she andherbrotherspaintedredspotsonMrs.Mewett’sgoatandknockedonherdoortotellherithadmeasles.Shetoldhimquietly,andwithmanypauses,abouttheirdeathsintheSomme,andhowshewishedshecouldgetherparentstosmileagain.

Hewaswary,though.Thiswasasmalltown.Shewasalotyoungerthanhewas.He’dprobablyneverseeheragainoncehewentbackouttothelight.Otherblokes might take advantage, but to Tom, the idea of honor was a kind ofantidotetosomeofthethingshe’dlivedthrough.

Isabel herself could hardly have put into words the new feeling—excitement,perhaps—shefelteverytimeshesawthisman.Therewassomethingmysteriousabouthim—asthough,behindhissmile,hewasstillfaraway.Shewantedtogettotheheartofhim.

Ifthewarhadtaughtheranything,itwastotakenothingforgranted:thatitwasn’t safe to put off what mattered. Life could snatch away the things youtreasured,andtherewasnogettingthemback.Shebegantofeelanurgency,aneedtoseizeanopportunity.Beforeanyoneelsedid.

TheeveningbeforehewasduetogobacktoJanus,theywerewalkingalongthebeach.ThoughJanuarywasonlytwodaysold, it felt likeyearssinceTomhadfirstlandedinPartageuse,sixmonthsbefore.

Isabellookedouttosea,wherethesunwasslidingdowntheskyandintothegraywaterattheedgeoftheworld.Shesaid,“Iwaswonderingifyou’ddomeafavor,Tom.”

“Yep.What?”“Iwaswondering,”shesaid,notslowingherpace,“ifyou’dkissme.”Tomhalfthoughtthewindhadmadethewordsup,andbecauseshedidn’t

stopwalking,hetriedtoworkoutwhatitcouldhavebeenthatshereallysaid.Hetookaguess.“OfcourseI’llmissyou.But—maybeI’llseeyounexttime

I’mbackonleave?”Shegavehimanoddlook,andhebegantoworry.Eveninthedying light,

herfaceseemedred.“I’m—I’m sorry, Isabel. I’m not too good with words… in situations like

this.”“Situations likewhat?” she asked, crushedby the thought that thismustbe

somethinghedidallthetime.Agirlineveryport.“Like—sayinggoodbye.I’mallrightonmyown.AndI’mallrightwithabit

ofcompany.It’stheswitchingfromonetotheotherthatgetsme.”“Well, I’llmake it easy for you then, shall I? I’ll just go. Right now.” She

whippedaroundandstartedoffdownthebeach.

“Isabel! Isabel,wait!”He ran after her and caughtherhand. “I didn’twantyoutojustgooffwithout—well,justgoofflikethat.AndIwilldoyourfavor,Iwillmissyou.You’re—well,you’regoodtobewith.”

“ThentakemeouttoJanus.”“What—youwanttocomeforthetripout?”“No.Tolivethere.”Tomlaughed.“God,youcomeoutwithsomehumdingerssometimes.”“I’mserious.”“You can’t be,” saidTom, though something in her look told him she just

might.“Whynot?”“Well, for about a hundred reasons, just off the top of my head. Most

obviously because the onlywoman allowedon Janus is the keeper’swife.” Shesaidnothing,soheinclinedhisheadafractionmoreasifthatmighthelphimunderstand.

“Somarryme!”Heblinked.“Izz—Ihardlyknowyou!Andbesides,I’venevereven—well,I’ve

neverevenkissedyou,forcryingoutloud.”“Atlonglast!”Shespokeasifthesolutionwereblindinglyobvious,andshe

stoodon tiptoes to pull his headdown towardher.Beforehe knewwhatwashappeninghewasbeingkissed,inexpertlybutwithgreatforce.Hepulledawayfromher.

“That’s adangerousgame toplay, Isabel.You shouldn’t go runningaroundkissingblokesoutoftheblue.Notunlessyoumeanit.”

“ButIdomeanit!”Tomlookedather,hereyeschallenginghim,herpetitechinsetfirm.Once

hecrossedthatline,whoknewwherehewouldendup?Oh,buggerit.Tohellwith good behavior.To hellwith doing the right thing.Herewas a beautifulgirl,beggingtobekissed,andthesunwasgoneandtheweekswereupandhe’dbeoutinthemiddleofbloodynowherethistimetomorrow.Hetookherfaceinhishandsandbentlowashesaid,“Thenthisishowyoudoit,”andkissedherslowly,lettingtimefadeaway.Andhecouldn’trememberanyotherkissthatfeltquitethesame.

Finallyhedrewback,andbrushedastrandofhairoutofhereyes.“Bettergetyouhomeorthey’llhavethetroopersafterme.”Heslippedhisarmaroundhershoulderandguidedheralongthesand.

“Imeantit,youknow,aboutgettingmarried.”

“You’dhavetohaverocksinyourheadtowanttomarryme,Izz.There’snotmuchmoneyinlightkeeping.Andit’sahellofajobforawife.”

“IknowwhatIwant,Tom.”Hestoodstill.“Look.Idon’twanttosoundpatronizing,Isabel,butyou’re—

well, you’re quite a bit younger thanme: I’m twenty-eight this year.And I’mguessing youhaven’twalkedoutwithmany fellows.”Hewouldhavewagered,fromtheattemptatakiss,thatshehadn’twalkedoutwithany.

“What’sthatgottodowithit?”“Just—well,don’tgetconfusedbetweena thing itselfand the first timeyou

comeacrossit.Thinkitover.I’llbetalltheteainChinathatintwelvemonthsyou’llhaveforgottenallaboutme.”

“Humorme,”shesaid,andreacheduptokisshimagain.

CHAPTER6

Onclearsummerdays,Janusseemstostretchuprighttoitstiptoes:you’dswearit’shigheroutofthewateratsometimesthanatothers,notjustbecauseoftherisingandebbingofthetide.Itcandisappearaltogetherinrainstorms,disguisedlikeagoddessinaGreekmyth.Orseamistsbrewup:warmairheavywithsaltcrystalswhichobstructthepassageofthelight.Iftherearebushfires,thesmokecan reach even this far out, carrying thick, sticky ash which tints the sunsetslavish red andgold, and coats the lantern-roomglazingwithgrime.For thesereasonstheislandneedsthestrongest,brightestoflights.

From the gallery, the horizon stretches fortymiles. It seems improbable toTomthatsuchendlessspacecouldexistinthesamelifetimeasthegroundthatwasfoughtoverafootatatimeonlyahandfulofyearsago,wheremenlosttheirlivesforthesakeoflabelingafewmuddyyardsas“ours”insteadof“theirs,”onlyto have them snatched back a day later. Perhaps the same labeling obsessioncausedcartographerstosplitthisbodyofwaterintotwooceans,eventhoughitis impossible to touch an exact point at which their currents begin to differ.Splitting.Labeling.Seekingoutotherness.Somethingsdon’tchange.

OnJanus,thereisnoreasontospeak.Tomcangoformonthsandnothearhisown voice. He knows some keepers who make a point of singing, just liketurningoveranenginetomakesureitstillworks.ButTomfindsafreedominthe silence.He listens to thewind.Heobserves the tiny details of life on theisland.

Now and then, as if brought in on the breeze, thememory of Isabel’s kissfloats intohisawareness:thetouchofherskin,thesoftwholenessofher.Andhethinksoftheyearswhenhesimplycouldn’thaveimaginedthatsuchathingexisted.Justtobebesideherhadmadehimfeelcleanersomehow,refreshed.Yetthe sensation leads him back into the darkness, back into the galleries ofwoundedfleshandtwistedlimbs.Tomakesenseofit—that’sthechallenge.Tobearwitnesstothedeath,withoutbeingbrokenbytheweightofit.There’sno

reasonheshouldstillbealive,un-maimed.SuddenlyTomrealizesheiscrying.Heweepsforthemensnatchedawaytohis leftandright,whendeathhadnoappetiteforhim.Heweepsforthemenhekilled.

On theLights, youaccount for every singleday.Youwriteup the log, youreportwhat’shappened,youproduceevidencethatlifegoeson.Intime,astheghostsstarttodissolveinthepureJanusair,Tomdarestothinkofthelifeaheadofhim—athingthatforyearshasbeentooimprobabletodependon.Isabelisthere in his thoughts, laughing in spite of it all, insatiably curious about theworldaroundher,andgameforanything.CaptainHasluck’sadviceechoesinhismemoryashegoestothewoodshed.Havingchosenapieceofmalleeroot,hecarriesittotheworkshop.

JanusRock,

15thMarch1921

DearIsabel,I hope this letter finds youwell. I am very well. I like it out here. That

probablysoundsstrange,butIdo.Thequietsuitsme.There’ssomethingmagicalaboutJanus.It’slikenowhereI’veeverbeen.

Iwishyoucould see the sunriseandsunsethere.Andthe stars: the skygetscrowdedatnight,anditisabitlikewatchingaclock,seeingtheconstellationsslideacross the sky. It’s comforting toknowthat they’ll showup,howeverbadthedayhasbeen,howevercrookthingsget.ThatusedtohelpinFrance.Itputthings into perspective—the stars had been around since before there werepeople.Theyjustkeptshining,nomatterwhatwasgoingon.Ithinkofthelighthere like that, like a splinter of a star that’s fallen to earth: it just shines, nomatterwhat is happening. Summer,winter, storm, fineweather. People canrelyonit.

Betterstoprabbitingon.Thepointis,Iamsendingwiththisletteralittlebox I have carved for you. I hope it’s useful. Youmight put jewelry in it, orhairclipsandwhatnot.

By now you have probably changed your mind about things, and I justwantedtosaythatthatisallright.Youareawonderfulgirl,andIenjoyedthetimewespenttogether.

Theboatcomestomorrow,soIwillgivethistoRalphthen.

Tom.

JanusRock,

15thJune1921

DearIsabel,I am writing this quickly, as the boys are getting ready to leave. Ralph

deliveredyourletter.Itwasgoodtohearfromyou.Iamgladyoulikedthebox.Thankyou for thephotograph.You lookbeautiful,butnotas cheekyasyou

areinreallife.IknowjustwhereIwillputitinthelanternroom,sothatyoucanseeoutthroughthewindow.

No,itdoesn’treallyfeelallthatstrange,yourquestion.IfIthinkaboutit,inthewarIknewplentyoffellowswhogotsplicedonthree-dayfurloughbackinEngland,thencamestraightbackto carryonthe show.Mostof themthoughttheymightnotbearoundmuchlonger,andprobablysodidtheirgirls.WithabitofluckIwillbealonger-termproposition,sothinkcarefully.Iampreparedto risk it if you are. I can apply for exceptional shore leave at the end ofDecember,soyouhavegottimetothinkitover.Ifyouchangeyourmind,Iwillunderstand.Andifyoudon’t,IpromiseIwilltakecareofyoualways,anddomyverybesttobeagoodhusband.

Yours,Tom.

Thenextsixmonthspassedslowly.Therehadbeennothingtowaitforbefore—Tomhadgrownsousedtogreetingthedaysasendsinthemselves.Now,therewas a wedding date. Therewere arrangements to bemade, permissions to besought.Inanyspareminute,hewouldgoaroundthecottageandfindsomethingelsetoputright:thewindowinthekitchenthatdidn’tquiteshut;thetapthatneededaman’sforcetoturnit.WhatwouldIsabelneed,outhere?Withthelastboatback,hesentanorderforpainttofreshenuptherooms;amirrorforthedressingtable;newtowelsandtablecloths;sheetmusicforthedecrepitpiano—hehadnevertouchedit,butheknewIsabel lovedtoplay.Hehesitatedbeforeaddingtothelistnewsheets,twonewpillowsandaneiderdown.

When, finally, the boat arrived to take Tom back for the big day, NevilleWhittnishstrodeontothejetty,readytofillinduringhisabsence.

“Everythinginorder?”“Hopeso,”saidTom.Afterabriefinspection,Whittnishsaid,“Youknowhowtotreatalight.I’ll

giveyouthatmuch.”“Thanks,”saidTom,genuinelytouchedbythecompliment.“Ready,boy?”askedRalphastheywereabouttocastoff.“Godonlyknows,”saidTom.“Neveratruerwordspoken.”Ralphturnedhiseyestothehorizon.“Offwe

go,mybeauty, got to getCaptainSherbourne,MilitaryCross andBar, tohisdamsel.”

Ralph spoke to theboat in the samewayWhittnish referred to the light—living creatures, close to their hearts. The things a man could love, Tomthought.Hefixedhiseyesonthetower.Lifewouldhavechangedutterlywhenhesawitagain.Hehadasuddenpang:wouldIsabel loveJanusasmuchashedid?Wouldsheunderstandhisworld?

CHAPTER7

Yousee?Becauseit’sthishighabovesealevel,thelightreachesoverthecurveoftheearth—beyondthehorizon.Notthebeamitself,butthe loom—theglowofit.”TomwasstandingbehindIsabelonthelighthousegallery,armsaroundher,chinreachingdowntorestonhershoulder.TheJanuarysunscatteredflecksofgold inherdarkhair. Itwas1922, and their secondday aloneon Janus.Backfromafewdays’honeymooninPerthandstraightouttotheisland.

“It’slikeseeingintothefuture,”saidIsabel.“Youcanreachaheadintimetosavetheshipbeforeitknowsitneedshelp.”

“Thehigherthe light,andthebiggertheorderof lens,thefurther itsbeamshines.Thisonegoesjustaboutasfarasanylightcan.”

“I’veneverbeenthishighupinallmylife!It’slikeflying!”shesaid,andbrokeaway to circle the tower oncemore. “Andwhat do you call the flash again—there’sthatword…”

“Thecharacter.Everycoastal lighthasadifferentcharacter.Thisoneflashesfourtimesoneachtwenty-secondrotation.Soeveryshipknowsfromthefive-secondflashthatthisisJanus,notLeeuwinorBreakseaoranywhereelse.”

“Howdotheyknow?”“Shipskeepa listof the lights they’llpasson their course.Time’smoney if

you’reaskipper.They’realwaystemptedtocutthecorneroftheCape—wanttobefirsttooffloadtheircargoandpickupanewone.Fewerdaysatseasavesoncrew’swages,too.Thelight’sheretowardthemoff,getthemtopulltheirheadin.”

ThroughtheglassIsabelcouldseetheheavyblackblindsofthelanternroom.“Whataretheyfor?”sheasked.

“Protection!Thelensdoesn’tcarewhichlightitmagnifies.Ifitcanturnthelittleflameintoamillioncandlepower,imaginewhatitcandotosunlightwhenthelensstandsstillallday.It’sallverywellifyou’retenmilesaway.Notsogoodtobeteninchesaway.Soyouhavetoprotectit.Andprotectyourself—I’dfryifIwent inside it during thedaywithout the curtains.Come inside and I’ll show

youhowitworks.”Theirondoorclangedbehindthemastheywentintothelanternroom,and

throughtheopeningintothelightitself.“Thisisafirstorderlens—aboutasbrightastheycome.”Isabelwatchedtherainbowsthrownaboutbytheprisms.“It’ssopretty.”“Thethickcentralbitofglassisthebull’seye.Thisonehasfour,butyoucan

havedifferentnumbersdependingonthecharacter.Thelightsourcehastolineupexactlywiththeheightofthatsoitgetsconcentratedbythelens.”

“Andallthecirclesofglassaroundthebull’seyes?”Separatearcsoftriangularglasswerearrangedaroundthecenterofthelensliketheringsofadartboard.

“Thefirsteightrefractthelight:theybenditsothatinsteadofheadinguptothemoon or down to the ocean floor where it’s no good to anybody, it goesstraightouttosea:theymakeitsortofturnacorner.Theringsaboveandbelowthemetalbar—See?Fourteenofthem—theygetthickerthefurtherawayfromthe center they are: they reflect the light back down, so all the light is beingconcentratedintoonebeam,notjustgoingoffinalldirections.”

“Sononeofthelightgetsawaywithoutearningitskeep,”saidIsabel.“You could say that. And here’s the light itself,” he said, gesturing to the

smallapparatusonthemetalstandintheverycenterofthespace,coveredinameshcasing.

“Itdoesn’tlookmuch.”“It isn’t,now.But thatmeshcover is an incandescentmantle, and itmakes

thevaporizedoilburnbrightasastar,onceit’smagnified.I’llshowyoutonight.”“Ourownstar!Liketheworld’sbeenmadejustforus!Withthesunshineand

theocean.Wehaveeachotheralltoourselves.”“IreckontheLightsthinkthey’vegotmealltothemselves,”saidTom.“Nonosyneighborsorboringrelatives.”Shenibbledathisear.“Justyouand

me…”“And the animals.There’s no snakes on Janus, luckily. Some islands down

thiswayarenothingbut.There’soneortwospiders’llgiveyouanipthough,sokeep your eyes peeled. There are…” Tom was having difficulty finishing hispointaboutthelocalfauna,asIsabelkeptkissinghim,nippinghisears,reachingherhandsbackintohispocketsinawaythatmadeitanefforttothink,letalonespeak coherently. “It’s a serious…”he struggledon, “point I’m trying tomakehere, Izz.Youneed towatch out for—” andhe let out amoan as her fingersfoundtheirtarget.

“Me…”Shegiggled.“I’mthedeadliestthingonthisisland!”

“Not here, Izz. Not in the middle of the lantern. Let’s”—he took a deepbreath—“let’sgodownstairs.”

Isabellaughed.“Yes,here!”“It’sgovernmentproperty.”“What—areyougoingtohavetorecorditinthelogbook?”Tom gave an awkward cough. “Technically… These things are pretty

delicate,andtheycostmoremoneythanyouorI’lleverseeinalifetime.Idon’twant to be the one who has to make up an excuse about how anything gotbroken.Comeon,let’sgodownstairs.”

“AndwhatifIwon’t?”sheteased.“Well,IsupposeI’lljusthaveto”—hehoistedherontoonehip—“makeyou,

sweetheart,”hesaid,andcarriedherdownthehundredsofnarrowstairs.

“Oh,it’sheavenhere!”Isabeldeclaredthenextdayasshelookedoutattheflat,turquoiseocean.DespiteTom’sgrimwarningsabouttheweather,thewindhaddeclaredagreetingtruceandthesunwasagaingloriouslywarm.

Hehadbroughthertothelagoon,abroadpoolofplacidultramarinenomorethansixfeetdeep,inwhichtheywerenowswimming.

“Justaswellyoulikeit.It’sthreeyearstillwegetshoreleave.”Sheputherarmsaroundhim.“I’mwhereIwanttobeandwiththemanI

wanttobewith.Nothingelsematters.”Tomswirledhergentlyinacircleashespoke.“Sometimesfishfindtheirway

inherethroughthegapsintherocks.Youcanscoopthemupwithanet,orevenjustwithyourhands.”

“What’sthispoolcalled?”“Hasn’tgotaname.”“Everythingdeservesaname,don’tyouthink?”“Well,youcangiveitonethen.”Isabelthoughtforamoment.“IherebychristenthisParadisePool,”shesaid,

andsplashedahandfulofwaterontoarock.“Thiswillbemyswimmingspot.”“You’reusuallyprettysafehere.Butkeepyoureyesopen,justincase.”“Whatdoyoumean?”askedIsabelasshepaddled,onlyhalflistening.“The sharks can’t usuallymake it through the rocks, unless there’s a really

hightideorastormorsomething,soyou’reprobablysafeonthatcount…”“Probably?”“Butyouneedtobecarefulaboutotherthings.Seaurchins,say.Watchout

whenyou’rewalkingonsubmergedrocks,orthespinescansnapoffinyourfootandgetinfected.Andstingraysburythemselvesinthesandneartheedgeofthewater—ifyoutreadonthebarbintheirtailyou’reintrouble.Ifitflicksupandgetsyouneartheheart,well…”HenoticedthatIsabelhadgonesilent.

“Youallright,Izz?”“Itfeelsdifferentsomehow,whenyoujustreelitallofflikethat—whenwe’re

thisfarfromhelp.”Tomtookherinhisarmsandpulledheruptotheshore.“I’lllookafteryou,

sweetheart.Don’tyouworry,”hesaidwithasmile.Hekissedhershoulders,andlaidherheadbackonthesand,tokisshermouth.

InIsabel’swardrobe,besidethepilesofthickwinterwoolens,hangafewfloraldresses—easytowash,hardtohurtasshegoesabouthernewworkoffeedingthechickensormilkingthegoats;pickingthevegetablesorcleaningthekitchen.When she hikes around the island with Tom she wears an old pair of histrousers,rolledupmorethanafootandcinchedwithacrackedleatherbelt,overoneofhiscollarlessshirts.Shelikestofeelthegroundunderherfeet,andgoeswithout shoes whenever she can, but on the cliffs she endures plimsolls toprotecthersolesfromthegranite.Sheexplorestheboundariesofhernewworld.

Onemorning soonafter she arrived, a littledrunkwith the freedomof it, shedecidedtoexperiment.“Whatdoyouthinkofthenewlook?”shesaidtoTomasshebroughthimasandwichinthewatchroomatnoon,wearingnothingatall.“Idon’tthinkIneedclothesonadayaslovelyasthis.”

Heraisedaneyebrowandgaveherahalfsmile.“Verynice.Butyou’llgetsickofitsoonenough,Izz.”Ashetookthesandwichhestrokedherchin.“There’ssome things you have to do to survive on theOffshore Lights, love—to staynormal:eatatpropertimes;turnthepagesofthecalendar”—helaughed—“andkeepyourclobberon.Trustme,sweet.”

Blushing,sheretreatedtothecottageanddressedinseverallayers—camisoleandpetticoat,shift,cardigan,thenheavedonWellingtonbootsandwenttodiguppotatoeswithunnecessaryvigorinthesharpsunshine.

IsabelaskedTom,“Haveyougotamapoftheisland?”He smiled. “Afraid of getting lost?You’ve been here a fewweeks now.As

longasyougointheoppositedirectiontothewater,you’llgethomesoonerorlater.Andthelightmightgiveyouacluetoo.”

“Ijustwantamap.Theremustbeone.”“Ofcoursethereis.Therearechartsofthewholeareaifyouwantthem,but

I’mnotsurewhatgoodtheyaretoyou.There’snowheremuchyoucango.”“Justhumorme,husbandofmine,”shesaid,andkissedhischeek.Later that morning, Tom appeared in the kitchen with a large scroll, and

presented itwithmock ceremony to Isabel. “Yourwish ismy command,Mrs.Sherbourne.”

“Thank you,” she replied in the same tone. “Thatwill be all, fornow.Youmaygo,sir.”

A smile played onTom’s lips as he rubbedhis chin. “What are you up to,missie?”

“Neveryoumind!”For thenext fewdays, Isabelwentoffonexpeditionseachmorning,and in

the afternoon closed the door to the bedroom, even though Tom was safelyoccupiedwithhiswork.

Oneevening,aftershehaddriedthedinnerdishes,shefetchedthescrollandhandedittoTom.“Thisisforyou.”

“Thanks,love,”saidTom,whowasreadingadog-earedvolumeonthetyingofropeknots.Helookedupbriefly.“I’llputitbacktomorrow.”

“Butit’sforyou.”Tomlookedather.“It’sthemap,isn’tit?”Shegaveamischievousgrin.“Youwon’tknowuntilyoulook,willyou?”Tom unrolled the paper, to find it transformed. Little annotations had

appearedalloverit,togetherwithcoloredsketchesandarrows.HisfirstthoughtwasthatthemapwasCommonwealthpropertyandthattherewouldbehelltopaynextinspection.Newnameshadsprungupeverywhere.

“Well?” Isabel smiled. “It just seemed wrong that places weren’t calledanything.SoI’vegiventhemnames,see?”

The coves and the cliffs and the rocks and the grassy fields all bore finelettering, in which they were christened, as Paradise Pool had been: StormyCorner;TreacherousRock;ShipwreckBeach;TranquilCove;Tom’sLookout;Izzy’sCliff,andmanymore.

“IsupposeI’dneverthoughtofitasbeingseparateplaces.It’salljustJanustome,”Tomsaid,smiling.

“It’s a world of differences. Each place deserves a name, like rooms in a

house.”Tomrarelythoughtofthehouseintermsofroomseither.Itwasjust“home.”

Andsomethinginhimwassaddenedatthedissectionoftheisland,thesplittingoffintothegoodandthebad,thesafeandthedangerous.Hepreferredtothinkofitwhole.Evenmore,hewasuneasyaboutpartsbearinghisname.Janusdidnotbelongtohim:hebelongedtoit,likehe’dheardthenativesthoughtofland.Hisjobwasjusttotakecareofit.

He looked at his wife, who was smiling proudly at her handiwork. If shewanted togive thingsnames,maybe therewasnoharm in it.Andmaybe shewouldcometounderstandhiswayoflookingatit,eventually.

When Tom gets invitations to his Battalion reunions, he always writes back.Always sendsgoodwishes, andabitofmoney toward themess.Butheneverattends.Well,beingontheLights,hecouldn’tevenifhewantedto.Therearesome, he knows, who will take comfort in seeing a familiar face, re-telling astory. But he doesn’t want to join in. There were friends he lost—men he’dtrusted,foughtwith,drunkwith,andshiveredwith.Menheunderstoodwithouta word, knew as if they were an extension of his body. He thinks about thelanguage that bound them together: words that cropped up to covercircumstancesnoonehadeverencounteredbefore.A“pineapple,”a“pipsqueak,”a“plumpudding”:alltypesofshellwhichmightfindtheirwayintoyourtrench.Thelicewere“chats,”thefoodwas“scran,”anda“Blighty”wasawoundthat’dseeyou shippedback tohospital inEngland.Hewondershowmanymencanstillspeakthissecretlanguage.

Sometimeswhenhewakesupnext to Isabelhe’s still amazed,and relieved,thatsheisn’tdead.Hewatchescloselyforherbreath,justtomakesure.Thenheputshisheadagainstherbackandabsorbs the softnessofher skin, thegentleriseandfallofherbodyasshesleepson.It isasgreatamiracleashehaseverseen.

CHAPTER8

MaybeallthetimesinmylifeIcouldhavedonewithout,maybetheywereallatesttoseeifIdeservedyou,Izz.”

Theywere stretched on a blanket on the grass, threemonths after Isabel’sarrivalonJanus.TheAprilnightwasstillalmostwarm,andtinseledwithstars.Isabellaywithhereyesclosed,restinginthecrookofTom’sarmashestrokedherneck.

“You’remyotherhalfofthesky,”hesaid.“Ineverknewyouwereapoet!”“Oh,Ididn’tinventit.Ireaditsomewhere—aLatinpoem?AGreekmyth?

Somethinglikethat,anyway.”“Youandyourfancyprivate-schooleducation!”sheteased.ItwasIsabel’sbirthday,andTomhadcookedherbreakfastanddinner,and

watchedheruntiethebowonthewind-upgramophonewhichhehadconspiredwithRalphandBlueytoshipouttomakeupforthefactthatthepianohehadproudly shownherwhen shearrivedwasunplayable fromyearsofneglect.Allday shehad listened toChopin andBrahms, andnow the strains ofHandel’sMessiahwereringingfromthelighthouse,wheretheyhadsetituptoletitechointhenaturalsoundchamber.

“Ilovethewayyoudothat,”saidTom,watchingIsabel’sindexfingercoilalockofherhairintoaspring,thenreleaseitandstartwithanother.

Suddenly self-conscious, shesaid, “Oh,Masays it’sabadhabit. I’vealwaysdone it, apparently. Idon’t evennotice it.”Tomtooka strandofherhair andwounditaroundhisfinger,thenletitunfurllikeastreamer.

“Tellmeanothermyth,”Isabelsaid.Tom thought for a moment. “You know Janus is where the word January

comes from? It’s named after the same god as this island.He’s got two faces,backtoback.Prettyuglyfellow.”

“What’shegodof?”“Doorways. Always looking both ways, torn between two ways of seeing

things.Januarylooksforwardtothenewyearandbacktotheoldyear.Heseespast and future.And the island looks in thedirectionof twodifferent oceans,downtotheSouthPoleanduptotheEquator.”

“Yeah, I’d got that,” said Isabel. She pinched his nose and laughed. “Justteasing.Iloveitwhenyoutellmethings.Tellmemoreaboutthestars.Where’sCentaurusagain?”

Tomkissedherfingertipandstretchedherarmoutuntilhehadlineditupwiththeconstellation.“There.”

“Isthatyourfavorite?”“You’remyfavorite.Betterthanallthestarsputtogether.”Hemoveddowntokissherbelly. “I shouldsay, ‘You twoaremyfavorites,’

shouldn’tI?Orwhatifit’stwins?Ortriplets?”Tom’sheadroseandfellgentlywithIsabel’sbreathashelaythere.“Canyouhearanything?Isittalkingtoyouyet?”sheasked.“Yep, it’s saying I need to carry itsmum to bed before the night gets too

cold.” And he gathered his wife in his arms and carried her easily into thecottage,asthechoirinthelighthousedeclared,“ForuntousaChildisborn.”

Isabelhadbeensoproudtowritetohermotherwiththenewsoftheexpectedarrival.“Oh,IwishIcould—Idon’tknow,swimashoreorsomething,justtoletthem know.Waiting for the boat is killingme!” She kissedTom, and asked,“Shallwewritetoyourdad?Yourbrother?”

Tomstoodup,andbusiedhimselfwiththedishesonthedrainingboard.“Noneed,”wasallhesaid.

Hisexpression,uneasybutnotangry,toldIsabelnottopressthepoint,andshegentlytooktheteatowelfromhishand.“I’lldothislot,”shesaid.“You’vegotenoughtogetthrough.”

Tomtouchedhershoulder.“I’llgetsomemoredoneonyourchair,”hesaid,andattemptedasmileasheleftthekitchen.

Intheshed,helookedatthepiecesoftherockingchairhewasplanningtomake for Isabel.Hehad tried to remember theoneonwhichhisownmotherhad rocked him and told him stories.His body remembered the sensation ofbeing held by her—something lost to him for decades.He wondered if theirchildwould have amemory of Isabel’s touch, decades into the future. Such amysteriousbusiness,motherhood.Howbraveawomanmustbetoembarkonit,hethought,asheconsideredthepathofhisownmother’slife.YetIsabelseemed

utterlysingle-mindedaboutit.“It’snature,Tom.What’stheretobeafraidof?”

When he had finally tracked down his mother, he was twenty-one and justfinishinghisEngineeringdegree.Atlast,hewasinchargeofhisownlife.TheaddresstheprivatedetectivegavehimwasaboardinghouseinDarlinghurst.Hehad stoodoutside thedoor,hisgut awhirlofhope and terror, suddenly eightagain.Hecaughtthesoundsofotherdesperationsseepingoutunderthedoorsalongthenarrowwoodenpassage—aman’ssobsfromthenextroomandashoutof “We can’t go on like this!” from a woman, accompanied by a baby’sscreaming; somewhere further off, the fervent rhythm of a headboard as thewomanwholaybeforeitprobablyearnedherkeep.

Tomcheckedthepenciledscrawlonthepaper.Yes,therightroomnumber.Hescannedhismemoryagainforthelullaby-gentlesoundofhismother:“Ups-a-daisy,myyoungThomas.Shallweputabandageonthatscrape?”

His knockwent unanswered, and he tried again.Eventually, he turned thehandle tentatively, and the door gave no resistance. The unmistakable scentrushedtomeethim,butitwasasplitsecondbeforeherecognizeditastainted—withcheapboozeandcigarettes.Intheclosed-ingloomhesawanunmadebedandatattyarmchair,inshadesofbrown.Therewasacrackinthewindow,andasingleroseinavasehadlongagoshriveled.

“LookingforEllieSherbourne?”Thevoicebelongedtoawiry,baldingmanwhohadappearedatthedoorbehindhim.

It was so strange to hear her name spoken. And “Ellie”—he had neverimagined“Ellie.”“Mrs.Sherbourne,that’sright.Whenwillshebeback?”

Theman gave a snort. “She won’t.More’s the pity, ’cause she owesme amonth’srent.”

Itwasallwrong, thereality.Hecouldn’tmake it fitwiththepictureof thereunion he’d planned, dreamed of, for years.Tom’s pulse quickened. “Do youhaveaforwardingaddress?”

“Notwhereshe’sgone.Died threeweeksago. Iwas justcoming in toclearthelastofthestuffout.”

OfallthepossiblescenesTomhadimagined,nonehadendedlikethis.Hestoodcompletelystill.

“Youplanningonmoving?Ormovingin?”themanaskedsourly.Tom hesitated, then opened his wallet and took out five pounds. “For her

rent,”hesaidsoftly,andstrodedownthehallway,fightingtears.

ThethreadofhopeTomhadprotectedsolongwassnapped:onabackstreetinSydney,astheworldwasonthebrinkofwar.Withinamonthhe’denlisted,givinghisnextofkinashismother,atherboardinghouseaddress.Therecruitersweren’tfussyaboutdetails.

NowTomranhishandsovertheonepieceofwoodhehadlathed,andtriedtoimaginewhathemight say ina letter tohismother today, if shewerealive—howhemighttellherthenewsofthebaby.

Hetookupthetapemeasure,andturnedtothenextpieceofwood.

“Zebedee.”IsabellookedatTomwithapokerface,hermouthtwitchingjustatouchatthecorners.

“What?”heasked,pausingfromhistaskofrubbingherfeet.“Zebedee,”sherepeated,puttinghernosebackdowninthebooksothathe

couldnotcatchhereye.“You’renotserious?Whatkindofaname—”A wounded expression crossed her face. “That’s my great-uncle’s name.

ZebedeeZanzibarGraysmark.”Tom gave her a look, as she plowed on, “I promised Grandma on her

deathbedthatifIeverhadasonI’dcallhimafterherbrother.Ican’tgobackonapromise.”

“Iwasthinkingofsomethingabitmorenormal.”“Areyoucallingmygreat-uncleabnormal?”Isabelcouldn’tcontainherselfanylonger,andburstoutlaughing.“Gotyou!

Gotyougoodandproper!”“Littleminx!You’llbesorryyoudidthat!”“No,stop!Stop!”“Nomercy,”hesaid,ashetickledhertummyandherneck.“Isurrender!”“Toolateforthatnow!”Theywere lyingonthegrasswhere itgavewaytoShipwreckBeach.Itwas

lateafternoonandthesoftlightrinsedthesandinyellow.SuddenlyTomstopped.“What’s wrong?” asked Isabel, peeping out from under the long hair that

hungoverherface.Hestrokedthestrandsawayfromhereyes,andlookedatherinsilence.She

putahandtohischeek.“Tom?”“Itbowlsmeover,sometimes.Threemonthsagotherewasjustyouandme,

andnow,there’sthisotherlife,justturnedupoutofnowhere,like…”“Likeababy.”“Yes, likeababy,but it’smorethanthat,Izz.WhenIusedtositup inthe

lantern room, before you arrived, I’d think about what life was. I mean,compared to death…”He stoppedhimself. “I’m talking rubbishnow. I’ll shutup.”

Isabelputherhandunderhischin.“Youhardlyevertalkaboutthings,Tom.Tellme.”

“Ican’treallyputitintowords.Wheredoeslifecomefrom?”“Doesitmatter?”“Doesitmatter?”hequeried.“Thatit’samystery.Thatwedon’tunderstand.”“TherearetimesIwantedananswer.Icantellyouthatmuch.TimesIsawa

man’s lastbreath, and Iwanted to askhim, ‘Wherehave yougone?Youwerehere rightbesideme just a fewsecondsago, andnowsomebitsofmetalhavemadeholesinyourskin,becausetheyhityoufastenough,andsuddenlyyou’resomewhereelse.Howcanthatbe?’”

Isabelhuggedherkneeswithonearm,andwiththeotherhandpulledatthegrass besideher. “Do you thinkpeople remember this life,when they go?Doyou think in heaven, my grandma and granddad, say, are knocking aroundtogether?”

“Searchme,”Tomsaid.Withsuddenurgency,sheasked,“Whenwe’rebothdead,Tom,Godwon’t

keepusapart,willHe?He’llletusbetogether?”Tomheldher.“NowlookwhatI’vedone.Shouldhavekeptmysillymouth

shut.Comeon,wewereinthemiddleofchoosingnames.AndIwasjusttryingtorescueapoorbabyfromthefateoflifeasZebedeeblimmin’Zanzibar.Wherearewewithgirls’names?”

“Alice;Amelia;Annabel;April;Ariadne—”Tomraisedhiseyebrows.“Andshe’soffagain…‘Ariadne!’Hardenoughthat

she’sgoingto live ina lighthouse.Let’snot lumpherwithanamepeoplewilllaughat.”

“Onlytwohundredmorepagestogo,”saidIsabelwithagrin.“We’dbetterhoptoit,then.”

Thatevening,ashelookedoutfromthegallery,Tomreturnedtohisquestion.Wherehadthisbaby’ssoulbeen?Wherewoulditgo?Wherewerethesoulsofthemenwho’djokedandsalutedandtrudgedthroughthemudwithhim?

Here he was, safe and healthy, with a beautiful wife, and some soul haddecidedtojointhem.Outofthinair,inthefarthestcorneroftheearth,ababywascoming.He’dbeenondeath’sbooksforsolong,itseemedimpossiblethatlifewasmakinganentryinhisfavor.

Hewentbackintothelanternroom,andlookedagainatthephotographofIsabelthathungonthewall.Themysteryofitall.Themystery.

Tom’s other gift from the last boat was The Australian Mother’s Manual ofEfficientChild-Rearing,byDoctorSamuelB.Griffiths.Isabeltooktoreadingitatanyavailablemoment.

She fired informationatTom:“Didyouknowthatababy’skneecapsaren’tmadeofbone?”Or,“Howolddoyouthinkbabiesarewhentheycantakefoodfromateaspoon?”

“Noidea,Izz.”“Goon,guess!”“Honestly,howwouldIknow?”“Oh, you’re no fun!” she complained, and dived into the book for another

fact.Withinweeksthepageswerefrilly-edgedandblottedwithgrassstainsfrom

daysspentontheheadland.“You’rehavingababy,notsittingforanexam.”“Ijustwanttodothingsright.It’snotlikeIcanpopnextdoorandaskMum,

isit?”“Oh,IzzyBella.”Tomlaughed.“What?What’sfunny?”“Nothing.Nothingatall.Iwouldn’tchangeathingaboutyou.”Shesmiled,andkissedhim.“You’regoingtobeawonderfuldad,Iknow.”A

questioncametohereyes.“What?”promptedTom.“Nothing.”“No,really,what?”“Yourdad.Whydoyounevertalkabouthim?”“Nolovelostthere.”

“Butwhatwashelike?”Tomthoughtabout it.Howcouldhepossibly sumhimup?Howcouldhe

everexplainthelookinhiseyes,theinvisiblegapthatalwayssurroundedhim,sothat he never quitemade contact? “Hewas right.Always right.Didn’tmatterwhatitwasabout.Heknewtherulesandhestucktothem,comehellorhighwater.” Tom thought back to the straight, tall figure that overshadowed hischildhood.Hardandcoldasatomb.

“Washestrict?”Tomgaveabitterlaugh.“Strictdoesn’tbegintodescribeit.”Heputhishand

tohischinashespeculated.“Maybehejustwantedtomakesurehissonsdidn’tkickoverthetraces.We’dgetthestrapforanything.Well,I’dgetthestrapforanything.Cecilwouldalwaysbetheonetotellonme—gothimofflightly.”Helaughed again. “Tell youwhat, though:made army discipline easy. You neverknow what you’re going to be grateful for.” His face grew serious. “And Isupposeitmadeiteasierbeingoverthere,knowingthere’dbenoonewho’dbeheartbrokeniftheygotthetelegram.”

“Oh,Tom!Don’tevensaysuchathing!”Hedrewherheadintohischestandstrokedherhairinsilence.

Therearetimeswhentheoceanisnottheocean—notblue,notevenwater,butsomeviolentexplosionofenergyanddanger: ferocityona scaleonlygodscansummon. It hurls itself at the island, sending spray right over the top of thelighthouse,bitingpiecesoffthecliff.Andthesoundisaroaringofabeastwhoseangerknowsnolimits.Thosearethenightsthelightisneededmost.

In theworst of these stormsTom stayswith the light all night if need be,keepingwarmby thekeroseneheater,pouring sweet tea froma thermos flask.He thinks about thepoorbastardsouton the ships andhe thanksChristhe’ssafe.Hewatches fordistress flares, keeps thedinghy ready for launch, thoughwhatgooditwoulddoinseaslikethat,whoknows.

ThatMay night, Tom sat with a pencil and notebook in hand, adding upfigures.His annual salarywas £327.Howmuchdid a pair of children’s shoescost? FromwhatRalph said, kids got through them at a rate of knots. Thentherewere clothes.And schoolbooks.Of course, if he stayed on theOffshoreLights, Isabel would teach the kids at home. But on nights like this, hewondered if it was fair to inflict this life on anyone, let alone children. ThethoughtwasnudgedoutbythewordsofJackThrossel,oneofthekeepersback

East.“Bestlifeintheworldforkids,Iswear,”hehadtoldTom.“Allsixofmineare right as rain. Always up to games and mischief: exploring caves, makingcubbies.Aproper gangofpioneers.And theMissusmakes sure theydo theirlessons.Takeitfromme—raisingkidsonalightstation’saseasyaswink!”

Tomwentbacktohiscalculations:howhecouldsaveabitmore,makesuretherewasenoughputbyforclothesanddoctorsand—Lordknewwhatelse.Theideathathewasgoingtobeafathermadehimnervousandexcitedandworried.

Ashisminddriftedbacktomemoriesofhisownfather,thestormthunderedaboutthelight,deafeningTomtoanyothersoundthatnight.DeafeninghimtothecriesofIsabel,callingforhishelp.

CHAPTER9

ShallIgetyouacupoftea?”Tomasked,ataloss.Hewasapracticalman:givehim a sensitive technical instrument, and he could maintain it; somethingbroken, and he couldmend it,meditatively, efficiently. But confronted by hisgrievingwife,hefeltuseless.

Isabeldidnotlookup.Hetriedagain.“SomeVincent’sPowders?”Thefirstaidtaughttolightkeepersincluded“restoringtheapparentlydrowned,”treatinghypothermia and exposure, disinfecting wounds; even the rudiments ofamputation.Theydidnot,however,touchongynecology,andthemechanicsofmiscarriagewereamysterytoTom.

Ithadbeentwodayssincethedreadfulstorm.Twodayssincethemiscarriagehadbegun.Still the blood came, and still Isabel refused to letTom signal forhelp. Having stayed on watch throughout that wild night, he had finallyreturnedtothecottageafterputtingoutthelightjustbeforedawn,andhisbodybeggedforsleep.ButenteringthebedroomhehadfoundIsabeldoubledup,thebedsoakedinblood.ThelookinhereyeswasasdesolateasTomhadeverseen.“I’mso,sosorry,”shehadsaid.“So,sosorry,Tom.”Thenanotherwaveofpaingrippedherandshegroaned,andpressedherhandstoherbelly,desperateforittostop.

Now she said, “What’s the point in a doctor? The baby’s gone.”Her gazewandered. “Howhopeless am I?” shemuttered. “Otherwomenhave babies aseasyasfallingoffalog.”

“IzzyBella,stop.”“It’smyfault,Tom.Itmustbe.”“That’sjustnottrue,Izz.”Hedrewherintohischestandkissedherhairover

andover.“There’llbeanother.Onedaywhenwe’vegotfivekidsrunningaroundand getting under your feet, this’ll all feel like a dream.”He pulled her shawlaroundhershoulders.“It’sbeautifuloutside.Comeandsitontheveranda.It’lldoyougood.”

Theysatsidebysideinwickerarmchairs,Isabelcoveredwithabluechecked

blanket,andwatchedtheprogressofthesunacrossthelate-autumnsky.Isabelrecalledhowshehadbeenstruckbytheemptinessofthisplace,likea

blankcanvas,whenshefirstarrived;how,gradually,shehadcometoseeintoitas Tom did, attuning to the subtle changes. The clouds, as they formed andgroupedandwanderedthesky;theshapeofthewaves,whichwouldtaketheircuefromthewindandtheseasonandcould,ifyouknewhowtoreadthem,tellyouthenextday’sweather.Shehadbecomefamiliar,too,withthebirdswhichappearedfromtimetotime,againstallodds—carriedalongasrandomlyastheseedsborneonthewind,ortheseaweedthrownupontheshore.

Shelookedatthetwopinetreesandsuddenlyweptattheiraloneness.“Thereshouldbeforests,”shesaidsuddenly.“Imissthetrees,Tom.Imisstheirleavesand their smell and the fact there are somanyof them—oh,Tom, Imiss theanimals:Ibloodymisskangaroos!Imissitall.”

“Iknowyoudo,Izzy,darl.”“Butdon’tyou?”“You’re theonly thing in thisworld that Iwant, Izz, andyou’re righthere.

Everythingelsewillsortitselfout.Justgiveittime.”

Asheer,velvetveilcoveredeverything,nomatterhowdutifullyIsabeldusted—herweddingphotograph; thepictureofHughandAlfie in their uniforms theweek they joinedup in1916,grinningas if they’d justbeen invited toaparty.Not the tallest lads in theAIF, but keen asmustard, and so dashing in theirbrand-newslouchhats.

Hersewingboxwasasneatas itneededtobe, rather thanpristine likehermother’s. Needles and pins pierced the cushioned pale-green lining, and thepanelsofachristeninggownlayun-united,stoppedinmid-stitchlikeabrokenclock.

ThesmallstringofpearlsTomhadgivenherasaweddinggiftsatintheboxhehadmadeforher.Herhairbrushandtortoiseshellcombsweretheonlyotherthingsonherdressingtable.

Isabelwandered into the lounge room, observing thedust, the crack in theplasternearthewindowframe,thefrayededgeofthedarkbluerug.Thehearthneeded sweeping, and the lining of the curtains had begun to shred fromconstant exposure to extremes of weather. Simply to think of fixing any of ittookmoreenergythanshecouldmuster.Onlyweeksagoshehadbeensofullofexpectationandvigor.Nowtheroomfeltlikeacoffin,andherlifestoppedatits

edges.She opened the photograph album her mother had prepared for her as a

going-away present, with the pictures of her as a child, the name of thephotographer’s studio,Gutcher’s, stampedon the backof eachportrait.Therewasoneofherparentsontheirweddingday;aphotographofhome.Shetrailedherfingeroverthetable,lingeringonthelacedoilyhergrandmotherhadmadeforherowntrousseau.Shemovedtothepiano,andopenedit.

The walnut was split in places. The gold leaf above the keyboard saidEavestaff, London. She had often imagined its journey to Australia, and theotherlivesitcouldhavelived—inanEnglishhouse,oraschool,saggingunderthe burden of imperfect scales played by small, stumbling fingers perhaps, orevenonastage.Yet throughthemostunlikelyofcircumstances, its lotwas toliveonthisisland,itsvoicestolenbylonelinessandtheweather.

ShepressedmiddleC,soslowlythatitmadenosound.Thewarmivorykeywas as smooth as her grandmother’s fingertips, and the touch brought backafternoons ofmusic lessons, ofwringing outA flatmajor in contrarymotion,oneoctave,thentwo,thenthree.ThesoundofthecricketballonthewoodasHugh and Alfie larked about outside while she, a “little lady,” acquired“accomplishments,” and listened as her grandmother explained again theimportanceofkeepingherwristsraised.

“Butit’sstupid,contrarymotion!”Isabelwouldwail.“Well, you’d know all about contrary motion, my dear,” her grandmother

remarked.“Can’tIplaycricket,Gran?JustabitandthenI’llcomeback.”“Cricket’snogameforagirl.Now,comeon.TheChopinétude,”shewould

breeze on, opening a book tattooed with pencil marks and small smudged-chocolatefingerprints.

Isabelstrokedthekeyagain.Shefeltasuddenlonging,notjustforthemusic,butforthattimewhenshecouldhaverushedoutside,hitchedupherskirt,andstood as wicketkeeper for her brothers. She pressed the other keys, as if theymightbringthedayback.Buttheonlysoundwasthemuffledclackofthewoodagainstthebaseofthekeyboard,wherethefelthadwornaway.

“What’sthepoint?”sheshruggedtoTomashecamein.“It’shadit,Ireckon.Justlikeme,”andshestartedtocry.

Dayslater,thetwoofthemstoodbesidethecliff.

Tomhammered the small crosshehadmade fromsomedriftwood,until itwas secure in the ground.Athiswife’s requesthehad carved, “31May1922.Rememberedalways.”

Hetooktheshovelanddugaholefortherosemarybushshehadmovedfromtheherbgarden.Hecouldfeelnausearisinginhimasasparkofmemoryarcedbetweenthehammeringofthecrossanddiggingofthehole.Hispalmssweated,thoughthetaskrequiredlittlephysicaleffort.

IsabelwatchedfromhighonthecliffastheWindwardSpiritdockedonitsnextrun.RalphandBlueywouldmaketheirwayupsoonenough.Noneedtogotogreet them.They slung thegangplankdown, and toher surprise, a thirdmandisembarkedwiththem.Nomaintenancecrewsweredue.

Tom came up the path while the other three lingered at the jetty. Thestranger,whocarriedablackbag,seemedtobehavingsomedifficultyrightinghimselfafterthejourney.

Isabel’sfacewastightwithangerasTomapproached.“Howdareyou!”Tomreeled.“HowdareI?”“I toldyounot toandyouwentaheadanyway!Wellyoucan just sendhim

back.Don’tbotherlettinghimuphere.He’snotwanted.”Isabelalwayslookedlikeachildwhenshewasangry.Tomwantedtolaugh,

andhisgrininfuriatedherevenmore.Sheputherhandsonherhips.“ItoldyouI didn’t need a doctor, but you went behind my back. I’m not having himproddingandpokingabouttotellmenothingIdon’talreadyknow.Youshouldbeashamedofyourself!Well,youcanlookafterthem,thewholelotofthem.”

“Izzy,”Tomcalled. “Izzy,wait!Don’tdo your ’nana, love.He’snot…”Butshewasalreadytoofarofftoheartherestofhiswords.

“Well?” askedRalph as he reachedTom. “Howdid she take it?Pleased asPunch,Ibet!”

“Notexactly.”Tomstuffedhisfistsinhispockets.“But…”Ralphlookedathiminamazement.“Ithoughtshe’dberealchuffed.

IttookallFreda’scharmstopersuadehimtocome,andmywifedoesn’tusehercharmsfreely!”

“She…”Tomconsideredwhethertoexplain.“Shegotthewrongendofthestickaboutit.Sorry.She’schuckedawobbly.Onceshedoesthat,allyoucandois batten down the hatches and wait for it to pass. Means I’ll be makingsandwichesforlunch,I’mafraid.”

Blueyandthemanapproached,andaftertheintroductions,thefourofthemwentinside.

IsabelsatinthegrassnearthecoveshehadchristenedTreacherous,andseethed.She hated this—the fact that your dirty washing had to be everybody else’sbusiness.ShehatedthefactthatRalphandBlueyhadtoknow.They’dprobablyspentthewholetripoutdiscussinghermostprivateshameandLordknewwhatelse.ThatTomcouldshipthedoctoroutagainstherexplicitwishes felt likeabetrayal.

Shesatwatchingthewater,howthebreezefluffedupthewaveswhichhadbeenso smoothandcurledearlier in theday.Hourspassed.Shegrewhungry.She grew sleepy.But she refused to go near the cottagewhile the doctorwasthere. She concentrated instead on her surroundings. Noticing the texture ofeach leaf, theprecisegreenof it.Listening to all thedifferentpitchesofwindand water and birds. She heard a foreign sound: an insistent note, short,repeated.Comingfromthelight?Fromthecottage?Itwasnottheusualclangofmetal fromtheworkshop.Sheheard it again, this timeatadifferentpitch.The wind on Janus had a way of raking sounds into separate frequencies,distorting themas theycrossed the island.Twogulls came to landnearbyandsquabbleoverafish,andthenoise,faintatbest,waslost.

She went back to her mulling, until she was arrested by an unmistakablesoundcarriedontheshiftingair.Itwasascale:imperfect,butthepitchgettingbettereachtime.

ShehadneverheardRalphorBlueymention thepiano, andTomcouldn’tplay for toffee. Itmust be thewretched doctor, determined to put his fingerswhere theywerenotwanted.Shehadneverbeenable togeta tuneoutof thepiano,andnowitseemedtobesinging.Isabel’sfurydroveherupthepath,readytobanishtheintruderfromtheinstrument,fromherbody,fromherhome.

She passed the outbuildings, where Tom, Ralph and Bluey were stackingsacksofflour.

“Afternoon,Isab—”Ralphattempted,butshemarchedpasthimandintothehouse.

Shebarged into the lounge room. “If youdon’tmind, that’s a verydelicateinstru—” she began, but got no further, flummoxed by the sight of the pianocompletelystrippeddown,aboxoftoolsopen,andthestrangerturningthenutaboveoneofthebasscopperwireswithatinyspannerashehititscorresponding

key.“Mummifiedseagull.That’syourproblem,”hesaid,withoutlookingaround.

“Well,oneofthem.Thatandagoodtwentyyears’worthofsandandsaltandGodknowswhat.OnceI’vereplacedsomeofthefeltsit’llstarttosoundbetter.”Hecontinuedtotapthekeyandturnthespannerashespoke.“I’veseenallsortsinmytime.Deadrats.Sandwiches.Astuffedcat.Icouldwriteabookaboutthethingsthatendupinsideapiano,thoughIcouldn’ttellyouhowtheygetthere.I’mbettingtheseagulldidn’tflyinbyitself.”

Isabelwassotakenabackthatshecouldn’tspeak.Hermouthwasstillopenwhenshefeltahandonhershoulder,andturnedtofindTom.Sheflusheddeepred.

“Somuchforsurprises,eh?”hesaid,andkissedhercheek.“Well…Well,itwas…”Isabel’svoicetrailedoff.Heslippedahandaroundherwaistandthetwoofthemstoodforamoment,

foreheadtouchingforehead,beforebreakingintolaughter.She sat for thenext twohours,watching the tuner as he coaxed a brighter

sound,gettingthenotestoringoutonceagain,louderthaneverbefore,andhefinishedwithaburstoftheHallelujahChorus.

“I’vedonemybest,Mrs.Sherbourne,”he said ashepacked awayhis tools.“Reallyneedstocomeintotheworkshop,butthetripoutandbackwoulddoasmuchharmasgood.She’snotperfect,byalongchalk,butshe’lldo.”Hepulledthepianostoolout.“Caretogiveitaburl?”

Isabel sat at the keyboard, and played the A flat major scale in contrarymotion.

“Well, that’s a sight better than before!” she said. She broke into thebeginningsofaHandelariaandwaswanderingoffintomemorywhensomeoneclearedhisthroat.ItwasRalph,standingbehindBlueyinthedoorway.

“Don’tstop!”Blueysaid,assheturnedtogreetthem.“Iwassorude.I’msorry!”shesaid,abouttogetup.“Not a bit of it,” said Ralph. “And here. FromHilda,” he said, producing

frombehindhisbacksomethingtiedwitharedribbon.“Oh!ShallIopenitnow?”“You’dbetter! If I don’t giveher a blow-by-blow report, I’ll neverhear the

endofit!”IsabelopenedthewrappingandfoundBach’sGoldbergVariations.“Tomreckonsyoucanplaythissortofcaperwithyoureyesshut.”“Ihaven’tplayedthemforyears.But—oh,Ijustlovethem!Thankyou!”She

huggedRalphandkissedhischeek.“Andyoutoo,Bluey,”shesaidwithakissthataccidentallycaughthislipsasheturned.

Heblushedviolentlyandlookedattheground.“Ineverhadmuchtodowithit,Idon’treckon,”hesaid,butTomprotested.

“Don’t believe a word of it.He drove all theway toAlbany to fetch him.Tookhimthewholedayyesterday.”

“Inthatcase,yougetanextrakiss,”shesaid,andplantedanotheronhisothercheek.

“Andyoutoo!”shesaid,kissingthepianotunerforgoodmeasure.

Thatnightashecheckedthemantle,TomwasserenadedbyBach,theorderlynotesclimbingthestairsofthelighthouseandringingaroundthelanternroom,flittering between the prisms. Just like the mercury that made the light goaround, Isabel was—mysterious. Able to cure and to poison; able to bear thewholeweightofthelight,butcapableoffracturingintoathousanduncatchableparticles,runningoffinalldirections,escapingfromitself.Hewentoutontothegallery.As the lights of theWindwardSpirit disappearedover thehorizon,hesaidasilentprayerforIsabel,andfortheirlifetogether.Thenheturnedtothelogbook and wrote, in the “remarks” column for Wednesday, 13 September,1922,“Visitperstoreboat:ArchiePollock,pianotuner.Priorapprovalgranted.”

PARTTWO

CHAPTER10

27thApril1926

Isabel’slipswerepaleandhereyesdowncast.Shestillplacedherhandfondlyonherstomachsometimes,beforeitsflatnessremindedheritwasempty.Andstill,her blouses bore occasional patches from the last of the breast milk that hadcome in so abundantly in the first days, a feast for an absent guest.Then shewouldcryagain,asthoughthenewswerefresh.

Shestoodwithsheetsinherhands:choresdidn’tstop,justasthelightdidn’tstop. Having made the bed and folded her nightgown under the pillow, sheheadeduptothecliff,tositbythegravesawhile.Shetendedthenewonewithgreatcare,wonderingwhetherthefledglingrosemarywouldtake.Shepulledafewweedsfromaroundthetwooldercrosses,nowfinelycrystalledwithyearsofsalt,therosemarygrowingdoggedlydespitethegales.

Whenababy’s crycame toheron thewind, she looked instinctively to thenewgrave.Beforelogiccouldinterfere,therewasamomentwhenhermindtoldherithadallbeenamistake—thislastchildhadnotbeenstillbornearly,butwaslivingandbreathing.

Theillusiondissolved,butthecrydidnot.ThenTom’scallfromthegallery—“On thebeach!Aboat!”—toldher thiswasnot adream, and shemovedasquicklyasshecouldtojoinhimonthewaytothedinghy.

Themaninitwasdead,butTomfishedascreamingbundleoutofthebow.“Bloodyhell!”heexclaimed.“Bloodyhell,Izzy.It’s—”“Ababy!OhmyLordabove!OhTom!Tom!Here—giveittome!”

Back inthecottage,Isabel’sbellyquickenedat theverysightof thebaby—herarmsknewinstinctivelyhowtoholdthechildandcalmher,sootheher.Asshescoopedwarmwaterovertheinfant,sheregisteredthefreshnessofherskin,tautand soft andwithout awrinkle. Shekissed eachof the tiny fingertips in turn,

gentlynibblingdownthenailsafractionsothechildwouldnotscratchherself.She cupped the baby’s head in the palm of her hand, and with the silkhandkerchief shekept forbest,dabbedawaya fine crustofmucus fromunderhernostrils,andwipedthedriedsaltoftearsfromaroundhereyes.Themomentseemedtomergeintoonewithanotherbathing,anotherface—asingleactthathadmerelybeeninterrupted.

Looking into those eyes was like looking at the face ofGod.Nomask orpretense: the baby’s defenselessness was overwhelming. That this intricatecreature,thisexquisitecraftingofbloodandbonesandskin,couldhavefounditsway to her,washumbling.That she couldhave arrivednow,barely twoweeksafter…Itwas impossible to see itasmerechance.Frailasa fallingsnowflake,the baby could so easily havemelted into oblivionhad the currents not borneher,arrow-trueandsafe,toShipwreckBeach.

Inaplacebeforewords,insomeotherlanguageofcreaturetocreature,withthe softening of her muscles, the relaxing of her neck, the baby signaled hertrust.Havingcomesoclosetothehandsofdeath, lifenowfusedwithlife likewatermeetswater.

Isabelwasawashwithemotions:awe,atthegripoftheminiaturehandswhenthey latched onto a single finger of her own; amusement, at the sweet littlebottomwhichwasyettobecomefullydistinctfromthelegs;reverence,forthebreathwhich drew in the air around and transformed it into blood, into soul.Andbelowallofthesehummedthedark,emptyache.

“Look, you’ve made me cry, my poppet,” said Isabel. “However did youmanage that?You tiny little,perfect little thing.”She lifted thebaby from thebathlikeasacredoffering,laidheronasoft,whitetowel,andbegantodabherdry, likeblottinginksoasnottosmudgeit—asthoughifshewerenotcarefulshecoulderase italtogether.Thebaby laypatientlywhileshewasdustedwithtalcum,anewnappypinned.Isabeldidnothesitateasshewenttothechestofdrawers in thenurseryandchose fromthevariousunworngarments.She tookout a yellow dresswith ducklings on the bodice, and fitted the child carefullyintoit.

Hummingalullaby,skippingbarshereandthere,sheopenedthepalmofthetiny hand and considered its lines: there from the moment of birth—a pathalreadymapped,whichhadbroughtherhere,tothisshore.“Oh,mybeautiful,beautiful little thing,” she said. But the exhausted baby was now fast asleep,takingsmall,shallowbreaths;occasionallygivingashiver.Isabelheldherinonearmasshewentaboutputtingasheetintothecot,shakingouttheblanketshe

hadcrochetedfromsoftlambs’wool.Shecouldnotquitebringherselftoputthebabydown—notjustyet.Inaplacefarbeyondawareness,thefloodofchemicalswhichuntilsorecentlyhadbeenpreparingherbodyformotherhood,conspiredtoengineerher feelings,guidehermuscles. Instinctswhichhadbeen thwartedrushedbacktolife.Shetookthebabyintothekitchenandrestedheronherlapasshesearchedthroughthebookofbabies’names.

A lightkeeper accounts for things. Every article in the light station is listed,stored, maintained, inspected. No item escapes official scrutiny. The DeputyDirectorofLightslaysclaimtoeverythingfromthetubesfortheburnerstotheink for the logs, from the brooms in the cupboard to the boot scraper by thedoor.Each is documented in the leather-boundRegister ofEquipment—eventhesheepandthegoats.Nothingisthrownaway,nothingisdisposedofwithoutformalapprovalfromFremantleor,ifitisverycostly,Melbourne.Lordhelpthekeeperwhoisdownaboxofmantlesoragallonofoilandcannotexplainit.Nomatter how remote their lives, likemoths in a glass case, the lightkeepers arepinneddown,scrutinized,powerlesstoescape.Youcan’ttrusttheLightstojustanyone.

The logbook tells the tale of the keeper’s life in the same steady pen.Theexact minute the light was lit, the exact minute it was put out the followingmorning. The weather, the ships that passed. Those that signaled, those thatinchedbyona squally sea, too intentondealingwith thewaves tobreak intoMorseor—stillsometimes—internationalcode,aboutwheretheycamefromorwhere theywere bound.Once in awhile, a keepermight have a little joke tohimself, decorating the start of a new month with a scroll or a curlicue. HemightcraftilyrecordthattheInspectorofLightshasconfirmedhislong-serviceleave,onthebasisthatthere’snonay-sayingwhat’swrittenthere.Butthat’sasfaraslibertiesaretaken.Thelogisthegospeltruth.Janusisn’taLloydsstation:it’snotonetheshipsdependonforforecasts,soonceTomclosesthepagesonthebook,itisunlikelythatanyeyeswillglanceatitagain,perhapsever.Buthefeels a particular peace when he writes. The wind is still measured using thesystem from the age of sail: “calm (0–2, sufficient wind for working ships)” to“hurricane(12—nosailcanstand,evenrunning).”Herelishesthelanguage.Whenhethinksbacktothechaos,theyearsofmanipulatingfacts,ortheimpossibilityof knowing, let alone describing, what the bloody hell was going on whileexplosionsshatteredthegroundallaroundhim,heenjoystheluxuryofstatinga

simpletruth.

ItwasthereforethelogbookthatfirstplayedonTom’smindthatdaytheboatarrived. Itwas secondnature tohim to report any little thing thatmighthavesignificance, bound not only by the rules of his employment, but byCommonwealthlaw.Hisinformationmightbeonlyonetinypieceofapuzzle,apiecehealonecouldcontribute,anditwasvitalthathedoso.Adistressflare,awispofsmokeonthehorizon,abitofmetalwashedupthatmightturnouttobewreckage—allwererecordedinhissteady,efficienthand,thelettersslopinggentlyandevenlyforward.

Hesatatthedeskbelowthelanternroom,hisfountainpenwaitingfaithfullytoreport theday.Amanwasdead.Peopleshouldbenotified; inquiriesmade.Hedrewmoreinkintothepen,eventhoughitwasalmostfull.Hecheckedbackoverafewdetailsonpreviouspages,thenwenttotheveryfirstentryhehadeverrecorded, that grayWednesday he had arrived on Janus six years before. Thedayshadfollowedliketheriseandfallofthetidessincethen,andthroughallofthem—whenhewasdog-tiredfromurgentrepairs,oronwatchallnightduringastorm,orwonderingwhatthehellhewasdoingthere,eventhedesperatedaysofIsabel’smiscarriages—therewasneveronewhenputtinginktothepagemadehimsouneasy.Butshehadbeggedhimtowaitaday.

His thoughts revisited the afternoon just two weeks earlier when he hadreturned from fishing, to be greeted by Isabel’s cries. “Tom! Tom, quick!”Runningintothecottage,hehadfoundherlyingonthekitchenfloor.

“Tom!Something’swrong.”Shewasgroaningbetweenwords. “It’scoming!Thebaby’scoming.”

“Areyousure?”“Of course I’mnot sure!” she spat. “Idon’t knowwhat’s goingon! I just—

Oh,sweetJesus,Tom,ithurts!”“Letmehelpyouup,”heurged,kneelingdownbesideher.“No!Don’tmoveme.” Shewas panting, battling the pain for each breath,

moaningthephrases.“Ithurtstoomuch.OhGodmakethisstop!”shecried,asbloodseepedthroughherdressandontothefloor.

Thiswasdifferent frombefore—Isabelwasnearly sevenmonths along, andTom’spreviousexperiencewasoflittlehelp.“Tellmewhattodo,Izz.Whatdoyouwantmetodo?”

Shewasfumblingaboutherclothes,tryingtogetherbloomersoff.

Tomliftedherhipsandpulledthemdownandoverheranklesasshestartedtomoanmoreloudly,twistingthiswayandthat,hercriesringingoutovertheisland.

Thelaborwasasquickasitwasearly,andTomwatchedhelplessasababy—itwasunmistakablyababy,hisbaby—emergedfromIsabel’sbody.Itwasbloodyandsmall:amocking, scalemodelof the infant theyhadso longbeenwaitingfor, drowned in a wash of blood and tissue and mess from the woman sounpreparedforitsarrival.

Aboutafootlongfromheadtotoe:noheavierthanabagofsugar.Itmadenomovement,utterednosound.Hehelditinhishands,tornbetweenwonderandhorror,notknowingwhathewassupposedtodo,orfeel.

“Givehertome!”Isabelscreamed.“Givememybaby!Letmeholdher!”“Alittleboy,”wasallTomcouldthinkoftosay,ashehandedthewarmbody

tohiswife.“Itwasalittleboy.”Thewindhadkeptup its sullenhowl.The late-afternoonsuncontinuedto

shine in through thewindow, laying a blanket of bright goldover thewomanandheralmost-baby.Theoldclockonthekitchenwallstillclickeditsminuteswithfussypunctuality.A lifehadcomeandgoneandnaturehadnotpausedasecond for it. The machine of time and space grinds on, and people are fedthroughitlikegristthroughthemill.

Isabelhadmanagedtositupa littleagainstthewall,andshesobbedatthesight of the diminutive form, which she had dared to imagine as bigger, asstronger—a child of this world. “My baby my baby my baby my baby,” shewhispered likeamagic incantation thatmight resuscitatehim.The faceof thecreature was solemn, a monk in deep prayer, eyes closed, mouth sealed shut:alreadybackinthatworldfromwhichhehadapparentlybeenreluctanttostray.

Still theofficioushandsof the clock tutted theirway around.Half anhourhadpassedandIsabelhadsaidnothing.

“I’llgetyouablanket.”“No!”Shegrabbedhishand.“Don’tleaveus.”Tomsatbesideher,hisarmaroundhershouldersas shesobbedagainsthis

chest.Thebloodhadstartedtodryattheedgesofthepoolsonthefloor.Death,blood,comfortingthewounded—allwerefamiliar.Butnotlikethis:awoman,ababy; no explosions or mud. Everything else was exactly as it should be: thewillow-patternplates stoodneatly in thedishdrainer; the tea towelhungovertheovendoor.ThecakeIsabelhadmadethatmorninglayupsidedownonthecoolingrack,thetinstillcoveredwithadampcloth.

Afterawhile,Tomsaid,“Whatshallwedo?Withthe—withhim?”Isabellookedatthecoldcreatureinherarms.“Lightthechipheater.”Tomglancedather.“Lightit,please.”Still confused,butwaryofupsettingher,Tomrose tohis feet andwent to

lightthewaterheater.Whenhereturned,shesaid,“Fillthelaundrytub.Whenthewater’swarm.”

“IfyouwantabathI’llcarryyou,Izz.”“Notforme.Ihavetowashhim.Theninthelinencupboard,therearethe

goodsheets—theonesIembroidered.Willyoubringone?”“Izz,love,there’llbetimeforallthat.You’rewhatmattersmostrightnow.I’ll

goandsignal.Getaboatsentout.”“No!”Hervoicewasfierce.“No!Idon’twant—Idon’twantanyoneelsehere.

Idon’twantanyoneelsetoknow.Notyet.”“But sweet, you’ve lost somuchblood.You’rewhite as aghost.We should

getadoctoroutheretotakeyouback.”“Thetub,Tom.Please?”

Whenthewaterwaswarm,TomfilledthemetaltubandloweredittothefloorbesideIsabel.Hehandedhera flannel.Shedippedit inthewater,andgently,gently,withtheclothcoveringherfingertip,begantostroketheface,smoothingawaythewaterybloodthatcoveredthetranslucentskin.Thebabystayedathisprayers, lockedinsomesecretconversationwithGod,asshe loweredtheclothinto the water to rinse it. She squeezed it and began again, watching closely,perhapshopingthattheeyesmightflicker,ortheminusculefingerstwitch.

“Izz,”Tomsaidsoftly,touchingherhair,“you’vegottolistentomenow.I’mgoingtomakeyousometea,withalotofsugarinit,andIneedyoutodrinkitforme,allright?AndI’mgoingtogetablankettoputoveryou.AndI’mgoingtocleanthingsuphereabit.Youdon’thavetogoanywhere,butyouhavetoletmetakecareofyounow.Noarguments.I’mgoingtogiveyousomemorphinetabletsforthepain,andsomeironpills,andyou’regoingtotakethemforme.”Hisvoicewasgentleandcalm,simplyrecitingsomefacts.

Transfixedbyritual,Isabelcontinuedtodabawayatthebody,theumbilicalcord still attached to the afterbirthon the floor.Shehardly raisedherheadasTomdraped a blanket overher shoulders.He camebackwith a bucket and acloth,andonhishandsandknees,startedtospongeupthebloodandmess.

Isabelloweredthebodyintothebathtowashit,takingcarenottosubmergetheface.Shedrieditwiththetowel,andwrappeditinafreshone,stillwiththeplacenta,sothatitwasbounduplikeapapoose.

“Tom,willyouspreadthesheetonthetable?”Hemoved the cake tin aside and laidout the embroidered sheet, folded in

half. Isabel handed him the bundle. “Lay him down on it,” she said, and herestedthelittlebodythere.

“Nowweneedto lookafteryou,” saidTom.“There’s stillhotwater.Comeand let’s get you clean. Come on, lean on me. Slowly does it now. Slowly,slowly.”Thickdropsofscarletsplashedatrailasheledherfromthekitchenintothe bathroom,where this time itwas hewho dabbed her facewith a flannel,rinsingitinthebasin,andstartingagain.

Anhourlater,inacleannightgown,herhairtiedbackinaplait,Isabellayinbed.AsTomstrokedherface,sheeventuallysurrenderedtoexhaustionandthemorphine tablets. Back in the kitchen, he finished cleaning up, and put thesoiledlinenintothelaundrytroughtosoak.Asdarknessfell,hesatatthetableand lit the lamp.He said a prayer over the little body.The vastness, the tinybody, eternity and theclock that accused the timeofpassing: it allmadeevenlesssenseherethanithadinEgyptorFrance.Hehadseensomanydeaths.Buttherewassomethingaboutthequietnessofthisone:asthough,intheabsenceofthegunfireandtheshouting,hewereobservingitunobscuredforthefirsttime.The men he had accompanied to the border of life would be mourned by amother, but on the battlefield, the loved ones were far away and beyondimagining.Toseeachildtornawayfromhismotherattheverymomentofbirth—tornawayfromtheonlywomanintheworldTomcaredabout—wasamoredreadful kind of pain.He glanced again at the shadows cast by the baby, andbesideit,thecakecoveredwiththecloth,likeashroudedtwin.

“Notyet,Tom.I’lltellthemwhenI’mready,”Isabelhadinsistedthefollowingday,asshelayinbed.

“Butyourmumanddad—they’llwanttoknow.They’reexpectingyouhomeonthenextboat.They’reexpectingtheirfirstgrandchild.”

Isabel had looked at him, helpless. “Exactly! They’re expecting their firstgrandchild,andI’velosthim.”

“They’llbeworriedforyou,Izz.”“Then why upset them? Please, Tom. It’s our business. My business. We

don’t have to tell the whole world about it. Let them have their dream a bitlonger.I’llsendaletterwhentheboatcomesagaininJune.”

“Butthat’sweeksaway!”“Tom,Ijustcan’t.”Ateardroppedonhernightgown.“Atleastthey’llhavea

fewmorehappyweeks…”So,hehadgivenintoherwish,andletthelogbookstaysilent.But thatwasdifferent—itwas a personalmatter.The arrival of thedinghy

leftno such leeway.Nowhebeganby recording the steamerhehad seen thatmorning,theManchesterQueenboundforCapeTown.Thenhenotedthecalmconditions, the temperature, andputdownhispen.Tomorrow.Hewould tellthewholestoryoftheboat’sarrivaltomorrow,oncehehadsentthesignal.Hepausedforamomenttoconsiderwhethertoleaveaspacesothathecouldcomeback and fill it in, or whether it was best simply to imply that the boat hadarrivedlaterthanithad.Heleftaspace.Hewouldsignalinthemorningandsaythattheyhadbeentoopreoccupiedwiththebabytomakecontactsooner.Thelog would tell the truth, but a bit late. Just one day. He caught sight of hisreflectionintheglassoverthe“NoticeundertheLighthousesAct1911”whichhungonthewall,andforamomentdidnotrecognizethefacehesawthere.

“I’m not exactly an expert in this department,” Tom said to Isabel on theafternoonofthebaby’sarrival.

“Andyouneverwillbeifyoustandaroundlikethat.IjustneedyoutoholdherwhileIcheckthebottle’swarmenough.Comeon.Shewon’tbite,”shesaid,smiling.“Notfornow,atanyrate.”

ThechildwasbarelythelengthofTom’sforearm,buthetookherasthoughhewerehandlinganoctopus.

“Just stay still a minute,” said Isabel, arranging his arms. “All right. Keepthemlikethat.Andnow”—shemadeafinaladjustment—“she’sallyoursforthenexttwominutes.”Shewentthroughtothekitchen.

Itwas the first timeTomhadeverbeenalonewithababy.He stayedas ifstandingtoattention,terrifiedoffailinginspection.Thechildstartedtowriggle,kickingherfeetandarmsinamaneuverwhichflummoxedhim.

“Steadyon!Befaironabloke,now,”heimploredashetriedtogetabettergrip.

“Remember to keep her head supported,” Isabel called. Immediately heslippedahanduptothebaby’sscalp,registeringitssmallnessinthepalmofhis

hand.Shesquirmedagain,soherockedhergently.“Comeon,beasport.PlayfairwithyourUncleTom.”

As she blinked at him, and looked right into his eyes, Tomwas suddenlyawareofanalmostphysicalache.Shewasgivinghimaglimpseofaworldhewouldnowsurelyneverknow.

Isabel returned with the bottle. “Here.” She put it into Tom’s hand andguidedittothebaby’smouth,demonstratinghowtotapgentlyatherlipsuntilshelatchedon.Tomwasabsorbedbyhowtheprocessperformeditself.Theveryfact that the baby required nothing of him stirred a sense of reverence forsomethingfarbeyondhiscomprehension.

When Tomwent back to the light, Isabel busied herself around the kitchen,preparingdinnerwhilethechildslepton.Assoonassheheardacry,shehurriedto thenursery, and liftedher from the cot.Thebabywas fractious, and againnuzzledintoIsabel’sbreast,startingtosuckatthethincottonofherblouse.

“Oh,mydarling,areyoustillhungry?OldDocGriffith’smanualsaystobecarefulnottogiveyoutoomuch.Butmaybejustadrop…”Shewarmedalittlemoremilkandofferedthebottletothebaby.Butthistimethechildturnedherhead away from the teat and cried as shepawed instead at the inviting,warmnipplethattouchedhercheekthroughthecloth.

“Comeon,hereyouare,here’sthebottle,sweetthing,”Isabelcooed,butthebaby became more distressed, kicking her arms and legs and turning in toIsabel’schest.

Isabel remembered the fresh agony of the arrival of the milk, making herbreastsheavyandsorewithnobabytosuckle—ithadseemedaparticularlycruelmechanismofnature.Now,thisinfantwasseekingdesperatelyforhermilk,orperhapsjustforcomfort,nowthatimmediatestarvationhadbeenstavedoff.Shepausedforalongmoment,herthoughtsswirlingwiththecryingandthelongingandtheloss.“Oh,littlesweetheart,”shemurmured,andslowlyunbuttonedherblouse.Secondslater,thechildhadlatchedonfast,suckingcontentedly,thoughonlyafewdropsofmilkcame.

They had been like that for a goodwhile whenTom entered the kitchen.“How’sthe—”Hestoppedinmid-sentence,arrestedatthesight.

Isabellookedupathim,herfaceamixtureofinnocenceandguilt.“ItwastheonlywayIcouldgethertosettle.”

“But…Well…”Alarmed,Tomcouldn’tevenframehisquestions.

“Shewasdesperate.Wouldn’ttakethebottle…”“But—butshetookitearlier,Isawher…”“Yes,becauseshewasstarving.Probablyliterally.”Tomcontinuedtostare,completelyoutofhisdepth.“It’s the most natural thing in the world, Tom. The best possible thing I

coulddoforher.Don’tlooksoshocked.”Shereachedoutahandtohim.“Comehere,darl.Givemeasmile.”

Hetookherhand,butremainedbewildered.Anddeepwithin,hisuneasinessgrew.

Thatafternoon,Isabel’seyeswerealivewithalightTomhadnotseenforyears.“Comeand look!” sheexclaimed.“Isn’t sheapicture?She fits justbeautifully!”Shegesturedtothewickerworkcot,inwhichthechildsleptpeacefully,hertinychestrisingandfallinginaminiatureechoofthewavesaroundtheisland.

“Snugasawalnutinashell,isn’tshe?”saidTom.“I’dsayshe’snotthreemonthsoldyet.”“Howcanyoutell?”“I lookeditup.”Tomraisedaneyebrow.“InDr.Griffiths.I’vepickedsome

carrots and some turnips, and I’vemade a stewwith the last of themutton. Iwanttohaveaspecialteatonight.”

Tomfrowned,puzzled.“WeneedtowelcomeLucy,andsayaprayerforherpoorfather.”“Ifthat’swhohewas,”saidTom.“AndLucy?”“Wellsheneedsaname.Lucymeans‘light,’soit’sperfect,isn’tit?”“Izzy Bella.” He smiled, then stroked her hair, gently serious. “Be careful,

sweet.Idon’twanttoseeyouupset…”

AsTomlitup for theevening,he still couldn’tdriveaway theuneasiness,norcould he tell whether it came from the past—reawakened grief—or fromforeboding.Ashemadehiswaydownthenarrow,windingstairs,acrosseachofthemetal landings,he feltaheaviness inhischest,andasenseof slidingbackintoadarknesshethoughthehadescaped.

Thatnight,theysatdowntodinneraccompaniedbythesnufflingofthechild,the occasional gurgle bringing a smile to Isabel’s lips. “I wonder what will

becomeofher?” sheponderedaloud. “It’s sad to thinkshecouldendup inanorphanage.LikeSarahPorter’slittleboy.”

Later they made love for the first time since the stillbirth. Isabel seemeddifferent to Tom: assured, relaxed. She kissed him afterward and said, “Let’splant a rose garden when spring comes. One that’ll be here years after we’regone.”

“I’llsendthesignalthismorning,”Tomsaidjustafterdawn,ashereturnedfromextinguishingthelight.Thepearl-shellglowofdaystoleintothebedroomandcaressedthebaby’sface.ShehadwokeninthenightandIsabelhadbroughtherin tosleepbetweenthem.Sheputher finger toher lipsas shenoddedtowardthesleepinginfant,androsefromthebedtoleadTomintothekitchen.

“Sitdown, love, andI’llmake tea,” shewhispered, andmarshaledcups,potandkettleasquietlyas shecould.Assheput thekettleon thestove, shesaid,“Tom,I’vebeenthinking.”

“Whatabout,Izzy?”“Lucy.Itcan’tjustbeacoincidencethatsheturnedupsosoonafter…”The

sentencedidnotneedcompleting.“Wecan’tjustshipherofftoanorphanage.”SheturnedtoTomandtookhishandsinhers.“Sweetheart,Ithinksheshouldstaywithus.”

“Fairgonow,darl!She’salovelybaby,butshedoesn’tbelongtous.Wecan’tkeepher.”

“Whynot?Thinkaboutit.Imean,practicallyspeaking,who’stoknowshe’shere?”

“WhenRalphandBlueycomeinafewweeks,they’llknow,forastart.”“Yes, but it occurred tome last night that theywon’t know she’s not ours.

EveryonestillthinksI’mexpecting.They’lljustbesurprisedshearrivedearly.”Tomwatched,hismouthopen.“But…Izzy,areyouinyourrightmind?Do

yourealizewhatyou’resuggesting?”“I’m suggesting kindness. That’s all. Love for a baby. I’m suggesting,

sweetheart,” she claspedhishands tighter, “thatweaccept thisgift that’sbeensenttous.Howlonghavewewantedababy,prayedforababy?”

Turningtothewindow,Tomputhishandsonhisheadandstartedtolaugh,then stretched his arms up in appeal. “For heaven’s sakes, Isabel!When I tellthemaboutthefellowintheboat,eventuallysomeonewillknowwhoheis.Andthey’llworkoutthattherewasababy.Maybenotstraightaway,butinthelong

run…”“ThenIthinkyoushouldn’ttellthem.”“Nottellthem?”Histonewassuddenlysober.Shestrokedhishair.“Don’ttellthem,sweetheart.We’vedonenothingwrong

exceptgivesheltertoahelplessbaby.Wecangivethepoormanadecentburial.Andtheboat,well—justsetitadriftagain.”

“Izzy,Izzy!YouknowI’ddoanythingforyou,darl,but—whoeverthatmanisandwhateverhe’sdone,hedeserves tobedealtwithproperly.And lawfully,for that matter.What if the mother’s not dead, and he’s got a wife fretting,waitingforthemboth?”

“Whatwomanwould letherbabyoutofher sight?Face it,Tom: shemusthavedrowned.”Sheclaspedhishandsagain.“Iknowhowmuchyourrulesmeanto you, and I know that this is technically breaking them.Butwhat are thoserules for?They’re to save lives!That’sall I’msayingweshoulddo, sweetheart:savethislife.She’shereandsheneedsusandwecanhelpher.Please.”

“Izzy,Ican’t.Thisisn’tuptome.Don’tyouunderstand?”Herfacedarkened.“Howcanyoubesohard-hearted?Allyoucareaboutis

your rulesandyourshipsandyourbloody light.”ThesewereaccusationsTomhad heard before, when, wild with grief after her miscarriages, Isabel had letlooseherrageagainsttheonlypersonthere—themanwhocontinuedtodohisduty,whocomfortedherasbesthecould,butkepthisowngrievingtohimself.Onceagain,he sensedherclose toadangerousbrink,perhapscloser this timethanshehadeverbeen.

CHAPTER11

AninquisitivegullwatchedTomfromitsseaweed-cushionedrock.Itfollowedhimwith an implacable eye as he wrapped the body, now pungent with thatsmellof thedead, in the canvas. Itwashard to tellwhat themanmighthavebeeninlife.Hisfacewasneitherveryoldnorveryyoung.Hewasslight;blond.He had a small scar on his left cheek.Tomwonderedwhomissed him;whomighthavecausetoloveorhatehim.

Theoldgravesfromtheshipwrecklayonlowground,nearthebeach.Ashesetaboutdiggingthefreshhole,hismusclestookover,executingtheirfamiliartaskfromblindmemoryinaritualhehadneverexpectedtorepeat.

Thefirsttimehehadreportedforthedailyburialparadehehadvomitedatthesightofthecorpsesstretchedoutsidebyside,waitingforhisshovel.Afterawhile, itbecamejusta job.Hewouldhopetogettheskinnybloke,ortheonewithhislegsblownoff,becausehewasabloodysighteasiertomove.Burythem.Markthegrave.Salute,andwalkaway.That’showitwas.Hopingfortheonewith the most bits blown off: Tom went cold at the thought that there hadseemednothingstrangeaboutthatbackthen.

Theshovelgaveagaspateachcontactwiththesandysoil.Oncethegroundhadbeenpattedbackintoaneatmound,hestoppedtoprayforamomentforwhoever the poorwretchwas, but he found himself whispering, “Forgiveme,Lord, for this, and all my sins. And forgive Isabel. You know how muchgoodness there is in her.And you knowhowmuch she’s suffered. Forgive usboth.Havemercy.”Hecrossedhimselfandreturnedtotheboat,readytodragitbackintothewater.Hegaveitaheave,andarayoflightprickedhiseyesasthesun glinted off something.He peered into the hull of the dinghy. Somethingshiny was wedged under the rib of the bow, and resisted his first attempt tograsp it.Afterpulling for amomentheprisedawaya cold,hard shape,whichcametolife,jangling:asilverrattle,embossedwithcherubsandhallmarked.

Heturneditoverandover,as ifwaitingfor ittospeaktohim,togivehimsome kind of clue. He thrust it in his pocket: any number of stories might

accountforthearrivalofthisstrangepairontheisland,butonlytellinghimselfIzzy’s story that thechildwasanorphanwouldallowhimtosleepatnight. Itdid not bear thinking beyond that, and he needed to avoid any proof to thecontrary.Hefixedhiseyesonthelinewheretheoceanmettheskylikeapairofpursedlips.Betternottoknow.

He made sure that the boat had been picked up by the southerly currentbeforewadingback in to thebeach.Hewas grateful for the salty stinkof thegreen-blackseaweedrottingontherocks,whichwashedthesmellofdeathfromhis nostrils. A tiny purple sand crab ventured out from under a ledge, sidledbusily over to a deadblowfish, swollen and spiky even indeath, andbegan topincerlittlepiecesfromthebellyintoitsownmouth.Tomshivered,andstartedthesteeptrekupthepath.

“Most days, there’s nowhere to escape the wind around here. It’s all right ifyou’reaseagull,oranalbatross:seehowtheyjustsitonthecurrentsofair,likethey’rehavinga rest?”Ashesatontheveranda,Tompointedtoagreat silverbirdwhichhadmadeitswayfromsomeotherisland,andseemedtohanginastillskyonathread,despitetheturbulentair.

ThebabyignoredTom’sfingerandinsteadgazedintohiseyes,mesmerizedbythemovementofhislipsandthedeepresonanceofhischest.Shecooed—ahigh-pitched half-hiccup. Tom tried to ignore the way his heart kicked inresponse,andcontinuedhisdiscourse.“Butinthatbay,justthatlittlecove,it’sonespotwhereyou’remostlikelytofindabitofpeaceandquiet,becauseitfacesnorth, and the wind hardly ever comes in due north. That side’s the IndianOcean—niceandcalmandwarm.SouthernOcean’sontheotherside—wildanddangerousasanything.Youwanttokeepawayfromthatfella.”

Thechildflunganarmaboveherblanketinresponse,andTomletherhandwrap around his index finger. In the week since her arrival, he had becomeaccustomed to her gurgles, to her silent, sleeping presence in her cot, whichseemed to waft through the cottage like the smell of baking or flowers. Itworried him that he could find himself listening out for her to wake in themorning,orgoingbyreflextopickherupwhenshestartedtocry.

“You’re falling in love with her, aren’t you?” said Isabel, who had beenwatching from the doorway. Tom frowned, and she said with a smile, “It’simpossiblenotto.”

“Allthoselittleexpressionsshedoes…”

“You’regoingtobeabeautdad.”Heshiftedinhischair.“Izz,it’sstillwrong,notreportingit.”“Justlookather.Doesshelooklikewe’vedoneanythingwrong?”“But—that’s just it.Wedon’tneed to do anythingwrong.We could report

hernowandapplytoadopther.It’snottoolate,Izz.Wecanstillmakeitright.”“Adopther?” Isabel stiffened. “They’dnever send a baby to a lighthouse in

themiddleofnowhere:nodoctor;noschool.Nochurchprobablyworriesthemthemost.Andeveniftheydidputherupforadoption,they’dwanttogivehertosomecoupleinatownsomewhere.Andbesides,ittakesforevertogothroughtherigmarole.They’dwanttomeetus.You’dnevergetleavetogoandseethem,andwe’renotduebackonshoreforanotheryearandahalf.”Sheputahandonhisshoulder.“Iknowwe’llcope.Iknowyou’regoingtobeawonderfuldad.Buttheydon’t.”

Shegazedatthebaby,andputafingertohersoftcheek.“Love’sbiggerthanrule books, Tom. If you’d reported the boat, she’d be stuck in some dreadfulorphanage by now.” She rested her hand on his arm. “Our prayers have beenanswered.Thebaby’sprayershavebeenanswered.Who’dbeungratefulenoughtosendheraway?”

Thesimplefactwasthat,sureasagraftwilltakeandfuseonarosebush,therootstockofIsabel’smotherhood—hereverydriveandinstinct,leftrawandexposedby the recent stillbirth—had grafted seamlessly to the scion, the baby whichneededmothering.Grief and distance bound the wound, perfecting the bondwithaspeedonlynaturecouldengineer.

When Tom came down from the lantern room that evening, Isabel wassittingbesidethefirstfireoftheautumn,nursingthebabyintherockingchairhehadmadefouryearsagonow.Shehadn’tnoticedhim,andhewatchedherinsilence for a moment. She seemed to handle the child by sheer instinct,incorporatingherintoeverymove.Hefoughtbackhisgnawingdoubt.PerhapsIsabelwasright.Whowashetopartthiswomanfromababy?

Inherhandswas theBookofCommonPrayer, towhichIsabelhadturnedmore frequently after the first miscarriage. Now, she read silently “TheChurching ofWomen,” prayers forwomen after childbirth. “Lo, children andthefruitofthewomb:areanheritageandgiftthatcomethoftheLord…”

Thenextmorning,IsabelstoodbesideTombelowthelanternroom,holdingthe

babyashetappedoutthesignal.Hehadthoughtcarefullyaboutthewording.His fingerswereunsteadyashebegan:hehadbeendreading sendingnewsofthe stillbirth, but this feltmuchworse. “Baby arrived early stop took us both bysurprise stop Isabel recoveringwell stopnoneed formedical help stop little girl stopLucy—”HeturnedtoIsabel.“Anythingelse?”

“The weight. People always ask the weight.” She thought back to SarahPorter’sbaby.“Saysevenpoundsoneounce.”

Tomlookedatherinsurpriseattheeasewithwhichtheliecametoher.Heturnedbacktothekeyandtappedoutthefigures.

When the reply arrived, he transcribed it and noted it in the signals book.“Congratulations stopmarvelousnews stop have officially recorded increase in JanuspopulationasperregulationsstopRalphandBlueysendcheersstopgrandparentswillbeinformedprontostop.”Hesighed,awareofapressureinhischest,andwaitedawhilebeforegoingtoreporttheresponsetoIsabel.

In the weeks that followed, Isabel bloomed. She sang as she went about thecottage. She could not keep from showering Tom with hugs and kisses allthroughtheday.Hersmiledazzledhimwithitssheeruninhibitedjoy.Andthebaby?The babywas peaceful, and trusting. She did not question the embracewhich held her, the hands which caressed her, the lips which kissed her andcrooned,“Mamma’shere,Lucy,Mamma’shere,”asshewasrockedtosleep.

Therewasnodenyingthatthechildwasthriving.Herskinseemedtoglowwithasofthalo.Isabel’sbreasts respondedto thebaby’s sucklingbyproducingmilk again within weeks, the “relactation” Dr. Griffiths described in clinicaldetail, and the child fedwithout amoment’s hesitation, as though the two ofthem had agreed some sort of contract. But Tom took to staying a fractionlonger inthe lanternroominthemorningsafterextinguishingthe light.Timeandagainhewouldcatchhimselfturningbackthepageofthelogto27April,andstaringattheblankspace.

Youcouldkill ablokewith rules,Tomknewthat.Andyet sometimes theywerewhat stoodbetweenman and savagery, betweenman andmonsters.Therulesthatsaidyoutookaprisonerratherthankilledaman.Therulesthatsaidyouletthestretcherscarttheenemyofffromno-man’s-landaswellasyourownmen.Butalways,itwouldcomedowntothesimplequestion:couldhedepriveIsabelofthisbaby?Ifthechildwasaloneintheworld?Coulditreallyberighttodragherawayfromawomanwhoadoredher,tosomelotteryofFate?

Atnight,Tombegantodreamhewasdrowning,flinginghisarmsandlegsdesperately to find ground somewhere, but there was nothing to stand on,nothing to hold him afloat except amermaid, whose tail hewould grasp andwhowouldthenpullhimdeeperanddeeperintothedarkwateruntilheawokegaspingandsweating,whileIsabelsleptbeatificallybesidehim.

CHAPTER12

Gedday,Ralph.Goodtoseeyou.Where’sBlue?”“Backhere!”shoutedthedeckhandfromthestern,hiddenfromviewbysome

fruitcrates.“Howyadoing,Tom?Gladtoseeus?”“Always,mate—you’retheblokeswiththegrog,aren’tyou?”helaughedashe

secured the line. The old engine chugged and spluttered as the boat drewalongside,fillingtheairwiththickdieselfumes.Itwasmid-June,thefirsttimethestoreboathadvisitedsincethebaby’sarrivalsevenweeksearlier.

“Flyingfoxissetup.Gotthewinchallreadytoo.”“Struth, you’reabitkeen,Tom!”Ralphexclaimed. “Wedon’twant to rush

thingsnow,dowe?It’sagrandday.Wecantakeourtime.We’vegottoseethenewarrival,afterall!MyHilda’spiledmeuplikeapackhorsewiththingsforthelittle’un,nottomentiontheproudgrandparents.”

As Ralph strode off the gangway he grabbed Tom in a bear hug.“Congratulations, son. Bloody marvelous. Especially after—after all that’shappenedbefore.”

Blueyfollowedsuit.“Yeah,goodonyou.Masendsallherbesttoo.”Tom’seyeswanderedtothewater.“Thanks.Thanksalot.Appreciateit.”As theyhikedup thepath, Isabelwas silhouetted against awashing lineof

nappiesstrungoutlikesignalflagsflappinginthebriskwind.Strandsofherhairescapedfromtherollshehadjustpinneditin.

Ralphheldhisarmsoutasheapproachedher.“Well,can’tyoujusttell,hey?Nothingmakes a girl bloom like having a littlie. Roses in your cheeks and ashineinyourhair,justlikemyHildausedtogetwitheachofours.”

Isabel blushed at the compliment, and gave the oldman a quick kiss. ShekissedBlueytoo,whobowedhisheadandmuttered,“Congratulations,Mrs.S.”

“Comeinside,allofyou.Kettle’sboiled,andthere’scake,”shesaid.

Astheysatattheolddealtable,Isabel’sglancestrayednowandthentothechildasleepinherbasket.

“YouwerethetalkofeverywomaninPartageuse,havingyourbabyonyourown like that.Of course, the farmers’wives didn’t turn ahair—MaryLinfordsaidhowshe’dhadthreewithoutanyhelp.Butthemintown,theyweremightyimpressed.IhopeTomwasn’ttoouseless?”

Thecoupleexchangeda look.Tomwasabout to speak,but Isabel tookhishand and squeezed it tight. “He’s been wonderful. I couldn’t ask for a betterhusband.”Thereweretearsinhereyes.

“She’sarealprettylittlething,fromwhatIcansee,”saidBluey.Butallthatpeepedoutfromthefluffyblanketwasadelicatefaceinabonnet.

“She’sgotTom’snose,hasn’tshe?”chippedinRalph.“Well…”Tomhesitated.“Notsuremynoseiswhatyouwantababygirlto

have!”“I take your point!” Ralph chuckled. “Right,Mr. Sherbourne,my friend, I

needyourautographontheforms.Mightaswellsortthemoutnow.”Tomwas relieved to get up from the table. “Righto.Come through to the

office,CaptainAddicott,sir,”hesaid,leavingBlueycooingoverthebasket.Theyoungmanreachedintothecotandjangledtherattleatthebaby,who

wasnowwideawake.Shewatcheditintently,andhejiggleditagain.“You’realuckyone, aren’t you,gettinga fancy silver rattle!Fit for aprincess: I’veneverseen anything so grand! Angels on the handle and everything. Angels for anangel…Andyournicefluffyblanket…”

“Oh,theywereleftoverfrom…”Isabel’svoicedropped,“frombefore.”Bluey blushed. “Sorry. Putting my foot in it. I… Better get on with

unloading.Thanksforthecake,”andhebeataretreatthroughthekitchendoor.

JanusRock,

June1926DearMumandDad,

Well,Godhassentusanangeltokeepuscompany.BabyLucyhascapturedourhearts! She’s a beautiful little girl—absolutely perfect. She sleepswell andfeedswell.She’sneveranytrouble.

Iwishyoucouldseeherandholdher.Everydayshelooksabitdifferent,andIknowbythetimeyouseehershe’llhavelostherbabylooks.She’llbeatoddlerwhenwecomebackonshore.Butinthemeantime,here’sthenearestthingtoapicture.Idippedthesoleofherfootincochineal!(YouhavetobeinventiveontheLights…)Seemasterpieceattached.

Tomisawonderfuldad.Janus seems sodifferentnowthatLucy’shere.Atthemoment it’s pretty easy to lookafter her—Ipopher inher basket and shecomeswithmewhenIhavetogettheeggsordothemilking.Itmightbeabitharderwhenshestartstocrawl.ButIdon’twanttogetaheadofmyself.

Iwanttotellyousomuchabouther—howherhairisdark,howbeautifulshesmellsafterherbath.Hereyesarequitedarktoo.ButIcan’tdoherjustice.She’s much too wonderful to describe. I’ve only known her a few weeks andalreadyIcan’timaginemylifewithouther.

Well,“GrandmaandGrandpa”(!),I’dbetterfinishthissothattheboatcantakeit,otherwiseit’llbeanotherthreemonthsbeforeyougetit!

Withfondestlove,Isabel

P.S. I’ve just read your letter from the boat this morning. Thanks for thebeautifulbunnyrug.Andthedollisjustlovely.Thebooksarewonderfultoo.Itellhernurseryrhymesallthetime,soshe’lllikethesenewones.P.P.S.Tomsaysthanksforthejumper.Winter’sstartingtobiteouthere!

Thenewmoonwasbarelyacrescentstitchedintothedarkeningsky.TomandIsabelweresittingontheverandaasthelightsweptaroundfarabovethem.LucyhadfallenasleepinTom’sarms.

“It’shardtobreathedifferentlyfromher,isn’tit?”hesaid,gazingatthebaby.“Whatdoyoumean?”“It’s like a kind of spell, isn’t it?Whenever she’s asleep like this, I end up

breathing in thesamerhythm.Abit likeIendupdoingthings in timeto theturningofthelight.”Almosttohimself,hesaid,“Itscaresme.”

Isabelsmiled.“It’sjustlove,Tom.Noneedtobescaredoflove.”Tomfeltashivercreepthroughhim.Justashecouldn’tnowimaginehaving

lived in this world without meeting Isabel, he realized that Lucy, too, wasmakingherwayinsidehisheart.Andhewishedshebelongedthere.

Anyone who’s worked on the Offshore Lights can tell you about it—theisolation,andthespellitcasts.LikesparksflungoffthefurnacethatisAustralia,thesebeaconsdotaroundit,flickeringonandoff,someofthemonlyeverseenbyahandfulof livingsouls.Buttheir isolationsavesthewholecontinentfrom

isolation—keepstheshippinglanessafe,asvesselssteamthethousandsofmilestobringmachinesandbooksandcloth,inreturnforwoolandwheat,coalandgold:thefruitsofingenuitytradedforthefruitsofearth.

The isolation spins itsmysterious cocoon, focusing themind on one place,one time, one rhythm—the turning of the light. The island knows no otherhumanvoices,nootherfootprints.OntheOffshoreLightsyoucanliveanystoryyouwanttotellyourself,andnoonewillsayyou’rewrong:nottheseagulls,nottheprisms,notthewind.

So Isabel floats further and further into her world of divine benevolence,where prayers are answered, where babies arrive by the will of God and theworkingofcurrents.“Tom,Iwonderhowwecanbesolucky?”shemuses.Shewatches in awe as her blessed daughter grows and thrives. She revels in thediscoverieseachdaybringsforthislittlebeing:rollingover;startingtocrawl;thefirst, faltering sounds.Thestormsgradually followwinter toanothercorneroftheearth,andsummercomes,bearingapalerbluesky,asharpergoldsun.

“Upyoucome.” Isabel laughs, andhoistsLucyontoherhipas the threeofthemstrolldownthepathtotheglintingbeachforapicnic.Tompicksdifferentleaves—seagrass,pig-face—andLucysmellsthem,chewsontheirends,pullingfacesatthestrangesensations.Hegatherstinyposiesofrosebanjine,orshowshertheshimmeringscalesofatrevallyorabluemackerelhehascaughtofftherocks on the side of the islandwhere the ocean floor drops away into suddendarkness.Onstillnights,Isabel’svoicecarriesacrosstheairinasoothingliltasshe reads Lucy tales of Snugglepot andCuddlepie in the nursery, whileTomworksonrepairsintheshed.

Whatever the rights and the wrongs of it, Lucy was here now, and Isabelcouldn’t have been a bettermother. Every night in prayer she gave thanks toGodforherfamily,herhealth,hermuch-blessedlife,andprayedtobeworthyofthegiftsHeshoweredonher.

Daysbrokeandrecededlikewavesonthebeach,leavingbarelyatraceofthetime that passed in this tiny world of working and sleeping and feeding andwatching. Isabel shed a tear when she put away some of Lucy’s earliest babythings.“Seemsonlyyesterdayshewastiny,andnowlookather,”shemusedtoTom, as she folded themcarefully away in tissuepaper—adummy,her rattle,herfirstbabydresses,atinypairofkidbooties.Justlikeanymothermightdo,anywhereintheworld.

When the blood didn’t come, Isabel was excited.When she had given up allhopeofanotherchild,herexpectationswereabouttobeconfounded.Shewouldwaitalittlelonger,keepprayingbeforesayinganythingtoTom.Butshefoundher thoughtsdriftingoff todaydreamsabout abrotheror sister forLucy.Herheartwasfull.Thenthebleedingreturnedwithavengeance,heavierandmorepainful,inapatternshecouldn’tfathom.Herheadwouldache,sometimes;shewouldsweatatnight.Thenmonthswouldpasswithnobloodatall.“I’llgoandseeDr.Sumptonwhenwegetourshoreleave.Noneedtofuss,”shetoldTom.Shecarriedonwithoutcomplaint.“I’mstrongasanox,darl.There’snothingtoworryabout.”Shewasinlove—withherhusband,andwithherbaby—andthatwasenough.

The months trailed by, marked with the peculiar rituals of the lighthouse—lightingup,hoistingtheensign,drainingthemercurybathtofilteroutstrayoil.All the usual form-filling, and compliance with the bullying correspondencefromtheForemanArtificerabouthowanydamagetothevaportubescouldonlybe caused by lightkeeper negligence, not faulty workmanship. The logbookchangedfrom1926to1927inmid-page:therewasnowastingpaperintheCLS—thebookswereexpensive.Tomponderedtheinstitutionalindifferencetothearrivalofanewyear—asthoughtheLightswerenotimpressedbysomethingasprosaic as the mere effluction of time. And it was true—the view from thegalleryonNewYear’sDaywasindistinguishablefromthatofNewYear’sEve.

Occasionally,hewouldstillfindhimselfrevisitingthepagefor27April1926,untilthebookopenedthereofitsownaccord.

Isabelworkedhard.Thevegetablepatchthrived;thecottagewaskeptclean.Shewashed andpatchedTom’s clothes, and cooked the thingshe liked.Lucygrew.Thelightturned.Timepassed.

CHAPTER13

It’scomingupforayearsoon,”saidIsabel.“Thetwenty-seventhofApril’sherbirthday,nearenough.”

Tomwas intheworkshop,filingawayrustfromabentdoorhinge.Heputdowntherasp.“Iwonder—youknow,whatherrealbirthdayis.”

“Thedayshearrivedisgoodenoughforme.”Isabelkissedthechild,whowassittingastrideherhip,gnawingonacrust.

LucyreachedoutherarmstoTom.“Sorry,littlie.Myhandsarefilthy.You’rebetteroffwithMammajustnow.”“Ican’tbelievehowmuchshe’sgrown.Sheweighsatonthesedays.”Isabel

laughed, andgaveLucy aheave to settleherhigheronherhip. “I’mgoing tomake a birthday cake.”The child responded by dipping her head into Isabel’schestanddribblingbitsofbreadontoher.“Thattooth’sgivingyoutrouble,isn’tit, sweetie?Yourcheeksaresored.Shallweputsometeethingpowderon it?”TurningtoTom,shesaid,“Seeyouinawhile,darl.I’dbettergetback.Soup’sstillonthestove,”andleftforthecottage.

ThesteelylightpiercedthewindowandscouredTom’sworkbench.Hehadtohammerthemetalstraight,andeachblowrangsharplyoffthewalls.Thoughhefoundhimselfstrikingwithmoreforcethanwasnecessary,hecouldn’tstop.Therewasnogettingawayfromthefeelingstirredupbytalkofbirthdaysandanniversaries.Heset toworkwiththehammeragain, theblowsno lessheavy,until themetalsnappedfromtheforce.Hepickeduptheshatteredhalvesandstaredatthem.

Tom looked up from the armchair. A few weeks had passed since the baby’sbirthdaycelebration.

“Itdoesn’tmatterwhatyoureadtoher,”saidIsabel.“It’sjustgoodforhertogetusedtohearingdifferentwords.”ShedepositedLucyonhislapandwenttofinishmakingthebread.

“Dadadadad,”saidthechild.

“Bubububub,”saidTom.“So.Youwantastory?”Thelittlehandreachedout,butinsteadofpointingtotheheavybookoffairytalesonthetablebesidethem,grabbedabeigebooklet,andpusheditathim.Helaughed.“Idon’tthinkyou’lllikethatonemuch,bunnyrabbit.Nopicturesinit,forastart.”Hereachedforthefairytales,butLucythrustthebookletinhisface.“Dadadadad.”

“Ifthat’stheoneyouwant,littlie!”Helaughedagain.Thechildopeneditatapage,andpointedatthewords,likeshehadseenTomandIsabeldo.“Allright,”beganTom. “Instructions to Lightkeepers.Number twenty-nine: ‘TheLightkeepersare never to allow any interests, private or otherwise, to interferewith discharge oftheirduties,whichareofthegreatestimportancetothesafetyofnavigation;andtheyareremindedthattheirretentionorpromotionintheServicedependsupontheirstrictobedience to orders, adherence to the rules laid down for their guidance, industry,sobriety,andthemaintenanceofcleanlinessandgoodorderintheirownpersonsandfamiliesaswellasineverypartoftheLighthouseestablishmentandpremises.’Numberthirty:‘Misconduct,dispositiontoquarrel,insobrietyorimmoralityonthepartofanykeeper’”—hepausedtoretrieveLucy’sfingersfromhisnostrils—“‘willrendertheoffenderliabletopunishmentordismissal.ThecommittingofanysuchoffensebyanymemberoftheLightkeeper’sfamilywillrendertheoffenderliabletoexclusionfromtheLighthousestation.’”Hestopped.Achillhadcreptthoughhim,andhisheartbeatfaster.Hewassummonedbacktothepresentbyatinyhandcomingtorestonhischin.Hepressedittohislips,absently.Lucygrinnedathimandgavehimagenerouskiss.

“Comeon, let’s readSleepingBeauty instead,”hesaid,andtookupthefairytales,thoughhefoundithardtoconcentrate.

“Hereyouare—teaand toast inbed, ladies!” saidTom, resting the traybesideIsabel.

“Careful, Luce,” said Isabel. She had brought the toddler into bed thatSunday after Tom had gone to extinguish the light, and the child wasclamberingtowardthetraytoreachthesmallcupofteaTomhadmadehertoo—hardlymorethanwarmmilkwithadropofcolor.

TomsatbesideIsabelandpulledLucyontohisknee.“Herewego,Lulu,”hesaid, and helped her steady the cup in both hands as she drank. He wasconcentratingonhistask,untilhebecameawareofIsabel’ssilence,andturnedtoseetearsinhereyes.

“Izzy,Izzy,what’swrong,darl?”

“Nothingatall,Tom.Nothingatall.”Hebrushedatearawayfromhercheek.“SometimesI’msohappyitfrightensme,Tom.”Hestrokedherhair,andLucystartedtoblowbubblesintothetea.“Listen,

MissMuffet,yougoingtodrinkthat,orhaveyouhadenoughfortheminute?”Thechildcontinuedtoslobberintothecup,clearlypleasedwiththesounds.“OK,I thinkwe’llgive ita rest fornow.”Heeasedthecupawayfromher,

andsherespondedbyclimbingoffhimandontoIsabel,stillblowingbubblesofspittle.

“Charming!” said Isabel, laughing throughher tears. “Comehere, you littlemonkey!”andsheblewa raspberryonher tummy.Lucygiggledandsquirmedandsaid,“’Gain!’Gain!”andIsabelobliged.

“Youtwoareasbadaseachother!”saidTom.“Sometimes I feel abitdrunkwithhowmuch I loveher.Andyou.Like if

theyaskedmetowalkoneofthosestraightlinesIcouldn’t.”“NostraightlinesonJanus,soyou’reallrightonthatscore,”saidTom.“Don’t mock, Tom. It’s like I was color-blind before Lucy, and now the

world’scompletelydifferent.It’sbrighterandIcanseefurther.I’minexactlythesameplace, thebirdsare thesame, thewater’s thesame, thesunrisesandsetsjustlikeitalwaysdid,butIneverknewwhatfor,Tom.”Shedrewthechildintoher.“Lucy’sthewhatfor…Andyou’redifferenttoo.”

“How?”“I think therearebitsofyouyoudidn’tknowexisteduntil shecamealong.

Corners of your heart that life had shut down.” She traced a finger along hismouth.“Iknowyoudon’tliketotalkaboutthewarandeverything,but—well,itmusthavemadeyounumb.”

“Myfeet.Mademyfeetnumbmoreoftenthannot—frozenmud’lldothattoabloke.”Tomcouldmanageonlyhalfasmileattheattemptedjoke.

“Stopit,Tom.I’mtryingtosaysomething.I’mbeingserious,forgoodness’sake, and you just sendmepackingwith some silly joke, like I’m a childwhodoesn’tunderstandorcan’tbetrustedwiththetruth.”

This time Tom was deadly serious. “You don’t understand, Isabel. Nocivilizedpersonshouldeverhavetounderstand.Andtryingtodescribeitwouldbelikepassingonadisease.”Heturnedtowardthewindow.“IdidwhatIdidsothatpeople like you andLucy could forget it everhappened.So that itwouldneverhappenagain.‘Thewartoendallwars,’remember?Itdoesn’tbelonghere,onthisisland.Inthisbed.”

Tom’sfeatureshadhardened,andsheglimpsedaresolveshe’dneverseeninhim before—the resolve, she imagined, that had got him through everythinghe’dhadtoendure.

“It’s just…” Isabel began again, “well, we none of us know whether we’rearoundforanotheryearoranotherhundredyears.AndIwantedtomakesureyouknewhowthankfulIamtoyou,Tom.Foreverything.EspeciallyforgivingmeLucy.”

Tom’ssmilefrozeatthelastwords,andIsabelhurriedon.“Youdid,darl.YouunderstoodhowmuchIneededher,andIknowthatcostyou,Tom.Notmanymenwoulddothatfortheirwife.”

Joltedbackfromsomedreamworld,Tomcouldfeelhispalmssweating.Hisheartstartedtoracewiththeurgetorun—anywhere,itdidn’tmatterwhere,justas long as it was away from the reality of the choice he had made, whichsuddenlyseemedtoweighlikeanironcollar.

“TimeIwasgettingonwithsomework.I’llleaveyoutwotohaveyourtoast,”hesaid,andlefttheroomasslowlyashecouldmanage.

CHAPTER14

When Tom’s second three-year term came to an end just before Christmas1927, the family from Janus Rock made its first journey to Point Partageusewhileareliefkeepermannedthelightstation.Thecouple’ssecondshoreleave,itwould be Lucy’s first voyage to themainland.As Isabel had prepared for thearrivaloftheboat,shehadtoyedwithfindinganexcusetostaybehindwiththelittlegirlinthesafetyofJanus.

“YouOK,Izz?”Tomhadaskedwhenhesawher,suitcaseopenonthebed,staringblanklythroughthewindow.

“Oh.Yes,”shesaidquickly.“JustmakingsureI’vepackedeverything.”Hewasabouttoleavetheroom,whenhedoubledbackandputhishandon

hershoulder.“Nervous?”Shesnatchedupapairofsocksandrolledthemtogetherinaball.“No,notat

all,”shesaidasshestuffedtheminthecase.“Notatall.”

TheuneaseIsabelhadtriedtohidefromTomvanishedatthesightofLucyinViolet’s arms, when her parents came to greet them at the jetty.Hermotherweptandsmiledandlaughedallatthesametime.“Atlast!”Sheshookherheadinawe,inspectingeveryinchofthechild,touchingherface,herhair,herlittlehand.“Myblessedgranddaughter.Fancywaitingnearlytwoyearstolayeyesonyou!Andisn’tshejusttheimageofmyoldAuntieClem?”

Isabel had spent months preparing Lucy for exposure to people. “InPartageuse,Luce, there are lots and lots of people.And they’ll all like you. Itmightbeabitstrangeatfirst,butthere’snoneedtobescared.”Atbedtimes,shehadtoldthegirlstoriesofthetown,andthepeoplewholivedinit.

Lucyrespondedwithgreatcuriositytotheendlesssupplyofhumansthatnowsurroundedher.Isabelfeltatwingeassheacceptedthewarmcongratulationsoftownspeopleonherprettydaughter.EvenoldMrs.Mewetttickledthelittlegirlunder the chin when she saw her in the haberdasher’s as she was buying ahairnet. “Ah, little ones,” she saidwistfully. “Suchblessings,” leaving Isabel to

wonderwhethershewashearingthings.

Almostassoonastheyarrived,VioletpackedthewholefamilyofftoGutcher’sphotographicstudio.InfrontofacanvasbackdroppaintedwithfernsandGreekcolumns, Lucy had been photographed with Tom and Isabel; with Bill andViolet;andonherown,perchedonagrandwickerchair.Copieswereorderedtotake back to Janus, to send to cousins far afield, to have framed for themantelpieceandthepiano.“ThreegenerationsofGraysmarkwomen,”beamedVioletwhenshesawherself,withLucyonherknee,sittingbesideIsabel.

Lucy had grandparents who doted on her. God doesn’t make mistakes,thoughtIsabel.Hehadsentthelittlegirltotherightplace.

“Oh, Bill,” Violet had said to her husband the evening the family arrived.“Thankgoodness.Thankgoodness…”

Violet had last seen her daughter three years before, still grieving at hersecondmiscarriage,on thecouple’s first shore leave.Then, Isabelhadsatwithherheadonhermother’slap,weeping.

“It’sjustnature’sway,”Violethadsaid.“Youhavetotakeabreath,andgetupagain. Children will come along, if that’s what God wants for you: just bepatient.Andpray.Thepraying’sthemostimportantthing.”

She did not tell Isabel thewhole truth of it, though. She did not say howoftenshehadseenachildcarriedtotermoverthedraining,witheringsummeror the whip-sharp winter, only to be lost to scarlet fever or diphtheria, theirclothesfoldedawayneatlyuntiltheymightfitthenextonedown.Nordidshetouchon the awkwardness of replying to a casual inquiry as to thenumber ofchildren one had. A successful delivery was merely the first step of a long,treacherousjourney.Inthishouse,whichhadfallensilentyearsago,Violetknewthatonlytoowell.

Reliable,dutifulVioletGraysmark,respectablewifeofarespectablehusband.Shekeptthemothsoutofthecupboards,theweedsoutoftheflowerbeds.Shedeadheaded the roses to persuade them into blooming even in August. Herlemoncurdalwayssoldoutfirstatthechurchfête,anditwasherfruitcakerecipewhich had been chosen for the local CWA booklet. True, she thanked Godeverynightforhermanyblessings.Butsomeafternoons,asthesunsetturnedthegardenfromgreentoadulldunwhileshepeeledpotatoesover thesink, therejustwasn’tenoughroominherhearttoholdallthesadness.AsIsabelhadcried

during thatpreviousvisit,Violethadwanted towailwithher, to tearherhairandtellhersheknewthegriefoflosingthefirstborn:hownothing—noperson,nomoney,nothingthatthisearthcouldoffer—couldevermakeupforthat,andthat thepainwouldnever,nevergoaway.Shewanted to tellherhow itmadeyoumad,madeyoubargainwithGodaboutwhatofferingyoucouldsacrificetogetyourchildback.

WhenIsabelhadbeensafelyasleepandBillwasdozingbesidethelastofthefire, Violet went to her wardrobe and fetched down the old biscuit tin. Shefishedaroundinsideit,movingasidethefewpennies,asmallmirror,awatch,awallet, until she came to the envelope frayed at the edges now from years ofopening.Shesatonthebed,andbytheyellowlightofthelamp,settoreadingtheclumsyscript,thoughsheknewthewordsbyheart.

DearMrs.Graysmark,Ihopeyouwillforgivemewritingtoyou:youdon’tknowme.Mynameis

BetsyParmenterandIliveinKent.Twoweeks ago Iwas visitingmy sonFred,whowas sent back from the

frontonaccountofbadshrapnelwounds.Hewasinthe1stSouthernGeneralhospital inStourbridge,andIhaveasisterwholivesnearby, soIwasabletovisithimeveryday.

Well I am writing because one afternoon they brought in a woundedAustraliansoldierwhoIunderstandwasyoursonHugh.Hewasinabadway,onaccountas youwill knowof beingblindedand lost anarm.He could stillmanagesomewordsthough,andspokeveryfondlyofhisfamilyandhishomeinAustralia.Hewasaverybravelad.Isawhimeachday,andatonestagetherewas high hopes that he would recover, but then it seems he developed bloodpoisoning,andhewentdownhill.

IjustwantedyoutoknowthatIbroughthimflowers(theearlytulipswerejust blooming and they’re such lovely things) and some cigarettes. I thinkmyFredandhimgotalongwell.HeevenatesomefruitcakeIbroughtinonedaywhichwasverypleasingtoseeanditseemedtogivehimpleasure.Iwastherethemorningwhenhewentdownhill,andweall three said theLord’sPrayerandwe sang “AbideWithMe.”Thedoctors easedhis painas best they could,andIthinkhedidnotsuffertoomuchattheend.Therewasavicarcameandblessedhim.

Iwouldliketosayhowmuchweallappreciatethegreatsacrificethatyourbravesonmade.Hementionedhisbrother,Alfie,andIpraythathecomesback

toyousafeandsound.Iamsorryforthedelayinwritingthistoyou,onlymyFredpassedawaya

weekafteryourboyandithastakenalotofdoingthingsasyoucanimagine.Withverybestwishesandprayers,

(Mrs.)BetsyParmenter

Hughwouldonlyhaveknowntulipsfrompicturebooks,Violetthought,anditcomfortedherthathehadperhapstouchedoneandfeltitsshape.Shewonderedwhethertulipshadascent.

Sherecalledhowthepostmanhadlookedgraveandalmostguiltyacoupleofweekslaterashehandedhertheparcel:brownpapertiedwithstring,addressedtoBill.Shewassoupsetthatshedidnotevenreadtheprintingontheform:shedid not need to.Many awomanhad received themeager collection of thingswhichconstitutedherson’slife.

ThereceiptformfromMelbourneread:

DearSir,Forwardedherewith,perseparateregisteredpost,isonepackagecontaining

the effects of the late No. 4497 Pte Graysmark, 28th Bn. received ex“Themistocles”asperinventoryattached.

I shall bemuch obliged if youwould kindly letme knowwhether it comessafelytohand,bysigningandreturningtheenclosedprintedreceiptslip.

YoursfaithfullyJ.M.Johnson,Major,

OfficerinCharge,BaseRecords.

On a separate slip of paper from “The Kit Store, 110 Greyhound Road,Fulham, London SW” was the inventory of the effects. Violet was struck bysomethingasshereadthelist:shavingmirror;belt;threepennies;wristwatchwithleather strap,harmonica.HowoddthatAlfie’smouthorganwasamongHugh’sbelongings.Thenshe lookedagainat the list, the forms, the letter, theparcel,andreadthenamemorecarefully.A.H.Graysmark.NotH.A.AlfredHenry,not Hugh Albert. She ran to find her husband. “Bill! Oh Bill!” she cried.“There’sbeenthemostdreadfulmistake!”

It tookagooddealofcorrespondence,onblack-edgedpaperonthepartof

theGraysmarks, to find thatAlfiehaddiedwithin adayofHugh, threedaysafterarrivinginFrance.Joiningthesameregimentonthesameday,thebrothershadbeenproudof theirconsecutiveservicenumbers.Thesignalman,whohadwithhisowneyes seenHughshippedoutaliveona stretcher,disregarded theinstructiontosendtheKIAtelegramforA.H.Graysmark,assumingitmeantH.A.ThefirstVioletknewofhersecondson’sdeathwastheblandpackageinherhands.Itwasaneasyenoughmistaketohavemadeonabattlefield,shehadsaid.

Comingbacklasttimetothehouseshegrewupin,Isabelhadbeenremindedofthedarknessthathaddescendedwithherbrothers’deaths,howlosshadleakedalloverhermother’slifelikeastain.Asafourteen-year-old,Isabelhadsearchedthedictionary.Sheknew that if awife lost ahusband, therewasawholenewword to describe who she was: she was now awidow. A husband became awidower.But if aparent lost a child, therewasno special label for their grief.Theywerestill justamotherorafather,eveniftheynolongerhadasonoradaughter.That seemedodd.As to her own status, shewonderedwhether shewasstilltechnicallyasister,nowthatheradoredbrothershaddied.

ItwasasifoneoftheshellsfromtheFrenchfrontlinehadexplodedinthemiddleofher family, leavingacrater that shecouldnever fillor repair.Violetwould spend days tidying her sons’ rooms, polishing the silver frames of theirphotographs.Billbecamesilent.Whatever topicofconversationIsabel tried toengagehimin,hedidn’tanswer,orevenwanderedoutoftheroom.Herjob,shedecided,wasnottocauseherparentsanymorebotherorconcern.Shewastheconsolationprize—whattheyhadinsteadoftheirsons.

Now,herparents’raptureconfirmedtoIsabelthatshehaddonetherightthinginkeepingLucy.Anylingeringshadowsweresweptaway.Thebabyhadhealedsomany lives:notonlyhersandTom’s,butnowthe livesof these twopeoplewhohadbeensoresignedtoloss.

AtChristmaslunch,BillGraysmarksaidgraceandinachokedvoicethankedtheLordforthegiftofLucy.Inthekitchenlater,VioletconfidedtoTomthatherhusbandhadhadanewleaseoflifefromthedayhehadheardaboutLucy’sbirth.“It’sdonewonders.Likeamagictonic.”

Shegazedthroughthewindowatthepinkhibiscus.“BilltookthenewsaboutHughhardenough,butwhenhefoundoutaboutAlfie,itfairknockedhimfor

six.For a long timehewouldn’t believe it. Said itwas impossible that such athing could have happened. He spent months writing here, there andeverywhere, determined to show it was amistake. In a way, I was glad of it:proudofhimforfightingthenews.Buttherewereplentyofpeoplehereaboutswho’dlostmorethanoneboy.Iknewitwastrue.

“Eventuallythefirewentoutofhim.Hejust lostheart.”Shetookabreath.“But thesedays”—she raisedhereyesandsmiled inwonder—“he’shisold selfagain,thankstoLucy.I’dwageryourlittlegirlmeansasmuchtoBillasshedoesto you. She’s given him the world back.” She reached up and kissed Tom’scheek.“Thankyou.”

As thewomendid thedishes after lunch,Tom sat out thebackon the shadygrasswithLucy,whereshe toddledabout,circlingbacknowandagaintogivehim ravenous kisses. “Jeez, thanks, littlie!” he chuckled. “Don’t eat me.” Shelookedathim,withthoseeyesthatsoughthislikeamirror,untilhepulledherintohimandtickledheragain.

“Ah! The perfect dad!” said a voice from behind. Tom turned to see hisfather-in-lawapproaching.

“ThoughtI’dcomeandmakesureyouweremanaging.VialwayssaidIhadtheknackwithourthree.”Asthelastwordcameout,ashadowflittedacrosshisface.He recoveredandstretchedouthisarms. “Come toGrandpa.Comeandpullhiswhiskers.Ah,mylittleprincess!”

Lucy tottered over and stretched out her arms. “Up you come,” he said,sweeping her up. She reached for the fob watch in his waistcoat pocket, andtuggeditout.

“You want to know what time it is? Again?” Bill laughed, and he wentthrough the ritual of opening the gold case and showing her the hands. Sheimmediatelysnappeditshut,andthrust itbackathimtoreopen.“It’shardonViolet,youknow,”hesaidtoTom.

Tombrushedthegrassoffhistrousersashestoodup.“Whatis,Bill?”“BeingwithoutIsabel,andnow,missingoutonthislittleone…”Hepaused.

“There must be jobs you could get around Partageuse way… ? You’ve got auniversitydegree,forgoodness’sake…”

Tomshiftedhisweightuneasilytohisotherfoot.“Oh,Iknowwhattheysay—oncealightkeeper,alwaysalightkeeper.”“That’swhattheysay,”saidTom.

“Andisittrue?”“Moreorless.”“Butyoucouldleave?Ifyoureallywantedto?”Tomgaveitthoughtbeforereplying,“Bill,amancouldleavehiswife,ifhe

reallywantedto.Doesn’tmakeittherightthingtodo.”Billgavehimalook.“Hardlyfairtoletthemtrainyouup,gettheexperience,andthenleavethem

inthelurch.Andyougetusedtoit.”Heglancedupattheskyasheconsidered.“It’swhereIbelong.AndIsabellovesit.”

ThechildreachedoutherarmstoTom,whotransferredhertohishipinareflexmovement.

“Well,youmindyoulookaftermygirls.That’sallI’msaying.”“I’lldomybest.Ipromiseyouthat.”

ThemostimportantBoxingDaytraditioninPointPartageusewastheChurchFête. A gathering of residents from the town and far beyond, it had beenestablished long ago, by someone with an eye for business who had seen theadvantageofholdingthefund-raisingeventonadaywhennoonehadanexcusetosaytheyweretoobusywithworktoattend.And,itbeingstillChristmastime,theyhadnoexcusenottobegenerouseither.

As well as the sale of cakes and toffees, and jars of jam that occasionallyexplodedinthefiercesun,theeventwasfamousforitssportsandnoveltyevents:theeggandspoonrace,three-leggedrace,sackrace—allwerestaplesoftheday.Thecoconutshystill ran, thoughthey’dgivenupontheshootinggalleryafterthewar,becausethenewlyhonedskillsofthelocalmenmeantitstartedtolosemoney.

Theeventswereopentoall,andparticipationwassomethingofathree-linewhip.Familiesmadeadayof it, andpattiesandsausageswerebarbecuedoverhalfaforty-four-gallondrum,andsoldoffatsixpenceago.TomsatwithLucyand Isabel on a blanket in the shade, eating sausages in buns, while Lucydismantledherlunchandredistributeditontheplatebesideher.

“The boys were great runners,” Isabel said. “Even used to win the three-legged race.And I thinkMum’s still got the cup Iwon for the sack race oneyear.”

Tomsmiled.“Didn’tknowI’dmarriedachampionathlete.”Shegavehimaplayfulslaponthearm.“I’mjusttellingyoutheGraysmark

familylegends.”TomwasattendingtothemessthatthreatenedtospilloverfromLucy’splate

whenaboywithamarshal’srosetteappearedbesidethem.Claspingapadandpencil,hesaid,“’Scuseme.Thatyourbaby?”

ThequestionstartledTom.“Pardon?”“Justaskingifthat’syourbaby.”ThoughwordscamefromTom’smouth,theywereincoherent.TheboyturnedtoIsabel.“Thatyourbaby,Missus?”Isabel frowned for a second, and then gave a slow nod as she understood.

“Youontheround-upforthedads’race?”“That’sright.”HeliftedthepenciltothepageandaskedTom,“Howdoyou

spellyourname?”TomlookedagainatIsabel,buttherewasnotraceofdiscomfortinherface.

“Icanspellitifyou’veforgottenhow,”sheteased.Tom waited for her to understand his alarm, but her smile didn’t waver.

Finally,hesaid,“Notreallymystrongpoint,running.”“Butallthedadsdoit,”saidtheboy,atwhatwasclearlythefirstrefusalhe’d

comeacross.Tomchosehiswordscarefully.“Iwouldn’tmakethequalifyinground.”Astheboywanderedofftofindhisnextconscript,Isabelsaidlightly,“Never

mind,Lucy. I’ll go in themums’ race instead.At least one of your parents ispreparedtomakeafoolofthemselvesforyou.”ButTomdidn’treturnhersmile.

Dr.Sumptonwashedhishandsas,behindthecurtain,Isabeldressedagain.Shehad kept her promise to Tom to see the doctor while they were back inPartageuse.

“Nothingwrong,mechanicallyspeaking,”hesaid.“So?Whatisit?AmIsick?”“Not at all. It’s just the change of life,” the doctor said as hewrote up his

notes.“You’reluckyenoughtohaveababyalready,soit’snotashardonyouasit isonsomewomen,whenitcomesunusuallyearly likethis.Asfortheothersymptoms,well,I’mafraidyoujusthavetogrinandbearit.They’llpassinayearorso.It’sjustthewayofthings.”Hegaveherajollysmile.“Andthen,it’llbeablessedrelief:you’llbepastalltheproblemsofmenses.Somewomenwouldenvyyou.”

As shewalked back to her parents’ house, Isabel tried not to cry. She had

Lucy;shehadTom—ata timewhenmanywomenhad lost forever thosetheylovedmost.Itwouldbegreedytowantanythingmore.

A fewdays later,Tomsigned thepaperwork foranother three-year term.TheDistrictOfficer,whocamedownfromFremantletoseetotheformalities,againpaid close attention to his handwriting and signature, comparing them to hisoriginal documentation. Any sign of a tremor creeping into his hand and hewouldn’t be allowed back. Mercury poisoning was common enough: if theycould catch it at the stagewhere it just caused shaky handwriting, they couldavoidsendingoutakeeperwholikeasnotwouldbemadasameataxbytheendofhisnextstint.

CHAPTER15

Lucy’schristening,originallyarrangedforthefirstweekoftheirleave,hadbeenpostponedbecauseofthelengthy“indisposition”ofReverendNorkells.ItfinallytookplacethedaybeforetheirreturntoJanusinearlyJanuary.Thatscorchingmorning,RalphandHildawalkedtothechurchwithTomandIsabel.Theonlyshadetobehadwhiletheywaitedforthedoorstoopenwasunderaclusterofmalleetreesbesidethegravestones.

“Let’shopeNorkellsisn’tonanotherbender,”saidRalph.“Ralph! Really!” said Hilda. To change the subject, she tutted at a fresh

granitestoneafewfeetaway.“Suchashame.”“Whatis,Hilda?”askedIsabel.“Oh, thepoorbaby andher father, theones thatdrowned.At least they’ve

finallygotamemorial.”Isabel froze. For a moment, she feared she might faint, and the sounds

aroundherbecamedistantandthensuddenlybooming.Shestruggledtomakesenseofthebrightgoldlettersonthestone:“InlovingmemoryofFranzJohannesRoennfeldt,dearlybelovedhusbandofHannah,andoftheirpreciousdaughterGraceEllen.Watched over by God.” Then under that, “Selig Sind die da Leid tragen.”Freshflowerslayatthefootofthememorial.Withthisheat,theycouldn’thavebeenleftmorethananhourbefore.

“Whathappened?”sheasked,asatinglingspreadtoherhandsandfeet.“Ah,shocking,”saidRalphwithashakeofhishead.“HannahPottsaswas.”

Isabelrecognizedthenameimmediately.“SeptimusPotts,oldPottsofMoney,theycallhim.Richestfellaformiles.HecameherefromLondonfifty-oddyearsbackasanorphanwithnothing.Madeafortuneintimber.Wifediedwhenhistwogirlswereonlysmall.What’stheotherone’sname,Hilda?”

“Gwen.Hannah’stheoldest.BothwenttothatfancyboardingschoolupinPerth.”

“ThenafewyearsbackHannahwentandmarriedaHun…Well,oldPottswouldn’tspeaktoherafterthat.Cutoffthemoney.Theylivedinthatrun-down

cottage by the pumping station.Oldman finally came aroundwhen the babywasborn.Anyway, therewasabitof abarneyonAnzacDay,yearbefore lastnow—”

“Notnow,Ralph.”Hildacautionedwithalook.“Justtellingthem…”“This is hardly the time or the place.” She turned to Isabel. “Let’s just say

therewasamisunderstandingbetweenFrankRoennfeldtandsomeofthelocals,andheendedupjumpingintoarowingboatwiththebaby.They…well,theytookagainsthimbecausehewasGerman.Orasgoodas.Noneedtogointoallofthathere,atachristeningandall.Betterforgotten.”

Isabelhadstoppedtakingbreathsasshelistenedtothetale,andnowgaveaninvoluntarygaspasherbodyclamoredforair.

“Yes,Iknow!”Hildasaid,toshowheragreement.“Anditgetsworse…”TomglancedurgentlyatIsabel,hiseyeswide,sweatbeadingonhis lip.He

wonderedifitwaspossibleforotherstohearhisheartbeating,itwasthunderingsowildly.

“Well,theblokewasnosailor,”Ralphwenton.“Hadadickyheartsincehewasakid,byall accounts:hewasnomatch for thesecurrents.Stormblewupandnoonesawhidenorhairofthemagain.Musthavedrowned.OldmanPottsputup a reward for information: a thousandguineas!”Hegave a shakeof thehead. “That would’ve brought ’em out of the woodwork if anyone knewanything.Evenhadamindtolookforthemmyself!Mindyou—I’mnoBoche-lover.But thebaby…Barely twomonthsold.Youcan’thold itagainstababynow,canyou?Littlemite.”

“PoorHannahneverrecovered,”sighedHilda.“Herfatheronlypersuadedhertoputupthememorialafewmonthsago.”Shepausedasshepulledherglovesup.“Funnyhowlivesturnout,isn’tit?Borntomoremoneythanyoucanshakeastickat;wentallthewaytoSydneyUniversitytogetadegreeinsomethingorother;marriedtheloveofherlife—andyouseehernowsometimes,wanderingabout,likeshe’sgotnohometogoto.”

Now,Isabelfeltplungedintoice,astheflowersonthememorialtauntedher,threatenedherwiththeclosenessofthemother’spresence.Sheleanedagainstatree,dizzy.

“Areyouallright,dear?”askedHilda,concernedatthesuddenchangeinhercolor.

“Yes.It’sjusttheheat.I’llbeallrightinaminute.”Theheavyjarrahdoorsswungopenandthevicarsteppedoutofthechurch.

“Allreadyforthebigday,then?”heasked,wincingatthelight.

“We’vegottosaysomething!Now!Calloffthechristening…”Tom’svoicewaslowandurgentashefacedIsabelinthevestrywhileBillandVioletshowedofftheirgranddaughtertotheguestsinthechurch.

“Tom,wecan’t.”Herbreathwasshallowandherfacewaspale.“It’stoolate!”shesaid.

“Wehavetoputthisright!Wehavetotellpeople,now.”“Wecan’t!”Stillreeling,shecastaboutforanywordsthatmadesense.“We

can’tdo that toLucy!We’re theonlyparents she’s everknown.Besides,whatwouldwesay?ThatwesuddenlyrememberedIdidn’tactuallyhaveababy?”Herface turned gray. “What about the man’s body? It’s all gone too far.” Everyinstincttoldhertobuytime.Shewastooconfused,tooterrifiedtodoanythingelse.Shetriedtosoundcalm.“We’lltalkaboutitlater.Rightnowwehavetogothroughwiththechristening.”Ashaftoflightcaughtthesea-greenirisesofhereyes,andTomcouldseethefear inthem.Shetookasteptowardhimandhesprangback,asiftheywereopposingmagnets.

Thevicar’sfootstepsroseabovethemurmuroftheguestsinthechurchasheapproached. Tom’s head spun. “In sickness and in health. For better, forworse.”Thewords,utteredbyhiminthischurchyearsearlier,thuddedinhisskull.

“Allreadyforyou,”beamedthevicar.

“Haththischildalreadybeenbaptizedorno?”beganReverendNorkells.Thosegathered at the font replied, “No.”AlongsideTomand Isabel,Ralph stood asgodfather,Isabel’scousinFredaasgodmother.

Thegodparentsheldcandlesandintonedtheanswerstothevicar’squestions:“Dostthou,inthenameofthischild,renouncethedevilandallhisworks…?”

“Irenouncethemall,”thegodparentsrepliedinunison.Asthewordsechoedoffthesandstonewalls,Tomlookedsternlyathisshiny

newbootsandconcentratedonaburningblisteronhisheel.“WiltthouthenobedientlykeepGod’sholywillandcommandments…?”“Iwill.”Witheachpromise,Tomflexedhisfootagainstthestiff leather, immersing

himselfinthepain.Lucyseemedmesmerizedbythefireworksofthestained-glasswindows,and

it occurred to Isabel, even in her turmoil, that the child had never seen such

brilliantcolors.“OhmercifulGod,grantthattheoldAdaminthischildmaybesoburied,

thatthenewmanmayberaisedupinher…”Tom thought of the unmarked grave on Janus. He saw the face of Frank

Roennfeldtashehadcovereditwithcanvas—detached,expressionless—leavingTomtobehisownaccuser.

Outside, the noise of children playing French cricket in the churchplaygroundpepperedtheairwiththwacksandcriesof“Owzat?”Inthesecondrowofpews,HildaAddicottwhisperedtoherneighbor,“Look,Tom’sgotatearinhiseye.Now,that’sasoftheartforyou.Hemaylookagreatrockofaman,butit’sarealsofthearthe’sgot.”

Norkells took the child intohis arms and said toRalph andFreda, “Namethischild.”

“LucyViolet,”theysaid.“LucyViolet,IbaptizetheeinthenameoftheFather,andoftheSon,andof

theHolyGhost,”saidthepriest,pouringwaterontheheadofthelittlegirl,wholet out a shriek of protest, soon accompanied by Mrs. Rafferty coaxing“Crimond”outofthedecrepitwoodenorgan.

Before the service had finished, Isabel excused herself and hurried to theouthouseattheendofthepath.Thesmallbrickspacewasashotasanoven,andsheshooedawayfliesbeforeleaningovertoretchviolently.Ageckoclungtothewall,watchingherinsilence.Whenshepulledthechainitscampereduptothetinroof,tosafety.Assherejoinedherparents,shesaidweakly,“Upsettummy,”toheadoffhermother’s inquiries.HoldingoutherarmsforLucy,shehuggedhersotightthatthechildputherhandstoIsabel’schestandleveredherselfawayalittle.

AtthechristeninglunchatthePalaceHotel,Isabel’sfathersatatthetablewithViolet,whowaswearing her blue cotton shiftwith thewhite lace collar.Hercorsetwaspinching,andthebunintowhichshehadtidiedherhairwasgivingheraheadache.Shewasdetermined,however,thatnothingwouldspoilthisday—the christening of her first and, she now understood from Isabel, her onlygrandchild.

“Tomdoesn’tseemhisusualself,doeshe,Vi?Notusuallymuchofadrinker,but he’s on the whisky today.” Bill shrugged, as if to convince himself. “Justwettingthebaby’shead,Isuppose.”

“I think it’s just nerves—such a big day. Isabel’s come over all touchy too.Probablythattummytrouble.”

Over at the bar with Tom, Ralph said, “That little girl’s made all thedifferencetoyourmissus,hasn’tshe?She’slikeanewwoman.”

Tomturnedhisemptyglassroundandroundinhishands.“It’sbroughtoutadifferentsideofher,allright.”

“WhenIthinkbacktohowshelostthebaby…”Tomgavean imperceptible start,butRalphwenton, “…that first time. It

waslikeseeingaghostwhenIcameouttoJanus.Andthesecondwasworse.”“Yeah.Theywerehardtimesforher.”“Ohwell,Godcomesgoodintheend,doesn’the?”Ralphsmiled.“Doeshe,Ralph?Hecan’tcomegoodforeveryone,canhe?Couldn’tcome

goodforFritzaswellasus,say…”“That’snowaytobetalking,boy.He’scomegoodforyou!”Tomloosenedhistieandcollar—suddenlythebarfeltstifling.“Youallright,mate?”askedRalph.“Stuffyinhere.ThinkI’llgoforabitofawander.”Butoutsidewasnobetter.

Theair seemed solid, likemoltenglass that suffocatedhim rather than lettinghimbreathe.

IfhecouldtalktoIsabelalone,calmly…Thingswouldbeallright.Itcouldbe all right, somehow.Hedrewhimself up, taking a deepbreath, andwalkedslowlybackintothehotel.

“She’sfastasleep,”saidIsabelassheclosedthedoortothebedroom,wherethechildlaysurroundedbypillowstokeepherfromrollingofftheedgeofthebed.“She was so good today. Got through the whole christening, with all thosepeople.Onlycriedwhenshegotwet.”Asthedaywenton,hervoicehadlostthetremorithadacquiredwithHilda’srevelation.

“Oh,she’sanangel,” saidViolet, smiling. “Idon’tknowwhatwe’lldowithourselveswhenshegoesbacktomorrow.”

“Iknow.ButIpromiseI’llwrite,andtellyouallhernews,”Isabelsaid,andgaveasigh.“We’dbetterturnin,Isuppose.Gottobeupatthecrackofdawnfortheboat.Coming,Tom?”

Tomgaveanod.“Night,Violet.Night,Bill,”hesaid,andleftthemtotheirjigsawpuzzleashefollowedIsabelintothebedroom.

Itwasthefirsttimetheyhadbeenalonetogetherallday,andassoonasthe

doorwasclosed,hedemanded,“Whenarewegoingtotellthem?”Hisfacewastight,hisshouldersstiff.

“We’renot,”repliedIsabel,inanurgentwhisper.“Whatdoyoumean?”“Weneedtothink,Tom.Weneedtime.Wehavetoleavetomorrow.Allhell

will break loose if we say anything, and you’re supposed to be back on dutytomorrow night.We’ll work out what to do once we get back to Janus.Wemustn’trushintosomethingwe’llregret.”

“Izz,there’sawomanhereintownwhothinksherdaughter’sdeadwhenshe’salive;whodoesn’tknowwhathappenedtoherhusband.Godknowswhatshe’sbeenthrough.Thesoonerweputheroutofhermisery—”

“It’s all such a shock.We have to do the right thing, not just byHannahPotts,butbyLucyaswell.Please,Tom.Neitherofuscanthinkstraightatthemoment. Let’s take this slowly. Right now, let’s just try to get a bit of sleepbeforethemorning.”

“I’llturninlater,”hesaid,“Ineedsomefreshair,”andheslippedquietlyoutontothebackveranda,ignoringIsabel’spleatostay.

Outsideitwascooler,andTomsatinthedarknessinacanechair,hisheadinhis hands.Through the kitchenwindow,he couldhear the clack-clack asBillputthelastpiecesofthejigsawbackintoitswoodenbox.“IsabelseemssokeentogetbacktoJanus.Saysshe’snotgoodwithcrowdsanymore,”Billsaidasheputthelidon.“You’dbehard-pressedtomusterarealcrowdthissideofPerth.”

Violetwas trimming thewick of the kerosene lamp. “Well, she alwayswashighlystrung,”shemused.“Betweenyouandme,IthinkshejustwantstohaveLucyalltoherself.”Shesighed.“It’llbequietwithoutthelittleonearound.”

BillputhisarmaroundViolet’sshoulders.“Bringsbackmemories,doesn’tit?RememberHughandAlfiewhentheyweretots?Grandlittlefellas,theywere.”Hechuckled.“Rememberthattimetheyshutthecatinthecupboardfordays?”Hepaused. “It’snot the same, Iknow,butbeingagrandfather’s thenextbestthing,isn’tit?Thenextbestthingtohavingtheboysback.”

Violetlitthelamp.“ThereweretimesIdidn’tthinkwe’dgetthroughitall,Bill.Didn’tthinkwecouldeverhaveanotherday’shappiness.”Sheblewoutthematch.“Suchablessing,atlast.”Replacingtheglassshade,sheguidedthewaytobed.

ThewordsreverberatedinTom’smindashebreathedinthenightjasmine,

itssweetnessoblivioustohisdesperation.

CHAPTER16

The first night back on Janus, the wind howled around the lantern room,pushingatthethickpanesofglassinthetower,testingforsomeweakspot.AsTomlitup,hismindwentoverandovertheargumenthehadhadwithIsabelassoonasthestoreboathadleft.

Shehadbeenunmovable:“Wecan’tundowhat’shappened,Tom.Don’tyouthinkI’vebeentryingtofindananswer?”Shewasclaspingthedollshehadjustpickedupfromthefloor,huggingittoherchest.“Lucy’sahappy,healthylittlegirl.Rippingherawaynowwouldbe—ohTom,it’dbehorrible!”Shehadbeenfoldingsheetsintothelinenpress,pacingtoandfrobetweenthebasketandthecupboard.“Forbetterorworse,Tom,wedidwhatwedid.Lucyadoresyouandyouadoreherandyoudon’thavetherighttodepriveherofalovingfather.”

“Whataboutherlovingmother?Herlivingbloodymother!Howcanthisbefair,Izz?”

Her face flushed. “Do you think it’s fair thatwe lost three babies?Do youthinkit’sfairthatAlfieandHughareburiedthousandsofmilesawayandyou’rewalkingaroundwithout a scratch?Ofcourse it’snot fair,Tom,not fair at all!Wejusthavetotakewhatlifedishesup!”

ShehadlandedashotwhereTomwasmostvulnerable.Alltheseyearslater,he could not shed that sickening sensation of having cheated—not cheateddeath, but cheated his comrades, having come through unscathed at theirexpense,eventhoughlogictoldhimitwasnothingbutluckonewayoranother.Isabelcould see that shehadwindedhim,andsoftened. “Tom,wehave todowhat’sright—forLucy.”

“Izzy,please.”Shecutacrosshim. “Notanotherword,Tom!Theonly thingwecando is

love that little girl as much as she deserves. And never, never hurt her!”Clutchingthedoll,shehurriedfromtheroom.

Now,ashe lookedoutover theocean,blusteryandwhippedwhitewithfoam,

thedarknesswasclosinginonallsides.Thelinebetweentheoceanandtheskybecameharder to judge,as the light falteredsecondbysecond.Thebarometerwas falling. There would be a storm beforemorning. Tom checked the brasshandleonthedoortothegallery,andwatchedthelightturn,steady,impervious.

AsTomattendedtothelightthatevening,IsabelsatbesideLucy’scot,watchingherdriftintosleep.Ithadtakenallherstrengthtogetthroughtheday,andherthoughtsstillswirledlikethegatheringstormoutside.Now,shesang,almostinawhisper,thelullabyLucyalwaysinsistedon.“Blowthewindsoutherly,southerly,southerly…”Hervoicestruggledtokeepthetune.“Istoodbythelighthousethelasttimeweparted,Tilldarknesscamedowno’erthedeeprollingsea,AndnolongerIsawthebrightbarkofmylover…”

WhenLucyfinallynoddedoff,Isabelopenedherlittlefingerstoremovethepinkshellthechildhadbeenclasping.Thenauseathathadbeenwithhersincethemomentbythememorialstoneintensified,andshefoughtitbytracingthespiraloftheshellwithherfinger,seekingcomfortinitsperfectsmoothness,itsexact proportions.The creature that hadmade itwas long dead, and had leftonlythissculpture.ThenthethoughttauntedherthatHannahPotts’shusband,too,hadlefthislivingsculpture,thislittlegirl.

Lucy flung an arm above her head and a frown crossed her features for amoment,asherfingersclosedtightaroundthemissingshell.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you, darling. I promise to keep you safe, always,”Isabelmurmured.Thenshedidathingshehadnotdoneforsomeyears.Shegotdownonherknees,andbowedherhead.“God,Icanneverhopetounderstandyourmystery.Icanonlytrytobeworthyofwhatyou’vecalledmetodo.Giveme the strength I need to carry on.” For a moment, doubt came roaring in,shakingherframe,untilshemanagedtoanchoragaintherhythmofherbreath.“HannahPotts—HannahRoennfeldt,”shesaid,adjustingtotheidea,“issafelyinyour hands too, I know.Grant us peace.All of us.” She listened to thewindoutside,andtotheocean,andfeltthedistancerestoringthesenseofsafetythatthepasttwodayshadstrippedaway.SheputtheshellbesideLucy’sbed,whereshecouldfinditeasilywhenshewoke,andlefttheroomquietly,newlyresolved.

ForHannahRoennfeldt,theJanuaryMondaythatfollowedthechristeninghadbeenamomentousone.

When she went to the letterbox, she expected to find it empty: she had

checkeditthepreviousdayaspartoftheritualshehadcraftedtopassthehourssincethatterribleAnzacDayeveningnearlytwoyearsearlier.First,shewouldcallatthepolicestation,sometimesgivingnomorethanaquestioninglook,towhich the constable, Harry Garstone, would reply with a silent shake of thehead.Asshewalkedout,hiscolleagueConstableLynchmightcomment,“Poorwoman. Fancy ending up like that…” and he too would shake his head, andcarryonwithhispaperwork.Eachdayshewouldwalktoadifferentpartofthebeachinsearchofasign,aclue—bitsofdriftwood,afragmentofmetalfromarowlock.

She would draw from her pocket a letter to her husband and child.Occasionally she enclosed things—a cutting from a newspaper about a circuscoming to town;anursery rhymeshehadwrittenbyhandanddecoratedwithcolors. She would cast the letter into the waves in the hope that, as the inkseepedfromtheenvelope,somewhere,inoneoranotheroftheoceans,itwouldbeabsorbedbyherlovedones.

Onthewaybackshewouldcallatthechurchandsitsilentlyinthelastpew,nearthestatueofSt.Jude.Sometimesshewouldstayuntilthemarritreeslaidtheir lanky shadows across the stained glass, and her votive candleswere coldpuddlesofhardwax.Here,somehowFrankandGracestillexisted,foraslongasshe sat in the shadows.When she could avoid it no longer, shewould returnhome, opening the letterbox only once she felt strong enough to face thedisappointmentofitsemptiness.

Fortwoyears,shehadwrittentoanyoneshecouldthinkof—hospitals,portauthorities,seafaringmissions:anyonewhomighthaveheardtellofasighting—buthadreceivedonlycourteousassurancesthattheywouldletherknowifanynewsofhermissinghusbandanddaughtercametheirway.

That Januarymorningwas hot, andmagpies caroled theirwaterfall song—notes that fell in splashes over gum trees beneath the bleached azure sky.Hannahambledthefewyardsfromthefrontverandadowntheflagstonepathasthough in a trance. She had long ceased to notice the gardenia and thestephanotisandtheprofferedconsolationoftheirsweet,creamyscent.Therustyiron letterbox creaked as she coaxed it open—itwas asweary and reluctant tomoveasshe.Insidewasascrapofwhite.Sheblinked.Aletter.

Alreadyasnailhadetchedafiligreetrackacrossit,thepaperglisteninglikearainbowaroundthepartsithadeaten:justonetrailacrossthecorner.Therewasnostamp,andthehandwasmeasuredandfirm.

Shebrought it insideandplaced iton thedining table, liningup itsborder

withthewood’sgleamingedge.Shesatinfrontofitalongwhile,beforetakingup the pearl-handled letter opener to slit the envelope, careful not to tearwhateverwasinside.

Shedrewoutthepaper,asmall,singlesheet,whichread:

Don’t fret forher.Thebaby is safe.Lovedandwell cared for,andalwayswillbe.YourhusbandisatpeaceinGod’shands.Ihopethisbringsyoucomfort.

Prayforme.

Thehousewasdark,thebrocadecurtainsdrawnasashieldagainstthefiercebrightness. Cicadas rasped in the grapevine on the back veranda at such aferociouspitchthatHannah’searsbuzzed.

She studied the handwriting. The words formed before her eyes, but shecould not quite un-jumble them. Her heart hammered at her lungs and shestruggled to breathe. She had half expected the letter to disappear when sheopened it—that sortof thinghadhappenedbefore: catching sightofGrace inthestreet,perhaps,thepinkflashofoneofherbabydresses,thenfindingitwasmerelyaparcelofthesamecolor,orawoman’sskirt;glimpsingthesilhouetteofamanshewouldhaveswornwasherhusband,tugginghissleeveeven,tobemetwith the bewildered expression of someone who was nomore similar to himthanchalktocheese.

“Gwen?”shecalled,whenshecouldfinallymusterwords.“Gwen,couldyoucomeinhereaminute?”Shesummonedhersisterfromherbedroom,afraidthatifshemovedamusclethelettermightevaporate—thatitmightalljustbeatrickofthegloom.

Gwenwasstillcarryingherembroidery.“Wereyoucallingme,Hanny?”Hannahdidnotspeak,justnoddedwarilytowardtheletter.Hersisterpicked

itup.“Atleast,”Hannahthought,“I’mnotimaginingit.”

Within an hour they had left the simple wooden cottage for Bermondsey,SeptimusPotts’sstonemansiononthehillattheedgeofthetown.

“Anditwasjustthere,intheletterbox,today?”heasked.“Yes,”saidHannah,stillbewildered.“Who’ddoathinglikethis,Dad?”askedGwen.“SomeonewhoknewGracewasalive,ofcourse!”saidHannah.Shedidnot

seethelookthatflashedbetweenherfatherandsister.

“Hannah,dear,it’sbeenaverylongtime,”saidSeptimus.“Iknowthat!”“He’sjustsaying,”Gwensaid,“well,thatit’soddnottohaveheardsomething

sooner,andthentogetthisoutoftheblue.”“Butit’ssomething!”saidHannah.“Oh,Hanny,”saidGwen,shakingherhead.

Laterthatday,SergeantKnuckey,theseniorpolicemaninPointPartageuse,satawkwardlyonasquatgrandmother-chair,balancingadaintyteacuponhisbroadkneeashetriedtotakenotes.

“Andyoudidn’tseeanyoneunusualaroundthehouse,MissPotts?”heaskedGwen.

“Noone.”Sheputthemilkjugbackontheoccasionaltable.“Noonecomestocall,usually,”shesaid.

Hejottedsomethingdown.“Well?”Knuckey realizedSeptimuswasaddressingaquestion tohim.Heexamined

theletteragain.Neathandwriting.Plainpaper.Notposted.Fromalocal?Lordknewtherewerestillpeopleabout theplacewho’d takecomfort inwatchingaHun-lover suffer. “Not much to go on, I’m afraid.” He listened patiently toHannah’sprotests that surely itmustcontainclues.Henoticed that the fatherandsister lookedabitawkward, likewhenamadauntstartsupaboutJesusatthedinnertable.

AsSeptimusshowedhimtothedoor,thesergeantreplacedhishatandsaidquietly,“Acruelpieceofmischief-making,lookslike.Ireckonit’sabouttimetobury the hatchet against Fritz. All a filthy business, but there’s no need forpranks like this. I’dkeep itunderyourhat, thenote.Don’twant toencouragecopycats.”HeshookhandswithSeptimusandmadehiswayupthelong,gum-lineddrive.

Backinhisstudy,SeptimusputahandonHannah’sshoulder.“Comeon,girlie,chinup.Mustn’tletthisgetthebetterofyou.”

“ButIdon’tunderstand,Dad.Shemustbealive!Whywouldsomeonebothertowriteanotelyingaboutsomethinglikethat,completelyoutoftheblue?”

“Itellyouwhat,sweetheart,what’ssayIdoublethereward?I’llmakeittwothousand guineas. If anyone really knows anything, we’ll soon find out.” As

Septimuspouredhisdaughteranothercupoftea,hewas,foronce,notpleasedthathewasunlikelytobepartedwithhismoney.

Although the figure of Septimus Potts loomed large in business roundPartageuseway,thereweren’tmanywhocouldsaytheyknewhimwell.Hewasfiercely protective of his family, but his chief opponent was, and always hadbeen, Fate. Septimus was five years old when, in 1869, he disembarked atFremantlefromtheQueenofCairo.AroundhisneckheworethelittlewoodensignhismotherhadplacedthereasshekissedhimadistraughtfarewellonthedockinLondon.Itread:“IamagoodChristianboy.Pleasetakecareofme.”

Septimuswas the seventh and last child of aBermondsey ironmongerwhowaitedonly threedays after thebaby’sbirthbeforedeparting thisworldunderthehoovesof a runaway carthorse.Hismotherhaddoneherbest tokeep thefamilytogether,butafterafewyears,asconsumptionburrowedawayather,sheknewshehadtosecureherchildren’sfuture.ShedispatchedasmanyofthemasshecouldtorelativesaroundandaboutLondon,wheretheycouldbefreehelptothepeoplewhotookthemin.Butherlastbornwastooyoungtobeanythingbuta drain on scarce resources, and one of his mother’s last acts was to securepassagetoWesternAustraliaforhim,alone.

Asheputitdecadeslater,thatsortofexperienceeithergivesyouatastefordeath, or a thirst for life, and he reckoned death would come calling soonenough anyway. So when he was gathered up by a round, sunburned womanfromtheSeafarer’sMission,andsenttoa“goodhome”intheSouthWest,hewent without complaint or question: who would have listened to either? Hestarted a new life inKojonup, a townwell east of Partageuse,withWalt andSarahFlindell,acouplewhoekedoutalivingassandalwoodpullers.Theywerea good sort of people, but shrewd enough to know that being so light,sandalwoodcouldbeloadedandmaneuveredevenbyachild,sotheyagreedtotakethelittleboyin.AsforSeptimus,afterhistimeontheship,havingafloorthat stayed still and people who didn’t begrudge you your daily bread wasparadise.

SoSeptimusgottoknowthisnewcountrytowhichhehadbeenshippedlikeaparcelwithoutanaddress,andgrewtoloveWaltandSarahandtheirpracticalways. The little hut on their patch of cleared land had neither glass in thewindows nor running water, but, in the early days, somehow there alwaysseemedtobeenoughofwhatwasneeded.

Wheneventuallytheprecioussandalwood,sometimesworthmorethangold,wasvirtuallywipedoutbyover-harvesting,WaltandSeptimusturnedinsteadtowork on the new timber mills that were opening up around Partageuse. Thebuildingofnewlighthousesalongthecoastmeantthatshippingcargoalongthatroutechanged froma sheergamble toanacceptablecommercial risk,andnewrailways and jetties allowed the forests to be chopped up and shipped out toanywhereintheworld,rightfromtheirdoorstep.

Septimus worked like a devil and said his prayers, and cadged reading andwritinglessonsfromthePastor’swifeonSaturdays.Heneverspentahalfpennyhe didn’t have to, and never missed an opportunity to make one. The thingaboutSeptimuswas,heseemedtoseeopportunitieswhereotherpeoplecouldn’t.Thoughhegrewtonomorethanfivefootseveninhisboots,hecarriedhimselflikeamuchbiggerman,andalwaysdressedasrespectablyasfundsallowed.Attimes thismeanthe lookedalmostdapper,andat thevery least itmeantcleanclothesforchurchonSunday,evenifhe’dhadtowashthematmidnighttogetthesawdustoutofthemafteranall-dayshift.

All of this stood him in good steadwhen, in 1892, a newlymade baronetfromBirminghamwaspassingthroughthecolonyinsearchofsomewhereexotictoinvestalittlecapital.Septimusseizedthechancetomakeastartinbusiness,andconvincedthebaronettoputupthemoneyforasmalllanddeal.Septimussmartlytrebledtheinvestment,andbycarefulriskandshrewdre-investmentofhiscut,soonsethimselfupinbusinessinhisownright.BythetimethecolonyjoinedthenewlyformednationofAustralia in1901,hewasoneoftherichesttimbermenformilesaround.

Timeshadbeenprosperous.SeptimushadmarriedEllen, adebutante fromPerth.Hannah andGwenwere born, and their home,Bermondsey, became awatchwordforstyleandsuccessintheSouthWest.Then,atoneofherfamouspicnicsinthebush,servedonadazzleoflinenandsilver,hischerishedwifewasbittenjustabovetheankleofherpalekidbootbyadugite,anddiedwithinthehour.

Life,thoughtSeptimus,whenhisdaughtershadreturnedtothecottagethedaythemysterious letter arrived: you could never trust the bastard.What it giveswith one hand, it takes away with the other. Finally reconciled withHannahwhen her baby was born, then the husband and child disa-bloody-ppear into

nowhere, leaving his daughter a wreck. Now some troublemaker was stirringthings up again. Well, you just had to count your blessings and be thankfulthingsweren’tworse.

SergeantKnuckeysatathisdesk,tappinghispencilonhisblotter,watchingthetinyleadtrails.Poorbloodywoman.Whocouldblameherforwantingthebabytobealive?His Irene still cried sometimesaboutyoungBilly, and ithadbeentwentyyearssincehe’ddrownedasatot.They’dhadfivemorekidssincethen,butitwasneverfaraway,thesadness.

Really, though, therewasn’t a snowflake’s chance in hell that the babywasstillalive.Allthesame,hetookafreshsheetofpaperandstartedonareportoftheincident.TheRoennfeldtwomandeservedtheformalities,atleast.

CHAPTER17

YourhusbandisatpeaceinGod’shands.”HannahRoennfeldtrunsoverthephraseagainandagainonthedayofthemysteriousletter.Graceisalive,butFrankisdead.Shewantstobeabletobelievetheoneandnottheother.Frank.Franz.She recalls the gentlemanwhose lifewas turned upside down somany timesalongthecuriouspathwhichsomehowledhimtoher.

ThefirstreversesawhimrippedfromhislifeofprivilegeinViennaasaboyof sixteen,ashis father’sgamblingdebtsdrove themall theway to relatives inKalgoorlie, a place so remote fromAustria that even themost ardent creditorwouldgiveupthechase.Fromluxurytoausterity,thesontakingonthetradeofbakerintheshoprunbyhisuncleandaunt,whosincetheirarrivalyearsbeforehadchanged fromFritzandMitzie intoCliveandMillie. Itwas important toblend in, they said.Hismotherunderstood this,buthis father,with theprideandstubbornness thathad triggeredhis financial ruin, resistedadaptation,andwithintheyearhadthrownhimselfunderatrainboundforPerth,leavingFrankasheadofthehousehold.

Months later,warbrought internmentasanenemyalien—firstonRottnestIsland, then over East—for this boy who was now not simply uprooted andbereaved,butdespised,forthingsdonefarawayandbeyondhiscontrol.

And never once had he complained, thoughtHannah. Frank’s ready, opensmilewasundiminishedbythetimeshemethiminPartageusein1922,whenhecametoworkinthebakery.

She remembered the first time she had seen him, on themain street. ThespringmorningwassunnybutOctoberstillbroughtanipwithit.Hehadsmiledather,andprofferedashawlsherecognizedasherown.

“Youleftitinthebookshop,justnow,”hesaid.“Thankyou.That’sverykind.”“It isabeautifulshawl,withsuchembroidery.Mymotherusedtohaveone

like it. Chinese silk is very costly: it would be a pity to lose it.” He gave arespectfulnod,andturnedtogo.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” said Hannah. Nor had she heard hischarmingaccent.

“I have just started at the baker’s. I amFrankRoennfeldt.Pleased tomeetyou,ma’am.”

“Well,welcometoPartageuse,Mr.Roennfeldt.Ihopeyou’lllikeithere.I’mHannah Potts.” She rearranged her parcels, trying to pull the shawl over hershoulders.

“Please,allowme,”hehadsaid,drapingitaroundherinonefluidmovement.“Iwishyouanexcellentday.”Again,heflashedanopensmile.Thesuncaughttheblueofhiseyesandmadehisfairhairshine.

As shecrossed the street toherwaiting sulky, shenoticedawomannearbygiveherapiercinglookandspitonthepavement.Hannahwasshocked,butsaidnothing.

Afewweekslater,shevisitedMaisieMcPhee’slittlebookshoponceagain.Assheentered,shesawFrankstandingatthecounter,underattackfromamatronwhowaswavinghersticktomakeherpoint.“Theveryidea,MaisieMcPhee!”the woman was declaring. “The very notion that you could sell books thatsupport theBoche. I lost a son and a grandson to those animals, and I don’texpecttoseeyou,sendingthemmoneylikeaRedCrossparcel.”

AsMaisie stood speechless,Frank said, “I amsorry if I causedanyoffense,ma’am. It is not Miss McPhee’s fault.” He smiled and held the open booktowardher.“Yousee?Itisonlypoetry.”

“Only poetry, my foot!” the woman snapped, thumping her stick on theground.“Notadecentwordevercameoutoftheirmouths!I’dheardwehadaHunintown,butIdidn’tthinkyou’dbeboldenoughtorubitinourfaceslikethis! And as for you, Maisie!” She faced the counter. “Your father must beturninginhisblessedgrave.”

“Please,Iamverysorry,”saidFrank.“MissMcPhee,pleasekeepthebook.Ididnotmeantooffendanyone.”Heputaten-shillingnoteonthecounterandwalkedout, brushingpastHannahwithoutnoticingher.Thewoman stormedoutafterhim,clackingherwaydownthestreetintheoppositedirection.

Maisie and Hannah looked at one another for a moment, before theshopkeeperassembledabrightsmileandsaid,“Gotyourlistthere,MissPotts?”

AsMaisie ranher eyedown thepage,Hannah’s attentionwandered to theabandonedbook.Shewascurioushowthedaintyvolumeboundinforest-greenleather could have caused such offense. Opening it, the Gothic print on theflyleafcaughthereye:“DasStundenBuch—RainerMariaRilke.”Shehadlearned

GermanatschoolalongwithherFrench,andhadheardofRilke.“And,”shesaid,takingouttwopoundnotes,“doyoumindifItakethisbook

too?”WhenMaisielookedatherinsurprise,Hannahsaid,“It’sabouttimeweallputthepastbehindus,don’tyouthink?”

Theshopkeeperwrappeditinbrownpaperandtieditwithstring.“Well,tobehonest,itsavesmetryingtosenditbacktoGermany.Nooneelse’llbuyit.”

At the baker’s a few moments later, Hannah put the little parcel on thecounter. “Iwonder if you could give this toMr.Roennfeldt please.He left itbehindatthebookshop.”

“He’souttheback.I’llgivehimacooee.”“Oh,there’snoneed.Thanksverymuch,”shesaid,andlefttheshopbefore

hehadachancetosayanythingelse.Afewdayslater,Frankcalledonhertothankherinpersonforherkindness,

andherlifebegananewpath,whichatfirstseemedlikethemostfortunateshecouldhavedreamedof.

SeptimusPotts’sdelightattheinklingthathisdaughterhadfoundalocalmanto step outwith turned to dismaywhen he learned hewas the baker. But herememberedhis ownhumblebeginnings, andwasdeterminednot tohold theman’s trade against him. When, however, he found out he was German, orpracticallyGerman,hisdismaybecamedisgust.ThespatswithHannahthathadstartedsoonafterthecourtshipbeganmadeeachofthem,stubborninheartandhead,moreentrenchedintheirposition.

Within twomonths, thingshad come to a head.SeptimusPotts paced thedrawingroom,tryingtotakeinthenews.“Areyououtofyourmind,girl?”

“It’swhatIwant,Dad.”“MarryingaHun!”HeglancedatEllen’sphotoinitsornatesilverframeon

themantelpiece. “Yourmotherwouldnever forgiveme, fora start! IpromisedherI’dbringyouupproperly…”

“Andyouhave,Dad,youhave.”“Wellsomethingwentupthespoutifyou’retalkingabouthitchingupwitha

Germanbloodybaker.”“He’sAustrian.”“Whatdifferencedoesthatmake?DoIhavetotakeyoudowntotheRepat

Home,andshowyoutheboysstillgibberinglikeidiotsbecauseofthegas?Meofallpeople—Ipaidforthebloodyhospital!”

“You know full well Frank wasn’t even in the war—he was interned.He’sneverhurtasoul.”

“Hannah, show some sense.You’re a decent-looking girl.There’s plenty offellows hereabouts—hell, in Perth or Sydney or even Melbourne—would behonoredtohaveyouasawife.”

“Honoredtohaveyourmoney,youmean.”“Sowe’rebackonthatnow,arewe?You’retoogoodformymoney,areyou,

mylass?”“It’snotthat,Dad…”“Iworked like a dog to getwhere I am. I’mnot ashamedofwhat I amor

whereIcamefrom.Butyou—you’vegotachanceofsomethingbetter.”“Ijustwantachancetolivemyownlife.”“Look,ifyouwanttodocharityworkyoucangoandliveoutwiththenatives

onthemission.Orwork intheorphanage.Youdon’thavetobloodymarry it,yourcharitycareer.”

Hisdaughter’s facewas red,herheart racingat this last slight—notonlyattheoutrageofit,butsomewherebeneaththat,attheunformedfearthatitmightbetrue.WhatifshehadonlysaidyestoFranktospitethesuitorswhochasedhermoney?Orifshewasjustwantingtomakeuptohimforallhehadsuffered?Thenshethoughtofhowhissmilemadeherfeel,andthatwayheliftedhischintoconsiderthingssheaskedhim,andfeltreassured.

“He’sadecentman,Dad.Givehimachance.”“Hannah.”Septimusputahandonher shoulder. “Youknowyoumean the

worldtome.”Hestrokedherhead.“Youwouldn’t letyourmotherbrushyourhair,asalittle’un,didyouknowthat?You’dsay,‘Pa!IwantPatodoit!’AndIwould.You’dsitonmykneebythefireintheevening,andI’dbrushyourhairwhile the crumpets toasted on the flames. We’d make sure Mum didn’t seewhere thebutterhaddrippedonyourdress.Andyourhairwould shine likeaPersianprincess.

“Justwait.Justawhile,”herfatherpleaded.Ifallheneededwastimetogetusedtotheidea,timetofeeldifferentlyabout

it…Hannahwas about to concede,whenhe continued, “You’ll see thingsmyway, see you’remaking a badmistake”—he took one of the deep, puffed-outbreathssheassociatedwithhisbusinessdecisions—“andyou’llthankyourluckystarsItalkedyououtofit.”

Shepulledaway. “Iwon’tbepartronized.Youcan’t stopmefrommarryingFrank.”

“Can’tsaveyoufromit,youmean.”“I’moldenoughtomarrywithoutyourconsentandIwillifIwant.”“Youmaynotgiveadamnwhat thiswillmean forme,buthavea care for

yoursister.Youknowhowfolksroundherewilltakethis.”“Folksroundherearexenophobichypocrites!”“Oh, thatuniversity educationwaswortheverypenny.Sonowyoucanput

yourfatherdownwithyourfancywords.”Helookedherstraightintheeye.“IneverthoughtI’dhearmyselfsaythis,mygirl,butifyoumarrythatmanitwillbewithoutmyblessing.Andwithoutmymoney.”

With thecomposure thathad firstdrawnSeptimus tohermother,Hannahstoodstraightandverystill.“Ifthat’showyouwantittobe,Dad,that’showitwillbe.”

Followingasmallwedding,whichSeptimusrefusedtoattend,thecouplelivedinFrank’sricketyclapboardhouseattheedgeofthetown.Lifewasfrugal,therewas no doubt. Hannah gave piano lessons and taught some of the timberworkerstoreadandwrite.Oneortwotookanastypleasureinthethoughtthatthey employed, if just for an hour a week, the daughter of the man whoemployed them. But by and large, people respected Hannah’s kindness andstraightforwardcourtesy.

She was happy. She had found a husband who seemed to understand hercompletely,whocoulddiscussphilosophyandclassicalmythology,whosesmiledispersedworryandmadehardshipeasytobear.

Astheyearspassed,ameasureoftolerancewasaffordedtothebakerwhoseaccentneverentirelydisappeared.Some,likeBillyWishart’swife,orJoeRaffertyandhismother, stillmadeaperformanceof crossing the streetwhen they sawhim,butmostly,thingssettleddown.By1925,HannahandFrankdecidedthatlifewascertainenough,money secureenough, tobringababy into theworld,andinFebruary1926theirdaughterwasborn.

Hannah recalledFrank’s lilting tenorvoice, ashe rocked thecradle. “Schlaf,Kindlein,schlaf.DeinVaterhüt’dieSchaf.DieMutterschüttelt’sBäumelein,dafälltherabeinTräumelein.Schlaf,Kindlein,schlaf.”

In that little roomlitbyaparaffin lamp,withaback thatwasaching,onachairthatneededmending,hehadtoldher,“Icannotimagineamorefortunateexistence.” The glow in his face was not from the lamp but from the tinycreatureinthecot,whosebreathingmadethattelltalechangeinrhythmasshe

finallysurrenderedtosleep.

ThatMarch,thealtarhadbeendecoratedwithvasesofdaisiesandstephanotisfromFrankandHannah’sgarden,andthesweetscentfloatedallthewayacrossthe empty pews to the back of the church. Hannah wore pale blue with amatching low-brimmedfelthat,andFrankhisweddingsuit,whichstill fitted,four years on. His cousin Bettina and her husband, Wilf, had come fromKalgoorlie to be godparents, and smiled indulgently at the tiny infant inHannah’sarms.

ReverendNorkellsstoodbesidethefont,fumblingslightlyashepulledoneofthebrightlycoloredtassels toturntothecorrectpageof thebaptismrite.Theclumsinessmayhavebeenconnectedtothewhiffofalcoholonhisbreath.“Haththischildalreadybeenbaptizedorno?”hebegan.

It was a hot, brooding Saturday afternoon. A fat blowfly buzzed about,coming in periodically to drink at the font, only to be chased away by thegodparents.Itcameinoncetoooftenand,swattedbyWilfwithhiswife’sfan,plummetedintotheholywaterlikeadrunkintoaditch.Thevicarfisheditoutwithoutapauseasheasked,“Dostthou,inthenameofthischild,renouncethedevilandallhisworks…?”

“Irenouncethemall,”thegodparentsrepliedinunison.Astheyspoke,thedoortothechurchcreakedinresponsetoatentativepush.

Hannah’sheart lifted at the sightofher father, ledbyGwen,makinghiswayslowlytokneelinthelastpew.Hannahandherfatherhadnotspokensincetheday she lefthome tobemarried, and shehad expectedhim to respond to thechristening invitation in the usual way—with silence. “I’ll try,Hanny,”Gwenhad promised. “But you knowwhat a stubborn oldmule he is. I promise youthis,though.I’llbethere,whateverhesays.Thishasgoneonlongenough.”

Now Frank turned to Hannah. “You see?” he whispered. “God makeseverythingworkoutinhisowntime.”

“OhmercifulGod,grantthattheoldAdaminthischildmaybesoburied,that thenewmanmayberaisedup inher…”Thewordsechoedoff thewalls,andthebabysnuffledandwriggledashermotherheldher.Whenshestartedtogrizzle,Hannahputtheknuckleofherlittlefingertothetinylips,whichsuckedcontentedly. The rite continued, and Norkells took the child and said to thegodparents,“Namethischild.”

“GraceEllen.”

“GraceEllen,IbaptizetheeinthenameoftheFather,andoftheSon,andoftheHolyGhost.”

Throughout the restof the service, the infant stared at thebrightly coloredglass in thewindows, as fascinated as shewouldbewhen, twoyears later, shegazedatitagainfrombesidethefont,inanotherwoman’sarms.

When it was over, Septimus remained in his pew.AsHannahwalked slowlydowntheaisle,thebabystirredinherblanket,windingherheadalittlethiswayandthat.Hannahstoppedbesideherfather,whostoodupassheofferedhimhisgrandchild.Hehesitated,beforeputtingouthisarmstocradlethebaby.

“Grace Ellen. Your mother would be touched,” was all he could managebeforeatearescaped,andhegazedwithaweatthechild.

Hannahtookhisarm.“ComeandseeFrank,”shesaid,assheledhimuptheaisle.

“Please, I’d likeyou tocome in,”Hannah said later, asher father stoodathergate with Gwen. Septimus was hesitant. The little clapboard cottage, barelymore than a shack, reminded him of the Flindells’ lean-to affair in which hegrewup.Goingthroughthedoortookhimbackfiftyyearsinacoupleofsteps.

In the front room, he talked stiffly but politely to Frank’s cousins. HecomplimentedFrank on the excellent christening cake, and the small but fineassortmentoffood.Outofthecornerofhiseyehekeptsizingupthecracksintheplaster,theholesintherug.

Ashewas leaving,hedrewHannahasideand tookouthiswallet. “Letmegiveyoualittlesomethingfor—”

Hannah gently pushedhis handbackdown. “It’s all right,Dad.Wedo allright,”shesaid.

“Ofcourseyoudo.Butnowthatyou’vegotalittleone…”Sheputahandonhisarm.“Really.It’skindofyou,butwecanmanageon

ourown.Comeandvisitsoon.”He smiled andkissed thebabyon the forehead, thenhisdaughter. “Thank

you,Hanny.”Theninhardlymorethanamumble,hesaid,“Ellenwouldhavewantedhergranddaughterwatchedover.AndI’ve—I’vemissedyou.”

Within a week, gifts for the baby were being delivered from Perth, fromSydneyandbeyond.Acot,amahoganychestofdrawers.Dressesandbonnetsand things for thebath.ThegranddaughterofSeptimusPottswouldhave the

bestthatmoneycouldbuy.

“Your husband is at peace in God’s hands.” Because of the letter, Hannah goesthroughbothamourninganda renewal.Godhas takenherhusband,buthassaved her daughter. She weeps not just with sorrow, but with shame, at hermemoriesofthatday.

Thetowndrawsaveilovercertainevents.Thisisasmallcommunity,whereeveryone knows that sometimes the contract to forget is as important as anypromise to remember. Children can grow up having no knowledge of theindiscretionof their father inhisyouth,orof the illegitimatesiblingwho livesfiftymilesawayandbearsanotherman’sname.Historyisthatwhichisagreeduponbymutualconsent.

That’s how life goes on—protected by the silence that anesthetizes shame.Menwhocameback fromthewarwithstories theycouldhave toldabout thedesperate failings of comrades at the point of death say only that they diedbravely.To the outsideworld, no soldier ever visited a brothel or acted like asavage or ran and hid from the enemy. Being over there was punishmentenough.Whenwives have to hide themortgagemoney or the kitchen knivesfrom a husband who’s lost the thread, they do it without a word, sometimesacknowledgingitnoteventothemselves.

So for Hannah Roennfeldt, her memory of losing Frank is one she haslearnedshecansharewithnoone.“Rakingovercoals—what’sthegoodofthat?”peoplewouldsay,anxioustoreturntotheircivilizedpictureoflifeinPartageuse.ButHannahremembers.

AnzacDay.Thepubsarefull—fullofmenwhowerethere,orwholostbrothersthere; fellows back fromGallipoli and the Somme and still not over the shellshockandthemustardgas,eventenyearson.Thetwenty-fifthofApril,1926.Theslytwo-upgamesgooninthebackbar,wherethepoliceturnablindeyeforthisonedayoftheyear.Hell,thepolicejoinin—itwastheirwartoo.AndtheEmuBitterflowsandthetalkgetslouder,thesongssaucier.There’salottoforget.Theycamebacktotheirworkonfarms,totheirworkbehinddesksandinfrontofclasses,andtheygotonwith it—justbloodygotonwith itbecausethere was no choice. And the more they drink, the harder the forgettingbecomes,themoretheywanttotakeaswingatsomething,oratsomeone—fairandsquare,mantoman.BloodyTurks.BloodyHuns.Bloodybastards.

AndFrankRoennfeldtwilldoaswellasanything.TheonlyGermanintown,excepthe’sAustrian.He’s thenearest thing to the enemy they can find, so astheyseehimwalkingdownthestreetwithHannahatdusk,theystarttowhistle“Tipperary.”Hannah looks nervous, and stumbles. Frank instantly takes babyGraceintohisarms,snatchesthecardigandrapedonhiswife’sarmtocoverher,andtheywalkmorequickly,headsdown.

Theboysinthepubdecidethisisafinesport,andspilloutontothestreet.The fellows from theotherpubs along themaindrag comeout too, thenonewagdecidesitwillbeagreatjoketoswipeFrank’shat,anddoes.

“Oh,leaveusalone,JoeRafferty!”scoldsHannah.“Gobacktothepubandleaveusalone,”andtheykeepupabriskpace.

“Leaveusalone!”mimicsJoe inahigh-pitchedwhimper.“BloodyFritz!Allthesame,allcowards!”Heturnstothemob.“Andlookatthesetwo,withtheirpretty littlebaby.”He’sslurringhiswords.“YouknowFritzusedtoeatbabies.Roastedthemalive,evilbastards.”

“Goawayorwe’llgetthepolice!”shoutsHannah,beforefreezingatthesightofHarryGarstoneandBobLynch,thepoliceconstables,standingonthehotelveranda,schoonersinhand,smirkingbehindtheirwaxedmustaches.

Suddenly, like a struckmatch, the scene’s alight: “Comeon, lads, let’shavesomefunwiththeHun-lovers!”goesupthecry.“Let’ssavethebabyfrombeingeaten,”andadozendrunksarechasingthecoupleandHannahisfallingbehindbecauseher girdle stopsher frombreathingproperly and she’s calling, “Grace,Frank!SaveGrace!”andherunswiththelittlebundleawayfromthemobwhoarecorralinghimdowntheroadtothejetty,andhisheartisthumpingandoutof rhythm and pain shoots down his arm as he runs along the rickety planksabovethewaterandjumpsintothefirstrowingboathecanfind,androwsouttosea,outtosafety.Justuntilthemobsobersupandthingscalmdown.

He’sknownworse,inhisday.

CHAPTER18

As Isabel goes about her day—always moving, always busy—she has a keenphysical senseofwhereLucy is, attachedbyan invisible threadof love.She isneverangry—herpatiencewiththechildisinfinite.Whenfoodfallstothefloor,whengrubbyhandmarksdecoratethewalls,theyarenevergreetedwithacrosswordoradisapprovinglook.IfLucywakescryinginthenight,Isabelcomfortshergently,lovingly.Sheacceptsthegiftthatlifehassenther.Andsheacceptstheburdens.

Whilethechildisasleepintheafternoon,shegoesuptothestickcrossesontheheadland.Thisisherchurch,herholyplace,whereshepraysforguidance,andtobeaworthymother.Shepraystoo,inamoreabstractway,forHannahRoennfeldt.Hers isnot toquestionthewaythingshaveturnedout.Outhere,Hannahisjustadistantnotion.Shehasnobody,noexistence,whereasLucy—Isabel knows every expression of hers, every cry. She has been watching themiraclethatisthislittlegirltakeshapedaybyday,likeagiftrevealedonlywiththe passing of time. A whole personality is emerging, as the girl catches andmasterswords,andbeginstoarticulatehowshefeels,whosheis.

So Isabel sits in the chapelwithoutwallsorwindowsorpastor, and thanksGod.AndifthoughtsofHannahRoennfeldtintrude,herresponseisalwaysthesame. She simply cannot send this child away: it is not for her to riskLucy’shappiness.AndTom?Tomisagoodman.Tomwilldotherightthing,always:shecanrelyonthat.Hewillcometotermswiththings,intheend.

But a sliver of uncrossable distance has slipped between them: an invisible,wisp-thinno-man’s-land.

Gradually,therhythmoflifeonJanusre-establishesitself,absorbingTomintheminutiaeof itsrituals.Whenhewakessometimesfromdarkdreamsofbrokencradles, and compasseswithout bearings, he pushes the unease down, lets thedaylightcontradictit.Andisolationlullshimwiththemusicofthelie.

“Andyouknowwhatdayitistoday,don’tyou,Luce?”askedIsabelasshepulledthejumperdownoverthelittlegirl’sheadandextractedahandfromtheendofeachsleeve.SixmonthshadpassedsincetheirreturntoJanusinJanuary1928.

Lucytiltedherheadupwardafraction.“Ummm,”shesaid,playingfortime.“Wantaclue?”Shenodded.Isabel pulledon the first little sock. “Comeon.Other tootsie.Thaaat’s the

way. OK, the clue is that if you’re a very good girl, there might be orangestonight…”

“Boat!”criedthegirl,slidingoffhermother’skneeandjumpingupanddown,oneshoeonherfootandtheotherinherhand.“Boatcoming!Boatcoming!”

“That’sright.SoshallwemakethehousealllovelyforwhenRalphandBlueycome?”

“Yes!”Lucycalledbehindher,asshedashedtothekitchentosay,“AlfandBooeycoming,Dadda!”

Tompickedherupandgaveherakiss.“Nofliesonyou!Didyourememberthatallbyyourself,orhassomeonebeenhelpingyou?”

“Mammasaid,”sheconfessedwithagrin,andwriggledtotheground,offtofindIsabelagain.

Soon,garbedingaloshesandcoats,thetwoofthemsetouttowardthechookhouse,LucyclutchingaminiatureversionofIsabel’sbasket.

“Arealfashionparade,”remarkedTomashepassedthemonhiswaytotheshed.

“I’dratherbewarmthanglamorous,”saidIsabel,andgavehimaquickkiss.“We’reonaneggexpedition.”

Insidethechickencoop,Lucyusedtwohandstopickupeachegg,thetaskthatwouldhavetakenIsabelsecondstreatedinsteadasapreciousritual.Sheputeach egg to her cheek and reported either “Still warm!” or “Tone cold” asappropriate,thenpassedittoIsabelforsafestorage,keepingthelastonetocarryin her own basket. Then, “Thank you, Daphne. Thank you, Speckle…” shebegan,andwentontothankeachhenforhercontribution.

In the vegetable patch, she held the spade handle with Isabel during thepotatodig.

“I think I can see one…” said Isabel, waiting for Lucy to spot the lighterpatchinthesandysoil.

“There!”saidLucy,andputherhandintothehole,retrievingastone.“Almost.” Isabel smiled. “Howaboutnext to it?Looka littlebitnearer the

side.”“’Tato!”Lucybeamedassheraisedtheprizeaboveherhead,scatteringsoilin

herhair,theninhereyes,whichstartedhercrying.“Let’shavealook,”soothedIsabel,wipingherhandsonherdungareesbefore

attending to the eye. “Therewe are, now, blink forMamma.There, all gone,Luce.”Andthelittlegirlcontinuedtoopenandsquintshuthereyes.

“Allgone,”shesaideventually.Then,“More’tato!”andthehuntbeganagain.

Inside,Isabelsweptthefloorineveryroom,gatheringthesandydustintopilesinthecorner,readytogatherup.Returningfromaquickinspectionofthebreadin theoven, she founda trail leadingall through thecottage, thanks toLucy’sattemptswiththedustpan.

“Look,Mamma!Ihelping!”Isabel took in at theminiature cyclone trail and sighed. “You could call it

that…”PickingLucyup, she said, “Thankyou.Goodgirl.Now, just tomakeextrasurethefloor’sclean,let’sgiveitanextrasweep,shallwe?”Withashakeofthehead,shemuttered,“Ah,LucySherbourne,who’dbeahousewife,eh?”

Later,Tomappearedatthedoorway.“Sheallready?”“Yep,”saidIsabel.“Facewashed,handswashed.Nogrubbyfingers.”“Thenupyoucome,littlie.”“Upthestairs,Dadda?”“Yes,upthestairs.”Andshewalkedbesidehimtothetower.Atthefootof

the steps, she put her arms up so that he could hold her hands from behind.“Now, Bunny, let’s count. One, two, three,” and they proceeded, at anagonizingly slowpace,up the stairs,Tomcountingeveryonealoud, longafterLucygaveup.

Atthetop,inthewatchroom,Lucyheldoutherhands.“Noclars,”andTomsaid,“Binocularsinaminute.Let’sgetyouuponthetablefirst.”Hesatherontopofthecharts,thenhandedherthebinoculars,keepingtheweightoftheminhisownhands.

“Canyouseeanything?”“Clouds.”“Yep,plentyofthosearound.Anysignoftheboat?”“No.”“Yousure?”Tomlaughed.“Wouldn’twantyouinchargeoftheguardhouse.

What’sthatoverthere?See?Wheremyfingeris.”Shekickedherlegsbackandforward.“AlfandBooey!Oranges.”“Mamma says there’ll be oranges, does she? Well, let’s keep our fingers

crossed.”

Itwasmorethananhourbeforetheboatdocked.TomandIsabelstoodonthejetty,LucyonTom’sshoulders.

“Awholewelcomingcommittee!”calledRalph.“Hello!”calledLucy.“People!Hello,Alf,hello,Boo.”Bluey jumpedoffonto the jetty,heaving the ropeRalph threwhim. “Mind

out,Luce,”hecalledtothechild,nowontheground.“Don’twanttogetinthewayoftherope.”HelookedatTom.“Golly,she’sareallittlegirlnow,isn’tshe?NomoreBabyLucy!”

Ralphlaughed.“Theygrowup,youknow,babies.”Bluey finished securing the rope. “We only see her every fewmonths: just

makes itmore obvious.Kids in town, you see themevery day, so youkindofdon’tnoticethemgettingolder.”

“And suddenly they’re great hulks of lads like you!” teased Ralph. As hesteppedonto the jetty,hehad something inonehandbehindhisback. “Now,who’sgoingtohelpmetakethethingsofftheboat?”

“Me!”saidLucy.Ralph gave Isabel awink as he produced a tin of peaches from behind his

back.“Wellthen,here’ssomethingvery,veryheavyforyoutocarry.”Lucytookthetinwithbothhands.“Gosh,Luce,betterbecarefulwiththat!Let’stakeituptothehouse.”Isabel

turned to the men. “Give me something to take up if you like, Ralph.” Heclamberedbacktofishoutthemailandafewlightparcels.“Seeyouupatthehouseinabit.I’llhavethekettleon.”

After lunch, as the adults finished cups of tea at the kitchen table,Tom said,“Lucy’sabitquiet…”

“Hmmm,”saidIsabel.“She’ssupposedtobefinishingherdrawingforMumandDad.I’llgoandcheck.”Butbeforeshecouldleavetheroom,Lucyenteredthekitchen,dressedinapetticoatofIsabel’sthattrailedtothefloor,apairofhershoeswithheels,andthestringofblueglassbeadsthatIsabel’smotherhadsentoutwiththatmorning’sboat.

“Lucy!”saidIsabel.“Haveyoubeeninmythings?”“No,”saidthegirl,eyeswide.Isabelblushed.“Idon’tusuallyparademyunderweararound,”shesaidtothe

visitors.“Comeon,Lucy,you’llcatchyourdeathofcoldlikethat.Let’sgetyourclothes back on. And let’s have a talk about going throughMamma’s things.Andabouttellingthetruth.”Smilingasshelefttheroom,shedidn’tcatchthebriefexpressionthatcrossedTom’sfeaturesatherlastremark.

Lucy trots happily behind Isabel as they go to gather the eggs. She ismesmerizedby thenewlyhatchedchickswhichappear fromtimeto time,andholdsthemunderherchintofeel theirgoldenfluffiness.Whenshehelpspickcarrots and parsnips, sometimes she tugs so hard that she tumbles overbackward,showeredwithsoil.“Lucy-Goosy!”laughsIsabel.“Upyougetnow.”

Atthepiano,shesitsonIsabel’skneeandbashesawayatnotes.Isabelholdsherindexfingerandhelpsherpressout“ThreeBlindMice,”thenthechildsays,“Bymyself,Mamma,”andstartshercacophonyagain.

Shesitsforhoursonthekitchenfloor,wieldingcoloredpencilsonthebackofobsoleteCLS forms,producing randomsquiggles towhich sheproudlypointsandsays,“ThisisMamma,Dadda,andLuluLighthouse.”Shetakesforgrantedthe130-foot castle-tower inherbackyard,with a star in it.Alongwithwordssuch as “dog” and “cat”—fanciful concepts frombooks—shemasters themoreconcrete “lens” and “prism” and “refraction.” “It’smy star,” she tells Isabel oneeveningasshepointstoit.“Daddagaveittome.”

ShetellsTomsnatchesofstories,aboutfish,aboutseagulls,aboutships.Astheywalkdowntothebeach,shedelightsintakingahandeachfromTomandIsabel and getting them to swing her in the air between them. “LuluLighthouse!” is her favorite phrase, and she uses it when she draws herself insplodgypictures,ordescribesherselfinstories.

The oceans never stop. They know no beginning or end. The wind neverfinishes. Sometimes it disappears, but only to gather momentum fromsomewhereelse,returningtoflingitselfattheisland,tomakeapointwhichislostonTom.Existencehere isona scaleofgiants.Time is in themillionsofyears; rocks which from a distance look like dice cast against the shore arebouldershundredsof feetwide, licked roundbymillennia, tumbledonto theirsidessothatlayersbecomeverticalstripes.

Tom watches Lucy and Isabel as they paddle in Paradise Pool, the girlenraptured by the splashing and the saltiness and the starfish she has found,brilliant blue.Hewatches her fingers clutch the creature, her face alightwithexcitement and pride, as though she has made it herself. “Dadda, look. Mystarfish!”Tomhastroublekeepingbothtimescalesinfocus:theexistenceofanislandandtheexistenceofachild.

Itastoundshimthatthetinylifeofthegirlmeansmoretohimthanallthemillenniabeforeit.Hestrugglestomakesenseofhisemotions—howhecanfeelbothtendernessanduneasewhenshekisseshimgoodnight,orpresentsagrazedkneeforhimtokissbetterwiththemagicpowerthatonlyaparenthas.

ForIsabel,too,heistornbetweenthedesirehefeelsforher,thelove,andthesense that he cannot breathe. The two sensations grate at one another,unresolved.

Sometimes, alone in the light, he finds his mind seeking out HannahRoennfeldt.Isshetall?Issheplump?IstheresometraceofherinLucy’sface?Whenhetriestoimagineher,heseesonlyhands,coveringaweepingface.Heshudders,andreturnstohisimmediatetask.

This child ishealthy andhappy and adored, in this littleworldbeyond thereachofnewspapersandgossip.Beyondthereachofreality.ThereareweeksatatimewhenTomcanalmostrestinthestoryofanormal,happyfamily,asifitissomekindofopiate.

“Wemustn’tletDaddaknow.NotuntilItellyou.”LucylookedatIsabelgravely.“Imustn’ttell,”shesaid,nodding.“CanIhave

abiscuit?”“Inaminute.Let’sjustfinishwrappingthese.”TheSeptemberboatin1928

hadbroughtseveralextraparcels,whichBlueyhadmanagedtosmuggletoIsabelinmomentswhenRalphdistractedTomwithunloading.EngineeringabirthdaysurpriseforTomwasnoeasyfeat:itinvolvedwritingtohermothermonthsinadvancewiththelistofrequests.AsTomwastheonlyonewithabankaccount,italsorequiredapromisetopaynexttimetheywereashore.

Tomwasbotheasyanddifficulttobuyfor:hewouldbehappywithwhateverhegot,buthedidn’treallywantanything.ShehadsettledonaConwayStewartfountain pen and the latest edition of Wisden: something practical andsomethingentertaining.WhenshehadaskedLucyonenightastheysatoutside,what shewanted togiveDadda, the littlegirlhad twirledherhair aroundher

fingerasshethoughtforamomentandsaid,“Thestars.”Isabelhadlaughed.“I’mnotsurewecanmanagethat,Luce.”Thechildhadsaidcrossly,“ButIwantto!”AnideacametoIsabel.“Whatifwegavehimamapofthestars—anatlas?”“Yes!”Now,astheysatinfrontoftheheftybook,Isabelasked,“Whatdoyouwant

towriteinthefront?”Sheheldthepen,herfingersaroundLucy’s,toinscribeinjerkyletters,asinstructed,“FormyDadda,loveforeverandever…”

“More,”Lucyinsisted.“Morewhat?”“More‘ever.’‘Everandeverandeverandever…’”Isabellaughed,and“everandeverandeverandever”trailedlikeacaterpillar

across the page. “What comesnext? Shallwe say, ‘Fromyour lovingdaughterLucy’?”

“FromLuluLighthouse.”Thelittlegirlstartedshapingtheletterswithhermother,butgotboredand

climbedoffherkneeinmid-stroke.“Mammafinishit,”shecommandedcasually.So Isabel completed the signature, and added in brackets, “(Per Isabel

Sherbourne,scribeandgeneralfactotumoftheabove-mentionedsignatory).”

WhenTomunwrappedtheparcel,adifficultmaneuverwithLucy’shandsoverhiseyes,hesaid,“It’sabook…”

“It’saantless!”shoutedLucy.Tomtookinthepresent.“Brown’sstaratlas,showingallthebrightstars,with

full instructions how to find and use them for navigational purposes and Board ofTradeexaminations.”Hesmiledslowly,andturnedtoIsabel.“Lucy’saclevergirl,isn’tshe,organizingthis?”

“Read,Dadda.Inside.Ididwriting.”Openingthecover,Tomsawthe longdedication.Hestillsmiled,butthere

wassomethingaboutthewords“Foreverandeverandeverandeverandever…”thatstabbedhim.Foreverwasanimpossibleconcept,particularlyforthischild,in this place.He put his lips to the top of Lucy’s head. “It’s just beaut, LuluLighthouse.TheloveliestpresentI’veeverhad.”

CHAPTER19

Atleastifwecanwinthisone,itwon’tbeacompletewashout,”saidBluey.TheAustraliancricketteamhadlostthefirstfourtestmatchesofthe1928/29Ashesseriesonhomeground,andtheMarchboatarrivedwhilethefinaltestwasstillgoingon inMelbourne.Blueyhadbeen regalingTomwithhighlights as theydid the unloading. “Bradman got his century. Still not out.GaveLarwood allsortsoftrouble,thepapersaid.Itellyouwhat,though—thematch’sbeengoingfourdaysalready.Lookslikewe’reinforalongonethistime.”

While Ralph went to the kitchen to deliver another of Hilda’s regularpresentstoLucy,Tomandthedeckhandfinishedstackingawaythelastofthefloursacksintheshed.

“Igotacousinworksthere,youknow,”Blueysaid,noddingatthestenciloftheDingobrandonthecalico.

“Upattheflourmill?”askedTom.“Yeah.Reckonsitpaysgood.Andallthefreeflourhewants.”“Everyjob’sgotitsperks.”“Sure.LikeIgetasmuchfreshairasIcanbreathe,andasmuchwaterasI

needtoswimin.”Blueylaughed.Helookedround,tobesuretherewasnosignoftheskipper.“ReckonshecangetmeajobthereanytimeIwant.”Hepaused.“Orsometimes,Ithinkofworking—inagrocer’s,maybe,”hesaid,makingthejumpinsubjectwithastudied,casualtone.

Thiswasn’tlikeBluey.Occasionallyhe’ddiscusstheSheffieldShieldresults,or report winning a bit of money on the horses. He’d talk about his brotherMerv, who’d died on the first day at Gallipoli, or the formidable Ada, hiswidowedmother.Tomsensedsomethingdifferenttoday.“What’sbroughtthison?”

Bluey gave one of the sacks a kick to straighten it. “What’s it like, beingmarried?”

“What?”Tomwasstartledatthechangeoftack.“Imean—isitgood?”

Tomkepthiseyesontheinventory.“Somethingyouwanttotellme,Blue?”“No.”“Righto.” Tom nodded. If he waited long enough, the story would make

sense.Itusuallydid.Eventually.Bluey straightened another sack. “Her name’s Kitty. Kitty Kelly. Her dad

ownsthegrocer’s.We’vebeenwalkingouttogether.”Tomraisedhiseyebrowsandgaveasmile.“Goodforyou.”“AndI—well,Idon’tknow—Ithoughtmaybeweshouldgetmarried.”The

lookonTom’s facepromptedhim to add, “Wedon’thave togetmarried. It’snothinglikethat.Struth,we’venevereven—Imean,herdadkeepsaprettycloseeye on things. And hermother. So do her brothers. AndMrs.Mewett’s hermum’scousin,soyouknowwhatthefamily’slike.”

Tomlaughed.“Sowhat’syourquestion?”“It’sabigstep.Iknoweveryonedoesiteventually,butIjustwondered—well,

howyouknow…”“I’m hardly a full bottle on it. Only been married the once and I’m still

getting thehangof it.Whydon’t you askRalph?He’s beenhitched toHildasinceMethuselahwasaboy;raisedacoupleofkids.Seemstohavemadeafairjobofit.”

“Ican’ttellRalph.”“Whynot?”“KittyreckonsthatifwegetmarriedI’llhavetogiveupworkingontheboat,

and come and work in the grocery business. Reckons she’s too scared I’ll getdrownedonedayandnotcomehomefromwork.”

“Cheerysortofsoul,eh?”Bluey looked worried. “But, you know, seriously. What’s it like being

married?Havingakidandallthat?”Tom ranhishand throughhishair ashe considered thequestion for some

time,deeplyuneasy.“We’rehardlyyourtypicalsetup.Notmanyfamilieslikeusaround the place—out on a lighthouse in themiddle of nowhere.The honestanswer is, itdependswhichdayyouaskme.Itbrings itsshareofgoodthings,anditsshareofhardones.It’salotmorecomplicatedthanbeingonyourown,Icantellyouthatmuch.”

“MasaysI’mtooyoungandIdon’tknowmyownmind.”Tomsmiled in spiteofhimself. “I thinkyourMa’ll probably still be saying

thatwhen you’re fifty.Anyway, it’s not about yourmind. It’s about your gut.Trustyourgut,Blue.”Hehesitated.“Butit’snotalwaysplainsailing,evenwhen

you’ve foundtherightgirl.You’vegot tobe in it for the longhaul.Youneverknowwhat’sgoingtohappen:yousignupforwhatevercomesalong.There’snobackingout.”

“Dadda, look!” Lucy appeared at the doorway of the shed, brandishingHilda’s stuffed tiger. “It growls!” she said. “Listen,” and she turned it upsidedowntoproducethenoise.

Tompickedherup.ThroughthesmallwindowhecouldseeRalphmakinghiswaydownthepathtowardthem.“Aren’tyoutheluckyone?”Hetickledherneck.

“LuckyLucy!”shelaughed.“Andbeingadad?What’sthatlike?”askedBluey.“It’slikethis.”“No,goon.I’mreallyasking,mate.”Tom’s face grew serious. “Nothing can prepare you for it. You wouldn’t

believehowababygetsthroughyourdefenses,Bluey.Getsrightinsideyou.Arealsurpriseattack.”

“Make it growl,Dadda,” urgedLucy. Tom gave her a kiss and turned thecreatureupsidedownagain.

“Keep it under your hat, all this, could you, mate?” asked Bluey.Reconsidering,hesaid,“Well,everyoneknowsyou’requietasthegraveanyway,”andhemadehisownversionofatiger’sgrowlforthelittlegirl.

Sometimes,you’re theonewhostrikes it lucky.Sometimes, it’s theotherpoorbastardwho’sleftwiththeshortstraw,andyoujusthavetoshutupandgetonwithit.

Tomwashammeringaplankontothewallofthechookhouse,tocoveraholethewindhadblown in it thenightbefore.Spenthalfhis life trying toprotectthingsfromthewind.Youjusthadtogetonwiththings,dowhatyoucoulddo.

Bluey’s questions had stirred up old feelings. But every timeTom thoughtaboutthestrangerinPartageusewhohadlostherchild,Isabel’simagetookherplace: she’d lost children, and would never have any more. She had knownnothing aboutHannahwhenLucy arrived. Justwantedwhatwas best for thebaby.Andyet.Heknewitwasn’tjustforLucy’ssake.TherewasaneedinIsabelthat he could now never fill. She had given up everything: comforts, family,friends—everythingtobewithhimouthere.Overandoverhetoldhimself—hecouldn’tdepriveherofthisonething.

Isabelwastired.Thesupplieshadjustcomeinandshe’dsetaboutreplenishingfood—makingbread,bakinga fruitcake, turninga sackofplums into jamthatwouldlastouttheyear.She’dleftthekitchenforbarelyamoment—themomentLucyhadchosentostepclosertothestovetosmell thedeliciousmixture,andhadburnedherhandonthe jampan.Itwasn’tsevere,butenoughtokeepthechildfromsleepingsoundly.Tomhadbandagedtheburnandgivenherasmalldoseofaspirin,butbynightfallshewasstillunsettled.

“I’ll takeheruptothelight.Icankeepaneyeonher.I’vegottofinishthepaperworkfortheinventoryanyway.Youlookdonein.”

Exhausted,Isabelconceded.Holding the child inone arm, and apillowandblanket in theother,Tom

carried her gently up the stairs, and laid her on the chart table in the watchroom.“Thereyouare,littlie,”hesaid,butshewasalreadydozing.

Hesetaboutaddingupcolumnsoffigures,tottinggallonsofoilandboxesofmantles.Abovehim,inthelanternroomthelightturnedsteadily,withitsslow,lowhum.Farbelow,hecouldseethesingleoillightfromthecottage.

Hehadbeenworkingforanhourwhensomeinstinctmadehimturn,andhefoundLucywatchinghim,her eyesglittering in the soft light.Whenhisgazemethersshesmiled,andyetagainTomwascaughtoffguardbythemiracleofher—sobeautiful,soundefended.Sheraisedherbandagedhand,andexaminedit.“Ibeeninthewars,Dadda,”shesaid,andafrowncreptoverherfeatures.Sheheldherarmsout.

“Yougobacktosleep,littlie,”Tomsaid,andtriedtoturnbacktohiswork.Butthechildsaid,“’Ullaby,Dadda.”Andshekeptherarmsextended.

Tomliftedherontohislapandrockedhergently.“You’dgetnightmaresifIsangtoyou,Lulu.Mamma’sthesinger,notme.”

“Ihurtmyhand,Dadda,”shesaid,raisingherinjuryasproof.“Youdid,didn’t you,bunny rabbit?”Hekissed thebandagedelicately. “It’ll

soonbebetter.You’llsee.”Hekissedherforehead,andstrokedherfineblondehair.“Ah,Lulu,Lulu.Howeverdidyoufindyourwayhere?”Helookedaway,outintothesolidblackness.“Howeverdidyouturnupinmylife?”

Hecouldfeelhermusclessurrenderassheedgedtowardsleep.Graduallyherheadweighed looselyagainst thecrookofhisarm.Inawhisperevenhecouldhardlyhear,heaskedthequestionthatgnawedathimconstantly:“Howeverdidyoumakemefeellikethis?”

CHAPTER20

Ineverknewhe’d triedtoget in touch.”TomwassittingbesideIsabelontheveranda.Hewasturningoverandoveranancient,batteredenvelope,addressedtohim“c/o13thBattalion,AIF.”Oneveryavailableinchofspacewerescrawledforwardingaddressesandinstructions,culminatinginanauthoritativecommandin blue pencil to “return to sender”—to Edward Sherbourne, Esquire, Tom’sfather.Theletterhadarrivedinasmallpacketthreedaysearlier,whentheJuneboatbroughtnewsofhisdeath.

The letter from Church, Hattersley & Parfitt, Solicitors, observed theformalitiesandprovidedonlythefacts.Throatcancer;18January1929.Ithadtaken them some months to track Tom down. His brother Cecil was theexclusive beneficiary, save for the bequest toTomof a locket of hismother’s,enclosedintheletterwhichhadpursuedTomacrosstheworld.

Hehadopenedthepacketafterhehadlitupthatevening,sittinginthelanternroom,numbatfirstashereadthestern,spikyhandwriting.

“Merrivale”Sydney

16thOctober1915

DearThomas,IamwritingbecauseIknowthatyouhaveenlisted.Iamnotmuchofaone

forwords.Butwithyouso farawaynow,andwiththepossibilitythatharmmaycometoyoubeforewehaveanopportunitytomeetagain,itseemswritingistheonlyway.

There are many things I cannot explain to youwithout denigrating yourmother,andIhavenowishtodoanymoreharmthanhasalreadybeendone.

Somethings,therefore,willbeleftunsaid.Iamatfaultinonerespect,anditisthisIwishtoremedynow.Ienclosealocketwhichyourmotheraskedmetoletyouhave,whensheleft.Ithasherlikenessinit.Atthetime,Ifeltitwasbetterforyounottoberemindedofher,andIthereforedidnotpassiton.Itwasnotaneasydecisiontomake,todeterminethatyourlifewouldbebetterwithoutherinfluence.

Nowthatsheisdead,Ifeelitrighttofulfilherrequest,ifratherlate.IhavetriedtoraiseyouasagoodChristian.Ihavetriedtoensureyouhad

thebestavailableeducation.IhopeIhaveinstilledinyouasenseofrightandwrong: no amount of worldly success or pleasure can redeem the loss of yourimmortalsoul.

Iamproudofthesacrificeyouhavemadebyenlisting.Youhavegrownintoa responsibleyoungman,andafter thewar, Iwouldbepleased to findyouapositioninthebusiness.Cecilhasthemakingsofafinemanager,andIexpectwill run the factory successfully aftermy retirement.But I am sure a suitableplacecanbefoundforyou.

ItpainedmethatIhadtohearofyourembarkationthroughothers.Iwouldhavewelcomedtheopportunitytoseeyouinuniform,toseeyouoff,butIgatherthat sincetracingyourmotherand learningshehadpassedaway,youwishtohavenothingfurthertodowithme.Therefore,Ileaveituptoyou.Ifyouchoosetoreplytothisletter,Ishallbemostpleased.Youare,afterall,myson,anduntilyoutooareafather,youwillnotfullyunderstandallitmeanstosaythat.

If,however,youdonotwishtorespond,Ishallrespectyourchoice,andshallnottroubleyouagain.Ishallnonethelessprayforyoursafetyinbattle,andyourreturntotheseshores,victorious.

Youraffectionatefather,EdwardSherbourne

ItseemedalifetimesinceTomhadspokentothisman.Howitmusthavecosthim,towritesuchaletter.Thathisfatherhadmadeanattempttocontacthimaftertheirbitterseparationwasnotjustasurprisebutashock.Nothingseemedcertain any more. Tom wondered whether his father’s coldness protected awound all along. For the first time he glimpsed something beyond the stonyexteriorand,justforaninstant,hecouldimagineamanofhighprinciple,hurtbyawomanheloved,butunabletoshowit.

Tomhadsoughtouthismotherforaparticularreason.Ashehadstoodattheboardinghousedoor,shoespolished,fingernailscut,hehadrehearsedthewordsonelasttime.“I’msorryIgotyouintotrouble.”Atthetimehefeltasshakyasthechildwhohadwaitedthirteenyearstosaythewords.Hethoughthemightbesick.“AllIsaidwasthatI’dseenamotorcar.Thattherehadbeenamotorcaratthehouse.Ididn’tknow—”

Itwasonlyyearslaterthathehadunderstoodthefullmagnitudeofhistale-telling.Shehadbeendeclaredanunfitmother,andbanishedfromhislife.Buthispilgrimagetoseekforgivenesswastoolate,andhewouldnevernowhearhismother absolve him from the guilt of betrayal, innocent though it had been.Wordshadawayofgettingintoallsortsofplacestheyweren’tmeantto.Bestkeepthingstoyourselfinlife,he’dlearned.

He looked at the picture of his mother in the locket. Perhaps each of hisparentshadlovedhim,howeverbrokenly.Hefeltasuddensurgeofangerathisfather’salmostcasualassumptionoftherighttoseparatehimfromhismother:sosincere,yetsodestructive.

ItwasonlywhenadropletsenttheinkrunninginminiatureriversthatTomnoticedhewascrying.“Untilyoutooareafather,youwillnotfullyunderstand…”

Beside him now on the veranda, Isabel was saying, “Even though you hadn’tseen him for years, hewas still your dad.You only ever get one of them. It’sboundtoaffectyou,sweetheart.”

TomwonderedifIsabelcaughttheironyofherownwords.“Comeon,Luce,comeandhavesomecocoa,”shecalledwithoutpausing.Thelittlegirlranupandgraspedthebeakerwithbothhands.Shewipedher

mouthwithherforearminsteadofhergrubbyhand,thenhandedbackthecup.“Ta-ta!” shecalledoutcheerily. “I riding toPataterznowtoseeGrandmaandGrandpa,”andranbacktoherhobbyhorse.

Tomlookedatthelocketinthepalmofhishand.“Foryears,IthoughtshehatedmebecauseIgaveawayhersecret.Ineverknewaboutthelocket…”Hislower lip pressed upward and he pursed his mouth. “It would have made adifference.”

“Iknowthere’snothingIcansay.IjustwishIcould—Idon’tknow—makeitbetterforyou.”

“Mamma,Ihungry,”calledLucyasshecameback.“Nowonder,withallthatrunningabout!”saidIsabel,andsweptherupinher

arms.“Comeon.ComeandgiveDaddaahug.He’ssadtoday.”Andshesatthechildonhislap,sothattheycouldbothhughimtightly.

“Smile,Dadda,”saidthelittlegirl.“Likethis,”shesaid,andgrinned.

Thelightcameincrookedthroughtheclouds,seekingrefugefromtherainthathoveredinthedistance.LucysatonTom’sshoulders,beamingathertoweringview.

“Thisway!” sheexclaimed,stabbinga finger toher left.Tomalteredcourseandcarriedherdown the field.Oneof thegoatshad chewed itswayoutof atemporarypen,andLucyhadinsistedonhelpingtofindit.

Therewasnosignofthecreatureinthecove.Well,itcouldn’thavegotfar.“We’lllooksomewhereelse,”saidTom.Hestrodeuptowardtheflatofthelandoncemore,andturnedinacircle.“Wheretonow,Lulu?Youpick.”

“Downthere!”shepointedagain,totheothersideoftheisland,andtheysetoff.

“Howmanywordsdoyouknowthatsoundlikegoat?”“Boat!”“That’sright.Anymore?”Thechildtriedagain.“Boat?”Tomlaughed.“Whatdoyouwearwhenit’scold?”“Myjumper.”“Yes,butwhatdoyouwearwhenit’scoldthatsoundslikegoat?Startswitha

‘kuh’sound.”“Coat!”He tickledher tummy. “Coat, boat, goat.Talking ofwhich…Look,Luce,

downthere,nearthebeach.”“She’sthere!Let’srun,Dadda!”“Let’snot,bunnyrabbit.Don’twanttoscareheraway.We’lltakeitquietly.”Tomwassopreoccupiedthathehardlynoticedatfirstwheretheanimalhad

chosenitsnewpasture.“Down you get, little one.” He lifted Lucy high over his shoulders and

loweredhertothegrass.“YoubegoodandstayherewhileIgoandgetFlossie.I’mgoingtotiethisropetohercollar,thenshe’llcomebackniceandeasy.

“Right,Flossie.Comeon,now,nobuggeringabout.”Thegoatlookedupandtrotted a few paces away. “Enough of that. Stay still,” Tom caught it by thecollarandfastenedtherope.“There.That’sthat.Allright,Lulu—”Turning,he

feltatinglinginhisarms,asplitsecondbeforehisconsciousmindrealizedwhy.Lucywassittingonaslightmound,wherethegrassgrewmorethicklythanonthe flatter landaround it.Usually,heavoided thispartof the island,which tohimseemedpermanentlyshadowedandgloomy,nomatterhowbrighttheday.

“Look,Ifoundaseat,Dadda,”shesaid,beaming.“Lucy!Offthatrightnow!”heshoutedbeforehecouldstophimself.Lucy’s face puckered and tears came at the shock—she had never been

shoutedatbefore,andstartedtobawl.Heraced topickherup. “Sorry,Lulu. Ididn’tmeantoscareyou,”hesaid,

ashamedofhisresponse.Tryingtohidehishorror,hehurriedafewstepsaway.“That’snotagoodplacetosit,love.”

“Whynot?”shewailed.“It’smyspecialseat.It’smagic.”“It’sjust…”Hesnuggledherheadintothecrookofhisneck.“It’sjustnota

goodplacetosit,sweetie.”Hekissedthetopofherhead.“AreInaughty?”askedLucy,confused.“No.Notnaughty.Notyou,Lulu.”Hekissedhercheekandbrushedherfair

hairoutofhereyes.Butasheheldher,hewas for the first time inyearsacutelyaware that the

handsthatnowtouchedherwerethehandsthathadheavedherfatherintothegrave.Eyes closed, he recalled the sensation in hismuscles, theweight of theman,andcontrasteditwiththeweightofthedaughter.Lucyseemedtheheavierofthetwo.

Hefeltapattingonhischeeks.“Dadda!Lookatme!”thechildsaid.Heopenedhiseyes,andlookedatherinsilence.Finally,withadeepbreath,

hesaid,“TimetotakeFlossiehome.Whydon’tyouholdtherope?”Shenodded,andhewrappeditaroundherhand,carryingtheweightofher

backupthehillonhiship.

Thatafternoon, inthekitchen,Lucywasabouttoclimbontoachair,butfirstturnedtoTom.“Isthisagoodplacetosit,Dadda?”

Hedidn’tlookupfromthedoorhandlehewasrepairing.“Yes,that’sagoodplace,Lulu,”herepliedwithoutthinking.

WhenIsabelwenttositbesideher,Lucyexclaimed,“No!Mamma,offthatchair!That’snotagoodplacetosit.”

Isabellaughed.“It’swhereIalwayssit,sweetie.Ithinkit’salovelyseat.”“It’snotagoodplace.Daddasays!”

“What’sshetalkingabout,Dadda?”“I’lltellyoulater,”hesaid,andtookuphisscrewdriver,hopingIsabelwould

forget.Butshedidnot.Onceshehad tuckedLucy intobed, Isabelaskedagain, “Whatwasall that

palaveraboutwheretosit?ShewasstillworriedaboutitwhenIsatonherbedforthestory.Toldmeyou’dbeverycross.”

“Oh, just a game she came up with. She’ll probably have forgotten it bytomorrow.”

ButLucyhadsummonedup theghostofFrankRoennfeldt thatafternoon,and the memory of his face now haunted Tom every time he looked in thedirectionofthegraves.

“Until you too are a father…” He had thought a great deal about Lucy’smother,butitwasonlynowthatthefullsacrilegeofhistreatmentofherfathercamehometohim.Thankstohim,themancouldneverhaveapriestorapastormarkhispassingwithdue ritual;neverbeallowed to live, even inmemory, inLucy’sheart,aswasafather’sright.Foramoment, justafewfeetofsandhadseparatedLucyfromhertrueheritage—fromRoennfeldtandgenerationsofhisfamily.Tomwent cold at the realization that hemay have killed relatives—itseemed almost likely—of this man who had created her. Suddenly, vivid andaccusing, the faces of the enemywakened from the tomb beneathmemory towhichhehadconfinedthem.

Thenextmorning,asIsabelandLucywenttocollecttheeggs,Tomsetaboutstraighteningthingsintheloungeroom,puttingLucy’spencils inabiscuittin,stackingupherbooks.Amongthem,hefoundtheprayerbookRalphhadgivenher at her christening, and from which Isabel often read to her. He flickedthrough the feathery pages, edged with gold. Morning prayers, communionrites…Going through the psalms, his eyes came to rest on number 37, “Noliaemulari.”“Fretnotthyselfbecauseoftheungodly:neitherbethouenviousamongtheevil-doers.Fortheyshallbecutdownlikethegrass:andbewitheredevenasthegreenherb.”

Isabel and Lucy, the little girl carried piggyback, came in, laughing atsomething.“Gosh,thisisclean!Havemagicpixiesbeenin?”askedIsabel.

Tomshutthebook,andputitontopofthepile.“Justtryingtoputthingsinorder,”hesaid.

Afewweekslater,RalphandTomweresitting,backsrestingagainstthestonewall of the storage shed, having unloaded the last of the September supplies.Blueywasdownontheboat,sortingoutaproblemwiththeanchorchain,andIsabel was in the kitchenwith Lucy,making gingerbreadmen. It had been ahardmorning,andthetwomensatsharingabottleofbeerinthefirsttentativespringsunshine.

For weeks, Tom had been anticipating this moment, considering how hecouldapproachthesubjectwhentheboatarrived.Heclearedhis throatbeforeasking,“Haveyouever…doneanythingwrong,Ralph?”

TheoldmancockedToma look.“What thebloodyhell’s thatsupposedtomean?”

Thewordshadcomeoutawkwardly,despiteallTom’splanning.“I’mtalkingabout—well—howyouput something rightwhenyou’vebuggered itup.Howyou fix it.”Hiseyeswere focusedon theblack swanon thebeer label, andhestruggledtokeephisnerve.“Imeansomethingserious.”

Ralphtookaswigofbeerandlookedatthegrassashenoddedslowly.“Wanttosaywhat?Noneofmybusiness,ofcourse—nottryingtostickmebeakin.”

Tom was very still, sensing bodily the relief that would follow theunburdeningofthetruthaboutLucy.“MyfatherdyinggotmethinkingabouteverythingI’vedonewrongin life,andabouthowtoput it rightbeforeIdie.”Heopenedhismouthtogoon,butanimageofIsabelbathingtheirstillbornsonsilencedhim,andhebalked.

“I’ll never even know their names…”He was surprised at how readily thespacehadbeenfilledwithotherthoughts,otherguilt.

“Whosenames?”Tomhesitated,poisedontheedgeofachasm,decidingwhethertodive.He

dranksomebeer.“ThemenIkilled.”Thewordsfell,bluntandheavy.Ralphweigheduphis response. “Well, that’swhat youdo in abloodywar.

Killorbekilled.”“Themoretimepasses,themaddereverythingI’vedoneseems.”Tomhada

sense of being physically trapped in each separate pastmoment, held in somevisethatpressedintohimeverybodilysensation,everyguilt-filledthoughtthathadmountedupoveryears.Hestruggledforbreath.Ralphwascompletelystill,waiting.

Tom turned to him, suddenly shaking. “JesusChrist, I justwant to do therightthing,Ralph!Tellmewhattherightfuckingthingtodois!I—Ijustcan’tstand this! I can’t do it anymore.”He threw the bottle to the ground and it

shatteredonarock,ashiswordsdissolvedintoasob.Ralphputanarmaroundhim. “Therenow,boy.Easydoes it, easydoes it.

I’vebeenaroundashadelongerthanyou.Seenallsorts.Rightandwrongcanbelikebloodysnakes:sotangledupthatyoucan’ttellwhichiswhichuntilyou’veshot’emboth,andthenit’stoolate.”

HelookedatTom:along,wordlesslook.“ThequestionI’daskis,howwouldrakingoverthecoalsmakethingsbetter?Youcan’tputanyofthatrightnow.”Thewords,devoidofjudgmentoranimosity,twistedlikeaknifeinTom’sgutsjustthesame.“Christ—thequickestwaytosendablokemadistolethimgoonre-fightinghiswartillhegetsitright.”

Ralphscrapedatacallusonhis finger. “If I’dhada son, I’dbeproud ifheturnedouthalfaswellasyou.You’reagoodbloke,Tom.A luckybloke,withthatwifeanddaughterofyours.Concentrateonwhat’sbestforyourfamilynow.Fellaupstairs’sgivenyouasecondchance,soIreckonhe’snottoofussedaboutwhateveryoudidordidn’tdobackthen.Sticktonow.Putrightthethingsyoucanput right today,and let theones fromback thengo.Leave the rest to theangels,orthedevilorwhoever’sinchargeofit.”

“Thesalt.Youcannevergetridofthesalt.Iteatsawaylikeacancerifyoudon’twatchout.”ItwasthedayafterhistalkwithRalph,andTomwasmutteringtohimself.Lucy satbesidehim inside thegiantglass cocoonof the lens, feedingherragdollimaginarysweetsashebuffedandpolishedthebronzefittings.Herblueeyesbeamedupathim.

“AreyouDolly’sdaddatoo?”sheasked.Tomstopped.“Idon’tknow.Whydon’tyouaskDolly?”Sheleanedtowhispersomethingtothedoll,thenannounced,“Shesaysno.

You’rejustmyDadda.”Herfacehadlostitsroundshape,andwasnowgivinghintsofherfutureself

—blondehair rather than the earlierdark shade, andenquiringeyes, fair skin.Hewonderedwhether shewouldbegin to resemblehermother,orher father.Hethoughtbacktothefaceoftheblondmanhehadburied.Dreadcrawleduphisspineasheimaginedheraskinghimharderquestionsastheyearswenton.He thought, too,howhis reflection in themirrornowofferedglimpsesofhisownfather’sfaceathisage.Likenessliesinwait.Partageusewassmall:amothermight fail to recognize her infant in the face of a toddler, but eventually,wouldn’tsheseeherselfinthegrownwoman?Thethoughtgnawedawayathim.

He dabbed the rag into the tin of polish and rubbed again, until the sweattrickledintothecornersofhiseyes.

That evening, Tom was leaning against the veranda post, watching the windblow the sun into night.He had lit up, and the towerwas now settled downuntildawn.HehadgoneoverRalph’sadviceagainandagain.Putrightthethingsyoucanputrighttoday.

“Here you are, darl,” said Isabel. “She’s gone off to sleep. I had to readCinderellathreetimes!”SheputanarmaroundTomandleanedintohim.“Ilovethewayshepretendstoreadassheturnsthepages.Knowsthestoriesbyheart.”

Tomdidnot reply, soIsabelkissedhimbelowtheearandsaid, “Wecouldalwayshaveanearlynight.I’mtired,butnottootired…”

Hewasstilllookingoutatthewater.“WhatdoesMrs.Roennfeldtlooklike?”It took a moment for Isabel to register that the reference was to Hannah

Potts.“Whatonearthdoyouwanttoknowthatfor?”“Whydoyouthink?”“Shedoesn’tlookabitlikeher!Lucy’sblondewithblueeyes—shemusthave

gotthatfromherfather.”“Well she sure as hell didn’t get it from us.”He turned to face her. “Izzy,

we’vegottosaysomething.Wehavetotellher.”“Lucy?She’stooyoungto—”“No,HannahRoennfeldt.”Isabellookedhorrified.“Whatfor?”“Shedeservestoknow.”She shivered. Indarkmoments, shehadwonderedwhether itwasworse to

believeyourdaughterwasdead,or that shewasaliveandyouwouldnever seeher;shehadimaginedHannah’storment.Butevenamoment’sagreementwithTomwouldbefatal,sheknew.“Tom.We’vedonethisonetodeath.Itjustisn’trighttoputyournigglingconscienceaboveLucy’swelfare.”

“Niggling conscience? For the love of God, Isabel, we’re not talking aboutswiping sixpence from the collection plate!We’re talking about a child’s life!Andawoman’s life, for thatmatter.Everymomentofourhappiness isonhertab.Thatcan’tberight,nomatterhowmuchwetrytothinkourwayoutofit.”

“Tom,you’retiredandyou’resadandyou’reconfused.Inthemorningyou’llthinkdifferently.I’mnotgoingtotalkaboutitanymoretonight.”Shetouchedhishand,andfoughttomaskthetremble inhervoice.“We’re—we’renot ina

perfectworld.Wehavetolivewiththat.”Hestaredather,seizedbythesensationthatperhapsshedidn’texist.Perhaps

noneofthisexisted,fortheinchesbetweenthemseemedtodividetwoentirelydifferentrealities,andtheynolongerjoined.

Lucyisparticularlyfondoflookingatthephotographstakenofherasababyonhervisit toPartageuse. “That’sme!” shetellsTom,asshesitsonhiskneeandpointstothepictureonthetable.“ButIwasonlylittlethen.NowI’mabiggirl.”

“Youcertainlyare,sweetie.Fournextbirthday.”“That,”shesays,pointingauthoritatively,“isMamma’smamma!”“Quiteright.Mamma’smammaisGrandma.”“Andthat’sDadda’sdadda.”“No,that’sMamma’sdadda.That’sGrandpa.”Lucylooksskeptical.“Yeah, it’s confusing, I know. ButGrandma andGrandpa aren’tmymum

anddad.”“Whoareyourmumanddad?”TomshiftedLucyfromonekneetotheother.“Mymumanddadwerecalled

EleanoraandEdward.”“Aretheymygrandmaandgrandpatoo?”Tomsidesteppedthequestion.“Theybothdied,sweetie.”“Ah,” saidLucy,andnoddedseriously, inaway thatmadehimsuspect she

hadnoideawhathewastalkingabout.“LikeFlossie.”Tomhadforgottenaboutthegoatthathadbecomeillanddiedafewweeks

earlier.“Well,yes,likeFlossiedied.”“Whydidyourmammaanddaddadie?”“Becausetheywereoldandsick.”Headded,“Itwasalongtimeago.”“WillIdie?”“NotifIcanhelpit,Lulu.”Butlately,everydaywiththischildseemedaprecariousthing.Themoreshe

had access towords, the greater her ability to excavate theworld around her,carving out the story of who she was. It gnawed away at Tom that herunderstandingoflifeandofherselfwouldbefoundedonasingle,enormouslie:aliehehimselfhadhelpedcraftandrefine.

Everysurfaceinthelightroomgleamed:Tomhadalwayskeptitdiligently,but

nowhewagedwaronevery screw,every fitting,until it surrenderedabrilliantsheen.ThesedayshesmelledpermanentlyofDuraglit.Theprismssparkledandthebeamshone,unhinderedbyaspeckofdust.Everycogintheworksmovedsmoothly.Theapparatushadneverfunctionedwithmoreprecision.

Thecottage,ontheotherhand,hadsuffered.“Couldn’tyoujustputabitofputtyinthatcrack?”Isabelasked,astheysatinthekitchenafterlunch.

“I’lldoitonceI’mreadyfortheinspection.”“But you’ve been ready for the inspection for weeks—formonths, for that

matter.It’snotasiftheKing’scoming,isit?”“Ijustwantitshipshape,that’sall.I’vetoldyou,we’reinwithachanceforthe

PointMooreposting.We’dbeon land, close toGeraldton.Nearpeople.Andwe’dbehundredsofmilesfromPartageuse.”

“Timewasyoucouldn’tbearthethoughtofleavingJanus.”“Yeah,well,timeschange.”“It’snottimethat’schanged,Tom,”shesaid.“You’retheonewhoalwayssays

thatifalighthouselookslikeit’sinadifferentplace,it’snotthelighthousethat’smoved.”

“Well you work out what has,” he said as he picked up his spanner andheadedoffdowntothestoragesheds,withoutlookingback.

Thatnight,Tomtookabottleofwhisky,andwenttowatchthestarsfromnearthecliff.Thebreezeplayedonhisfaceashetracedtheconstellations,andtastedtheburnoftheliquid.Heturnedhisattentiontotherotationofthebeam,andgaveabitterlaughatthethoughtthatthedipofthelightmeantthattheislanditself was always left in darkness. A lighthouse is for others; powerless toilluminatethespaceclosesttoit.

CHAPTER21

ThecelebrationatPointPartageusethreemonthslaterwasbigbySouthWeststandards.The Superintendent of theMercantileMarineOffice had come allthewayfromPerth,togetherwiththeStateGovernor.Thetownworthieswerethere—theMayor, theHarbormaster, thevicar,aswellas threeof the last fivelightkeepers.Theyhadgathered tocommemorate thedayonwhich Januswasfirstlit,fortyyearsearlierinJanuary1890.TheoccasionbroughtwithitagrantofbriefspecialshoreleavefortheSherbournefamily.

Tom ran his finger between his neck and the starched collar whichimprisonedit.“IfeellikeaChristmasgoose!”hecomplainedtoRalphasthetwostoodbackstage, looking out frombehind the curtains.Already sitting in neatrowson the stageweremunicipalengineersandHarborandLightsemployeeswhohadbeenassociatedwithJanusovertheyears.Outsidetheopenwindows,thesummer’snightwasalivewiththechirrupofcrickets.Isabelandherparentssatononesideofthehall,BillGraysmarkholdingLucyonhiskneewhilesherabbitednurseryrhymes.

“Justkeepyourmindonthefreebeer,son,”RalphwhisperedtoTom.“EvenJockJohnsoncan’tblatherontoolongtonight—thatgetupmustbekillinghim.”Henoddedinthedirectionofthebald,perspiringmanbedeckedwithermine-collaredrobeandmayoralchainwhowaspacingabout,preparingtoaddressthegatheringinthericketytownhall.

“I’lljoinyouinaminute,”Tomsaid.“Callofnature.”Andheheadedouttothetoiletbehindthehall.

Onthewayback,henoticedawomanwhoseemedtobestaringathim.Hecheckedthathisflieswerebuttoned;glancedbehindhim,incaseshewas

observingsomeoneelse.Stillshelookedathim,andasshegotcloser,shesaid,“Youdon’trememberme,doyou?”

Tomlookedatheragain.“Sorry,thinkyou’vegotthewrongperson.”“Itwasalongtimeagonow,”shesaid,blushing.Inthatinstantsomethingin

herexpressionchanged,andherecognizedthefaceofthegirlontheboatonhis

first trip toPointPartageuse. Shehad aged, andwas thinnow,with shadowsunderher eyes.Hewondered if shehad some sort of illness.He rememberedher, in her nightgown, wide-eyed with fear and pinned to the wall by somedrunken fool. The memory belonged to a different man, a different lifetime.Onceortwiceovertheyears,he’dwonderedwhathadbecomeofher,andofthecovewho’d bailed her up.He had never bothered tomention the incident toanyone,Isabelincluded,andinstincttoldhimitwastoolatetotellheraboutitnow.

“Ijustwantedtosaythankyou,”thewomanbegan,butwasinterruptedbyavoice calling from the back door of the hall. “We’re about to start. Best begettingin.”

“Excuseme,”saidTom.“Gottogo,I’mafraid.Seeyouafterward,perhaps.”

Assoonashetookuphisseatonstage,proceedingsgotunderway.Therewerespeeches,afewanecdotesfromsomeoftheolderlightkeepers;theunveilingofamodeloftheoriginalstructure.

“This model,” the Mayor announced proudly, “was paid for by our localbenefactor,Mr.SeptimusPotts.I’mdelightedthatMr.Pottsandhischarmingdaughters,HannahandGwen,areattendingourlittlegatheringtonight,andI’dask you to show your thanks in the usualway.”He gestured to an oldermansittingbesidetwowomen,thefirstofwhom,Tomrealizedwithasicklurch,wasthegirlfromtheboat.HeglancedatIsabel,whosmiledstifflyassheapplaudedwiththerestoftheaudience.

TheMayor continued, “And of course, ladies and gentlemen,we also havewithustonightthecurrentlightkeeperonJanus,Mr.ThomasSherbourne.I’msureTomwouldbedelightedtosayafewwordsaboutlifeonJanusRocktoday.”HeturnedtoTom,andgesturedhimtothepodium.

Tom froze.Noonehadmentioned a speech.Hewas still reeling from therealization that he had met Hannah Roennfeldt. The audience clapped. TheMayorbeckonedhimagain,moreforcefullythistime.“Upyouget,sport.”

For just a second, hewonderedwhether everything, from the day the boathadwashedup,mightbejustoneterrible,mercifulnightmare.Butthereintheaudience he could see Isabel, the Pottses and Bluey, oppressively real andinescapable.Hegottohisfeet,heartthudding,andwalkedtothelecternasiftothegallows.

“Struth,” he began, sending a ripple of laughter through the audience. “I

wasn’t expecting this.” He wiped his palms on the sides of his trousers, andgripped the lectern for support. “Life on Janus today…”He stopped, lost in athought, and repeated, “Life on Janus today…” How could he explain theisolation?How could hemake anyone know the world there, as far removedfrom their experience as another galaxy? The Janus bubble had shattered likeglass:herehewas,inacrowd,inanordinary,realroom,fullofpeople,ofotherlives. In thepresenceofHannahRoennfeldt.Therewas a long silence.A fewclearedtheirthroats,othersshiftedintheirseats.

“JanusLightwas designed by some pretty smart characters,” he said. “Andbuiltby someprettybraveones. I just try anddo them justice.Keep the lightburning.”Hesoughtrefugeinthetechnical,inthepractical,whichhecouldtalkaboutwithouthavingtothink.“Peopleimaginethelightmustbehuge,butit’snot—theactualluminescencecomesfromaflameofvaporizedoilthatburnsinan incandescentmantle. It getsmagnified and directed through a giant set ofglassprisms twelve feethigh,calleda firstorderFresnel lens,whichbends thelightintoabeamsointenseyoucanseeitmorethanthirtymilesaway.Amazingtothinka littlethingcanbecomesostrongthatyoucanseeitmilesoff…Myjob—myjob’stokeepitclean.Keepitturning.

“It’s likebeing inadifferentworld,out there,andadifferent time:nothingchangesexcepttheseasons.TherearedozensoflighthousesallaroundthecoastofAustralia:plentymorefellowslikeme,tryingtomaketheshipssafe,keepingthelightforwhoevermightneedit,eventhoughwe’llmostlyneverseethemorknowwhotheyare.

“Can’tthinkwhatelsetosay,really.Exceptyoucannevertellwhatthetide’sgoingtobring infromonedaytothenext—everythingthat twowholeoceansflingatus.”HecouldseetheMayorcheckinghispocketwatch.“Well,Ireckonthat’s kept you away from the spread for long enough: this is thirstyweather.Thanks,”heconcluded,turningabruptlytositdown,tomoderateapplausefromthebemusedaudience.

“Youallright,mate?”Ralphaskedinawhisper.“Youlookabitgreenaboutthegills.”

“Nottookeenonsurprises,”wasallTomsaid.

Mrs. Captain Hasluck loved a party. Her penchant was rarely indulged inPartageuse,sotonightshewasbesideherselfwithdelight.Sherelishedherduty,asHarbormaster’swife,toencouragethegueststomix,especiallyseeingasthere

were visitors from Perth. She glided here and there, introducing people,remindingthemofnamesandsuggestingthingstheyhadincommon.ShekeptaneyeonReverendNorkells’ssherryintake;engagedtheSuperintendent’swifeinsmalltalkaboutthedifficultyoflaunderingthegoldbraidonuniforms.SheevenmanagedtopersuadeoldNevilleWhittnishtotellthestoryofthedayhesavedthecrewofaschoonerwhosecargoofrumhadcaughtfireoutnearJanusin1899.“Ofcourse,thatwasbeforeFederation,”hesaid.“AndlongbeforetheCommonwealthgotitshandsontheLightsin1915.Alotmoreredtapesincethen.”TheStateGovernor’swifenoddeddutifullyandwonderedifheknewhehaddandruff.

Mrs. Captain looked about for her next task, and saw her opportunity.“Isabel,dear,”shesaid,layingahandonherelbow.“WhataninterestingspeechTomgave!”ShecooedtoLucy,whowasperchedonIsabel’ship,“You’reupverylatethisevening,younglady.Ihopeyou’rebeingagoodgirlforMummy.”

Isabelsmiled.“Goodasgold.”Inacrochet-hookmaneuver,Mrs.Hasluckreachedouttogatherinthearm

of a woman who was just passing. “Gwen,” she said. “You know IsabelSherbourne,don’tyou?”

GwenPottshesitatedamoment.SheandhersisterwereseveralyearsolderthanIsabel,andhavingbeentoboardingschoolinPerth,neitherofthemknewherwell.Mrs.Captainregisteredthehesitation.“Graysmark.You’dknowherasIsabelGraysmark,”shesaid.

“I—well,Iknowwhoyouare,ofcourse,”shesaidwithapolitesmile.“Yourfather’stheheadmaster.”

“Yes,” replied Isabel, nausea creeping into her belly. She looked around, asthoughtryingtoescapewithhereyes.

Mrs.Captainwasbeginning to regret the introduction.ThePottsgirlshadnever reallymixedmuchwiththe locals.Andthen,afterall thatbusinesswiththeGerman,well,thesister…Ohdear…ShewasconsideringhowtorescuethesituationwhenGwengesturedtoHannah,standingafewfeetaway.

“Hannah,didyourealizeMr.Sherbournewhogave that speech justnow ismarriedtoIsabelGraysmark?Youknow,theheadmaster’sdaughter.”

“No,Ididn’tknow,”saidHannah,whosethoughtsseemedelsewhereassheapproached.

Isabel froze,unable to speak,asagaunt face slowly turned towardher.SheclutchedLucytighterandtriedtoutteragreeting,butnowordscame.

“What’syourlittleone’sname?”askedGwenwithasmile.

“Lucy.”ItwasonlybysupremeeffortthatIsabelmanagednottorunfromtheroom.

“Lovelyname,”saidGwen.“Lucy,”saidHannah,asifpronouncingawordfromaforeignlanguage.Shewasstaringatthechild,andreachedouttotouchherarm.Isabel flinchedwith terrorat the look inHannah’s eyesas she surveyed the

littlegirl.Lucy seemedhypnotized by thewoman’s touch. She studied thedark eyes,

and neither smiled nor frowned, as though concentrating on a puzzle.“Mamma,”shesaid,andbothwomenblinked.SheturnedtoIsabel.“Mamma,”shesaidagain,“I’msleepy,”andrubbedhereyes.

For the briefest of moments, Isabel pictured herself handing Hannah thechild.Shewasthemother.Shehadtheright.Butshewashallucinating.No,shehadthoughtaboutitsomanytimes.Therewasnogoingbackonherdecision.WhateverGodmeantbythis,Isabelhadtostaywiththeplan,goalongwithHiswill.Shecastaboutinhermindforsomethingtosay.

“Ohlook,”saidMrs.Hasluck,seeingTomapproach,“here’sthemanofthemoment,”andpulledhiminasshemovedofftoanotherlittlegroup.Tomhadbeen anxious to catch Isabel and slip away, as people converged on the trestletablesofsausagerollsandsandwiches.AsherealizedwhoIsabelwastalkingto,hisnecktingled,andhispulseracedharder.

“Tom,thisisHannahandGwenPotts,”saidIsabel,attemptingasmile.Tomstaredashiswife,withLucyonherhip,putherhandonhisarm.“Hello,”saidGwen.“Pleased tomeetyouagain,properly,” saidHannah, finally tearinghereyes

fromthechild.Tomcouldfindnowords.“‘Properly’?”queriedGwen.“Weactuallymetyearsago,butIneverknewhisname.”NowIsabelwaslookinganxiouslyfromonetotheother.“Yourhusbandwasverygallant.Rescuedmefromafellowwho—well,who

was bothering me. On a boat from Sydney.” She answered Gwen’s silentquestion.“Oh,I’lltellyouaboutitlater.It’sallalongtimeagonow.”ToTom,shesaid,“IhadnoideayouwereonJanus.”

Therewasaheavysilenceastheystood,inchesfromeachother.“Dadda,”saidLucyfinally,andheldoutherarmstohim.Isabelresisted,but

thechildputherarmsaroundhisneckandTomletherclimbontohimandrest

herheadagainsthischest,listeningtothedrumbeatofhisheart.Tomwasabouttotakethechancetomoveaway,whenHannahtouchedhis

elbow. “I liked what you said, by the way, about the light being there forwhoeverneededit.”Shetookamomenttoworkuptohernextwords.“CouldIaskyousomething,Mr.Sherbourne?”

Therequestfilledhimwithdread,buthesaid,“What’sthat?”“Itmay seema strangequestion, butdo ships ever rescuepeople far out to

sea?Haveyoueverheardofboatsbeingpickedup?Survivorstakentotheothersideoftheworld,perhaps?Iwasjustwonderingwhetheryou’devercomeacrossstories…”

Tomclearedhisthroat.“Whenitcomestotheocean,anything’spossible,Isuppose.Anythingatall.”

“Isee…Thankyou.”Hannahtookadeepbreath,andlookedagainatLucy.“Itookyouradvice,”sheadded.“Aboutthatfellowontheboatbackthen.Likeyousaid,hehadenoughproblems.”Sheturnedtohersister.“Gwen,I’mreadyforhome.I’mnotmuchofaonefor thiskindofdo.WillyousaygoodbyetoDadforme?Idon’twanttointerrupthim.”ThentoTomandIsabel,“Excuseme.” She was about to leave when Lucy gave a sleepy “Ta-ta” and a wave.Hannahtriedtosmile.“Ta-ta,”shereplied.Throughtearsshesaid,“Youhaveaverylovelydaughter.Excuseme,”andhurriedtothedoor.

“Sosorryaboutthat,”Gwensaid.“Hannahhadaterribletragedyafewyearsago. Family lost at sea—her husband, and a daughter who would have beenaboutyourgirl’sagebynow.She’salwaysaskingthatsortofthing.Seeinglittleonessetsheroff.”

“Dreadful,”Isabelmanagedtomutter.“I’dbettergoandseeshe’sallright.”AsGwenleft,Isabel’smotherjoinedthem.“Aren’tyouproudofyourdaddy,

Lucy?Isn’theacleverfellow,givingspeechesandwhathaveyou?”SheturnedtoIsabel.“ShallItakeherhome?YouandTomcanenjoytheparty.Mustbeyearssinceyou’vebeentoadance.”

IsabellookedtoTomforaresponse.“IpromisedRalphandBlueyI’dhaveabeerwiththem.Notmycupoftea,

allthis.”Withoutanotherglanceathiswife,hestrodeoutintothedarkness.

Laterthatnight,whenIsabellookedintothemirrorasshewashedherface,foran instant it was Hannah’s features she glimpsed in the glass, etched with

distress. She splashed more water on her skin, to wash away the unbearableimagealongwiththesweatoftheencounter.Butshecouldn’tmakethepicturego away, nor could she tame the other, almost imperceptiblewire of fear thatcamefromlearningthatTomhadmether.Shecouldn’tsaywhyitmadethingsworse,butsomehow,itfeltasifsolidgroundhadmovedimperceptiblybeneathherfeet.

Theencounterhadbeenshocking.Toseecloseupthedarkness inHannahRoennfeldt’s eyes. To smell the faded sweetness of powder on her. To feel,almost physically, the hopelessness that hung about her.But at the very sametime, she had tasted the possibility of losing Lucy. The muscles in her armsstiffenednow,asiftoholdontothechild.“OhGod,”sheprayed,“God,bringpeacetoHannahRoennfeldt.AndletmekeepLucysafe.”

Tomhadstillnotcomehome.Shewent intoLucy’sroomtocheckonher.She took a picture book gently fromher hand as she slept, and laid it on thedressing table. “Nightnight,myangel,” shewhispered, andkissedher.As shestrokedherhair,shefoundherselfcomparingtheshapeofLucy’sfacewiththevisionofHannahinthemirror,lookingforsomethinginthecurveofthechinorthearchofaneyebrow.

CHAPTER22

Mamma, can we have a cat?” Lucy asked the next morning as she followedIsabelintotheGraysmarks’kitchen.ThechildhadbeenfascinatedbytheexoticmarmaladecreaturecalledTabathaTabbythatpatrolledthehouse.Shehadseencatsinstorybooks,butthiswastheonlyoneshehadevertouched.

“Oh, I don’t think a cat would be very happy on Janus, sweetie pie. Hewouldn’thaveanyfriendstoplaywith.”Isabel’svoicehadadistractedair.

“Dadda, canwepleasehave a cat?” asked the childwithoutmissing a beat,oblivioustothetensionintheair.

TomhadgothomeafterIsabelwasasleep,andrisenbeforeanyoneelse.Hewassittingatthetable,flippingthroughaweek-oldcopyoftheWestAustralian.

“Lulu,whydon’tyoutakeTabathaoutintothegardenforanadventure—gohuntingformice,”hesaid.

Shehauledthecompliantanimalupbyitsmiddleandstumbledtothedoor.TomturnedtoIsabel.“Howmuchlonger,Izz?Howmuchbloodylonger?”“What?”“Howcanwedoit?Howcanwecarryonwiththiseveryday?Youknewthe

poorwomanhadgoneoutofhermindbecauseofus.Nowyou’veseenherwithyourowneyes!”

“Tom, there’snothingwe cando. I know it and sodo you.”ButHannah’sfacecamebacktoher,hervoice.AsTomsethisjaw,shesearchedforsomewayof placating him. “Perhaps…” she ventured, “perhaps—when Lucy’s older,perhapswecantellHannahthen,whenitwon’tbesodevastating…Butthat’syearsaway,Tom,years.”

Astounded both by the concession and by its inadequacy, he pressed on.“Isabel,what’s it going to take? It can’twait years. Imagineher life!Youevenknewher!”

Fear awoke in Isabel in earnest. “And it turns out you did too, TomSherbourne.Butyoukeptthatprettyquiet,didn’tyou?”

Tomwas taken aback by the counter-attack. “I don’t know her. Imet her.

Once.”“When?”“OntheboatfromSydney.”“That’swhat’sbroughtthisonthough, isn’t it?Whydidn’tyouevertellme

abouther?Whatdidshemean,‘You’reverygallant’?Whatareyouhiding?”“WhatamIhiding?That’srich.”“Iknownothingaboutyourlife!Whatelsehaveyoukeptsecret,Tom?How

manyothershipboardromances?”Tomstoodup.“Stopit!Stopitrightthere,Isabel!You’recarryingonlikea

two-bobwatchoverHannahRoennfeldttochangethesubjectbecauseyouknowI’mright.MakesnooddswhetherI’dseenherbeforeornot.”

He tried an appeal to reason. “Izz.You sawwhat she’s become.That’s ourdoing.”Heturnedawayfromher.“Isawthings…Isawthingsinthewar,Izz.ThingsI’venevertoldyouandneverwill.Christ,Ididthings…”Hisfistswereclosed tightandhis jawstiff. “I swore I’dnevermakeanyone sufferafter that,not if I could help it. Why do you think I went on the Lights anyway? IreckonedI couldmaybedoabitofgood,maybe save somepoorbastard frombeingwrecked.Andnow lookwhat I’ve gotten into. Iwouldn’twant adog tohavetogothroughwhatHannahRoennfeldt’sbeenthrough!”Hesearchedforwords.“Christ,IlearnedinFrancethatyou’rebloodyluckyifyou’vegottuckerfor tea and teeth to chew it with.”He balked at the images that flooded hismind. “SowhenImetyou,andyoueven looked twiceatme, I thoughtIwasbloodywellinheaven!”

He stopped for a moment. “What are we, Izzy? What do we think we’replayingat,forcryingoutloud?IsworeI’dstaywithyouthroughthickandthin,Isabel,thickandthin!WellallIcansayis,thingshavegotprettybloodythin,”hesaid,andstrodeawaydownthehall.

The child stood in the back doorway, watching the end of the argument,spellbound.ShehadneverheardsomanywordscomefromTom’smouth,neversoloud.Neverseenhimcry.

“She’sgone!”Isabel’swordsgreetedTomashereturnedtotheGraysmarks’thatafternoon,inthecompanyofBluey.

“Lucy!IleftheroutsideplayingwiththecatwhileIwenttopack.IthoughtMumwaswatchingher,andshethoughtIwaswatchingher.”

“Calmdown.Calmdown,Izz,”hesaid,andputahandoneacharm.“Takeit

quietly.Whendidyoulastseeher?”“Anhourago?Twoatthemost.”“Whendidyourealizeshe’dgone?”“Justnow.Dad’sgonetolookforher,upinthebushattheback.”Partageuse

frilledinandoutofnativebushlandatitsfringes,andbeyondtheGraysmarks’neat,lawnedgardenlayacresofscrubthatledintoforest.

“Tom,thankgoodnessyou’reback.”Violetcamerushingontotheveranda.“I’m so sorry—it’s all my fault. I should have checked on her! Bill’s gone tosearchupalongtheoldloggingtrack…”

“Are there any other places she’s likely to have gone?” Tom’s methodical,practicalreflexcametothefore.“AnywhereyouandBilltoldherstoriesabout?”

“Shecouldbeanywhere,”saidViolet,shakingherhead.“Tom,therearesnakes.Redbacks.Godhelpus!”Isabelimplored.Blueyspokeup.“IusedtospendalldayinthatbushwhenIwasakid,Mrs.

S.She’llbeallright.We’llfindher,notrouble.Comeon,Tom.”“Izz—Bluey and I’ll head into the bush, see ifwe can find any tracks.You

haveanotherlookaroundthegardenandoutthefront.Violet,double-checkthehouse—allthecupboardsandunderthebeds.Anywhereshecouldhavefollowedthecat.Ifwedon’tfindherinthenexthour,we’llhavetosendforthepolice,gettheblack-trackersout.”

Isabelflashedhimalookatthementionofpolice.“Itwon’tcometothat,”saidBluey.“She’llberightasrain,Mrs.S.,youwait

andsee.”Itwasonlywhentheywereoutofearshotof thewomenthatBlueysaid to

Tom, “Let’shope she’sbeenmakinga racket as shegoes.Snakes sleepduringthe day. They’ll get out of your way if they hear you coming. But if they’resurprised…Hassheeverwanderedoffbefore?”

“She’s never had any-bloody-where towander to,”Tom said sharply, then,“Sorry,Blue.Didn’tmeanto—It’s justshehasn’treallygotmuchofafeelfordistance.OnJanus,everywhere’sclosetohome.”

Theywalkedon,callingthechild’snameastheywent,andwaitinginvainforareply.Theywerefollowingtheremnantsofapath,nowmostlyovergrownatadult height, where branches reached over the empty space below. But at herheight,Lucywouldhavemetnoresistance.

Aboutfifteenminutesin,thepathopenedoutintoaclearing,thenforkedinopposite directions. “Loads of these trails,” said Bluey. “They’d clear a route,back intheolddays,whentheywentscoutingforgoodtimbercountry.There

arestillsoakshereandthere,soyou’vegottowatchout.They’reusuallycoveredover,”hesaid,referringtothewellsdugtogetatgroundwater.

Thechildfromthelighthousehaslittlefear.Sheknowsnottogotoonearcliffedges.Sheunderstandsthatspiderscanbite,andshouldbeavoided.Sheisclearthat she mustn’t try to swim unless Mamma or Dadda is beside her. In thewater, she can tell the difference between the fin of a friendly dolphin,whichgoesupanddown,andofashark,whichstayssteadyas itcuts thesurface.InPartageuse, if she pulls the cat’s tail it might scratch her. These are theboundariesofdanger.

SoasshefollowsTabathaTabbybeyondthebordersofthegarden,shehasnoconceptofgetting lost.After awhile she canno longer see the cat,butbythenitistoolate—sheistoofarawaysimplytoretracehersteps,andthemoreshetries,thefurthershewanders.

Eventually,shecomestoaclearing,whereshesitsdownbyalog.Shetakesinher surroundings. There are soldier ants, which she knows to avoid, and shemakes sure she’s a good distance from the trail they’re making. She’s notconcerned.MammaandDaddawillfindher.

Asshesitsthere,drawingpatternsinthesandysoilwithatwig,shenoticesastrange creature, longer thanher finger, approach fromunder the log. It’s likenothingshe’severseenbefore:a longbody,and legs likean insectoraspider,but two fat arms like one of the crabs Dadda catches sometimes on Janus.Fascinated,shetouchesitwiththetwig,anditstailrapidlycurlsupinabeautifularch, pointing to its head. In that moment, a second creature appears, a fewinchesaway.

She ismesmerizedby theway the insects followher twig, trying to grab itwiththeircrabclaws.Athirdoneemergesfromunderthelog.Thesecondspassslowly.

As they reach the clearing, Tom gives a start. He sees a small, shod footprotrudingfrombehindalog.

“Lucy!”Heracestothelog,wherethelittlegirlsitsplayingwithastick.Hefreezesasherecognizestheshapeclingingtotheendofthetwigasascorpion.“Jesus,Lucy!”Hegrabsthelittlegirlunderherarmsandliftsherhighintheairas he dashes the scorpion to the ground and crushes it under his foot. “Lucy,whatthehellareyoudoing?”hecries.

“Dadda!Butyoukilledit!”“Lucy,that’sdangerous!Diditbiteyou?”“No.Itlikesme.Andlook,”shesays,openingthewidepocketatthefrontof

hersmock,proudlydisplayinganotherscorpion.“Igotoneforyou.”“Don’tmove!” he says, feigning calm and returning her to the ground.He

lowersthetwigintothepocketuntilthescorpionlocksontoit,thenslowlyraisesitandflingsitontothedirt,stampingonit.

He inspectedherarmsand legs forsignsofbitesorstings. “Areyousure itdidn’tstingyou?Doesithurtanywhere?”

Sheshookherhead.“Ididanaventure!”“Youcertainlydidanadventureallright.”“Have a close look,” saidBluey. “You can’t always see the puncturemarks.

Butshedoesn’tlookdrowsy.That’sagoodsign.Tellyouthetruth,Iwasmoreworriedshewasatthebottomofoneofthosesoaks.”

“Evertheoptimist,”mutteredTom.“Lucy,darl,wedon’thavescorpionsonJanus. They’re dangerous. You mustn’t ever touch them.” He hugged her.“Whereonearthhaveyoubeen?”

“I did play with Tabatha. You said to.” Tom felt a stab as he recalled hisinstructionearlierthatmorningtogooutsidewiththecat.“Comeon,sweetie.We’vegottogetyoubacktoMamma.”Hismouthseemednewlyawareofthesignificanceoftheword,asthepreviousnight’seventscamebacktohim.

Isabel rushed from the veranda tomeet them at the edge of the garden. ShegrabbedLucyandsobbedwithrelief.

“ThankGod,”saidBill,standingbesideViolet.Herputhisarmsaroundher.“ThanktheblessedLord.Andthankstoyoutoo,Bluey,”hesaid.“You’vesavedourlives.”

All thoughts of Hannah Roennfeldt were swept from Isabel’s mind thatafternoon, and Tom knew he couldn’t raise the subject again. But he washauntedbyherface.Thefigurewhohadexistedintheabstractwasnowalivingwoman,sufferingeveryminutebecauseofwhathehaddone.Everyaspectofher—thegauntcheeks,theharrowedeyes,thechewedfingernails—werevividinhisconscience.Hardesttobearwastherespectshehadshownhim,thetrust.

Timeandagain,TomwonderedatthehiddenrecessesofIsabel’smind—thespaceswhereshemanagedtoburytheturmoilhisownmindcouldn’tescape.

WhenRalphandBlueycastofffromJanusthefollowingday,havingdeliveredthefamilybacktothelight,theyoungermansaid,“Cripes,thingsseemedabitfrostybetweenthem,don’tyoureckon?”

“Piece of free advice, Blue—never try and work out what’s going on insomeoneelse’smarriage.”

“Yeah, I know, but, well, you’d think they’d be relieved that nothinghappened to Lucy yesterday. Isabel was acting like it was Tom’s fault she’dwanderedoff.”

“Keepoutofit,boy.Timeyoubrewedusupsometea.”

CHAPTER23

Itwasoneof themysteriesof theGreatSouthernDistrict, the riddleofwhathappened to babyGrace Roennfeldt and her father. Some people said it justprovedyou still couldn’t trustaHun:hewasa spyandhad finallybeencalledback to Germany after the war. Made no difference that he was Austrian.Others,familiarwiththeoceans,didn’tbataneyelidathisdisappearance:“Well,whatwashethinking,settingoffintothesewaters?Musthavehadkangaroosinhistoppaddock.Wouldn’thavelastedfiveminutes.”TherewasageneralsensethatsomehowitwasGodexpressingdisapprovalforHannah’schoiceofspouse.Forgivenessisallverywell,butlookatthesortsofthingshislothaddone…

OldManPotts’srewardtookonmythicstatus.Overtheyears,itluredpeoplefromtheGoldfields, fromupnorth, fromAdelaideeven,whosawachancetomake their fortune by coming up with a piece of splintered driftwood and atheory.Intheearlymonths,Hannahlistenedkeenlytoeverytalethatwasspunofasighting,everymemoryofababy’scryheardfromtheshoreonthefatefulnight.

Withtime,evenhereagerheartcouldnotfailtoseetheholesinthestories.Whenshewouldsuggestthatababy’sdresswhichhadbeen“discovered”ontheshore did notmatch the oneGrace had been wearing, the reward prospectorwouldurgeher,“Think!You’reovercomewithgrief.Howcouldyoubeexpectedto rememberwhat thepoor childwasdressed in?”Or, “Youknowyou’d sleepmore easily if you just accepted the evidence, Mrs. Roennfeldt.” Then theywouldmakesomesourremarkastheywereusheredfromtheparlorbyGwen,whothankedthemfortheirtroubleandgavethemafewshillingsforthejourneyhome.

That January, the stephanotis was in bloom again, the same voluptuous scentheavy in the air, but it was an ever more gaunt Hannah Roennfeldt whocontinuedherritualjourney—thoughlessoftennow—tothepolicestation,thebeach,thechurch.“Completelyoffherrocker,”ConstableGarstonemutteredas

shewanderedout.EvenReverendNorkellsurgedhertospendlesstimeinthestonydarknessofthechurchandto“lookforChristinthelifearoundher.”

Twonightsafterthelighthousecelebrations,asHannahlayawake,sheheardthegroanof thehingeson the letterbox.She lookedat the clock,whose eerienumerals signaled three a.m. A possum, perhaps? She crept out of bed andpeered fromthecornerof thecurtain,but sawnothing.Themoonhadhardlyrisen:nolightanywheresaveforthefaintglowofthestarswhichdustedthesky.Again,sheheardtheironclangofthebox,thistimecaughtbythebreeze.

She lit a storm-lantern and ventured through the frontdoor, carefulnot towake her sister, only vaguely wary of disturbing any snakes which might betakingadvantageofthe inkyblacknesstohuntformiceorfrogs.Herpalefeetmadenosoundonthepath.

Thedoortotheletterboxswunggentlybackandforward,givingglimpsesofa shape inside. As she held the lantern closer, the outline of a small oblongemerged—aparcel. She pulled it out.Notmuch bigger thanher hand, itwaswrappedinbrownpaper.Shelookedaboutforanyhintofhowithadgotthere,butthedarknesscurledaroundherlamplikeaclosingfist.Shehurriedbacktoher bedroom, fetching her sewing scissors to cut the string. The packagewasaddressedtoher,inthesameneathandasbefore.Sheopenedit.

As she pulled out layer upon layer of newspaper, somethingmade a noisewitheachmovement.Asthe lastof thepackingwasremoved, there, returningthesoftglimmerofthelantern,wasthesilverrattleherfatherhadcommissionedinPerth forhisgranddaughter.Therewasnomistakingtheembossedcherubsonthehandle.Beneaththerattlewasanote.

Sheissafe.Sheislovedandcaredfor.Pleaseprayforme.

Nothingmore.Nodate,noinitial,nosign.“Gwen! Gwen, quick!” She hammered on her sister’s door. “Look at this!

She’salive!Graceisalive.Iknewit!”Gwenstumbledfromherbed,readytohearyetanotheroutlandishidea.But

confronted by the rattle, she became instantly alert, for she had sat with herfather at the counter inCarisBrothers up inPerth ashediscussed thedesignwiththesilversmith.Shetoucheditwarily,asthoughitwereaneggthatmighthatchamonster.

Hannahwasweepingandsmiling,laughingattheceiling,atthefloor.“Itoldyou,didn’tI?Oh,mydarlingGrace!She’salive!”

Gwenlaidahandonhershoulder.“Let’snotgetcarriedaway,Hannah.We’llgo and see Dad in the morning and get him to come with us to the police.They’ll know what to do. Now, go back to sleep. You’ll need a clear headtomorrow.”

Sleepwasoutofthequestion.Hannahwasterrifiedthatifsheclosedhereyesshemightwakeup.Shewentouttothebackyardandsat intheswingingseatwhereonceshehadsatwithFrankandGrace,and lookedat thethousandsofstars that dotted the hemisphere; they soothed her with their steadiness, likepinpricks of hope in the night. Little lives could barely be heard or felt on acanvasthisvast.Yetshehadtherattle,andtherattlebroughtherhope.Thiswasno hoax. This was a talisman of love—a symbol of her father’s forgiveness; athingtouchedbyherchildandthosewhotreasuredher.ShethoughtbacktoherClassicsstudies,andthetaleofDemeterandPersephone.Suddenlythisancientstorywasaliveforher,asshecontemplatedherdaughter’sreturnfromwherevershehadbeenheldcaptive.

She felt—no, she knew—shewas coming to the end of a dreadful journey.OnceGrace was back with her, life would begin again—together they wouldharvest thehappinessso longdeniedthemboth.Shefoundherself laughingatfunny memories: Frank struggling to change a nappy; her father’s attempt atcomposure when his granddaughter brought up her recent feed onto theshoulder of his best suit. For the first time in years, her belly was tight withexcitement.Ifshecouldjustmakeittothemorning.

Whenaglimmerofdoubtcreptintoherthoughts,sheturnedhermindtothespecific: the way Grace’s hair was slightly thinner at the back from rubbingagainsthersheet;thewayherfingernailshadlittlehalf-moonsattheirbase.Shewould anchor her child in memory and draw her home by sheer will—byensuringthatinoneplaceonthisearththerewastheknowingofeveryaspectofher.Shewouldloveherhometosafety.

Thetownwasfulloftalk.Itwasadummyhadbeenfound.No,ateethingring.Itwassomethingthatprovedthebabywasdead;itwassomethingthatprovedshewasalive.Thefatherhadkilledher;thefatherhadbeenmurdered.Fromthebutcher’s to the greengrocer’s, from the farrier’s to the church hall, the storyacquiredandshedfactsandfrillsasitpassedfrommouthtoear,alwayswitha“tut”orapursingoflipstodisguisethethrillofeachteller.

“Mr. Potts, we’re not for a minute doubting you can recognize your own

purchases.ButI’msureyou’llappreciate that itdoesn’tprovethechild’salive.”SergeantKnuckeywastryingtocalmthenowruddy-facedSeptimus,whostoodbeforehim,chinup,chestout,likeaprizefighter.

“You’vegottoinvestigate it!Whywouldsomeonehavewaiteduntilnowtohand it in? In the middle of the night? Not tried to claim the reward?” Hiswhiskersseemedevenwhiterashisfacegrewmorepuce.

“Allduerespect,buthowthebloodyhellwouldIknow?”“That’s enough of that language, thank you very much! There are ladies

present!”“Iapologize.”Knuckeypursedhislips.“Wewillbeinvestigating,Icanassure

you.”“How,exactly?”demandedSeptimus.“We…I…YouhavemywordthatIwill.”Hannah’sheartsank.Itwouldbethesameasbefore.Still,shetooktostaying

uplateintothenight,watchingtheletterbox,waitingforasign.

“Right, I’ll need a picture of this, Bernie,” announced Constable Lynch.StandingatthecounterofGutcher’sstudio,heproducedthesilverrattlefromafeltbag.

Bernie Gutcher looked askance. “Since when have you been interested inbabies?”

“Sinceitwasaboutevidence!”thepolicemanreplied.It took time for the photographer to set up his equipment, and as he did,

Lynch lookedaround thewalls at theportraits illustrating choicesof style andframe.Hisgazepassedevenlyoveranarrayofexamplesthatincludedthelocalfootball team,HarryGarstoneandhismother,andBill andVioletGraysmarkwiththeirdaughterandgranddaughter.

A fewdays later, a photographwasduly pinned to thenoticeboardoutsidethe police station, showing the rattle next to a ruler for scale, and asking foranyonewhorecognizedittocomeforward.BesideitwasanoticefromSeptimusPotts,Esquire, announcing that the reward for information leading to the safereturnofhisgranddaughterGraceEllenRoennfeldtnowstoodatthreethousandguineas,andthatallapproacheswouldbetreatedinthestrictestconfidence.

Down Partageuse way, a thousand guineas could buy you a farm. Threethousand—well, with three thousand guineas there was no telling what you

coulddo.“Areyousure?”Bluey’smotheraskedagainasshepacedthekitchen,herhair

stillintheragcurlersinwhichshehadslept.“Think,boy,forGod’ssake!”“No.Ican’tbesure—notcompletelysure—itwassolongago.ButI’dnever

seen anything that flash before, and in a baby’s cot!” His hands shook as herolledacigarette,andhefumbledthematchashelitit.“Ma,whatamIgoingtodo?”Beadsofsweatwereformingonhisforeheadbeneathhisredcurls.“Imean,maybe there’s some reason for it. Or maybe I was just dreaming.” He drewfiercelyonhiscigarette,andexhaleda thought. “P’raps I shouldwaituntil thenexttripouttoJanusandaskhimthen,mantoman.”

“Man to monkey, more like! You’re more lame-brained than I thought ifthat’syourideaofwhattodo.Threethousandguineas!”Shewavedthreefingersin his face. “Three thousand guineas is more than you’d make on thatgodforsakenboatinahundredyears!”

“Butit’sTomwe’retalkingabout.AndIsabel.Asifthey’ddoanythingwrong.Andevenifitisthesamerattle—itcouldhavejustwashedupandtheyfoundit.You should see some of the stuff that ends up on Janus.He found amusketonce!Andarockinghorse.”

“NowonderKittyKellysentyoupacking.Notanounceofambition.Notanounceofcommonsense.”

“Ma!”Blueywasstungbyhismother’sjibe.“Putafreshshirton.We’regoingtothestation.”“Butit’sTom!It’samate,Mum!”“It’s three blessed thousand guineas! And if you don’t get in first, old Ralph

Addicottmightbedowntherespinningthemthesamestory.”Sheadded,“KittyKelly’snotgoingtolookdownhernoseatamanwiththatmuchmoney,isshe?Nowbrushyourhair.Andputthatwretchedcigaretteout.”

CHAPTER24

AtfirstTomthoughthewasimaginingtheshapeoftheWindwardSpiritasitapproached,lashedbythetailendofthecyclonewhichhadbeenwhirlingdowntheWestAustraliancoast.HecalledtoIsabel,tocheckifshesawittoo.TheyhadbeenbackonJanusonlyaweek.NoboatwasdueagainuntilthemiddleofMarch,whenitwasscheduledtotakethemtothemainlandbeforetheirtransferto PointMoore. Perhaps it had engine trouble on theway from another job?PerhapsRalphorBlueyhadbeeninjuredinallthewildweather?

Theswellwastreacherous,andithadtakenalltheskillofthecrewtodockthevesselwithoutsmashingitintothejetty.“Anyportinastorm,eh,Ralph?”Tomshoutedabovethewindas theboatcamealongside,but theoldmandidnotrespond.

When,insteadofBlueyemergingfromthebackoftheboat,Tomrecognizedthecraggy,timelessfeaturesofNevilleWhittnish,hisconfusiondeepened.Fourpolicemenfollowed.

“Crikey,Ralph!What’sallthis?”AgainRalph failed to reply.A chill crept throughTom.He lookedup the

slopeandsawIsabeledgingback,outofsightofthejetty.Oneofthepolicemenstaggereddownthegangwaylikeadrunk,andtookamomenttoadjusttothestationarydock.Theothersfollowed.

“ThomasEdwardSherbourne?”“That’sright.”“Sergeant Spragg,Albany police.This ismy assistant,Constable Strugnell.

Sergeant Knuckey and Constable Garstone you may recognize from PointPartageusestation.”

“Can’tsayIdo.”“Mr. Sherbourne, we’re here about Frank Roennfeldt and his daughter,

Grace.”Itwasaking-hit,knockingthebreathoutofhimforamoment.Hisneckwas

stiff, his face suddenly waxy-pale. The waiting was over. It was like finally

gettingthesignalforahop-overafterdaysofwaitinginthetrenches.The sergeant fished something from his pocket—a piece of cardboard that

flippedaboutintheblusterywind.Hehelditsteadybetweenbothhands.“Doyourecognizethis,sir?”Tom took in thephotographof the rattle.Heglancedup at the cliff ashe

consideredhisreply:Isabelwasgone.Timebalancedonafulcrum—therewouldbenogoingbackafterthis.

Hegaveagreat sigh,as thoughrelievedofaphysicalweight, andhunghishead,eyesclosed.Hefeltahandonhisshoulder.ItwasRalph’s:“Tom.Tom,son…Whatthebloodyhell’sbeengoingonouthere?”

WhilethepolicequestionTomalone,Isabelretreatstothelittlecrossesnearthecliff.The rosemarybushesmove inandoutof focus, likeher thoughts.She isshakingasshegoesoverthescene:theshortestofthepolicemen,theyoungest,had been very solemn as he showed her the photograph, and could not havefailedtoseehereyeswidenandherbreathstopatthesight.

“SomeonesenttherattletoMrs.Roennfeldt,lastweek.”“Lastweek?”“Lookslikethesamepersonassentheralettergettingonfortwoyearsago.”Thislastnewswastoomuchtomakesenseof.“We’llwant toaskyou somequestionsoncewe’ve spoken toyourhusband,

butinthemeantime,perhapsyoushould—”Heshruggedawkwardly.“Don’tgotoofar.”

Isabellooksoutoverthecliff:thereissomuchair,yetshestrugglesforbreathas she pictures Lucy, having an afternoon sleepwhile in the room next door,policequestionherfather.Theywilltakeheraway.Hermindraces:shecanhidehersomewhereontheisland.Shecan—shecansetoffintheboatwithher.Shecalculatesquickly—therescueboatisalwaysreadytolaunchataninstant.Ifshecanpretendshe’stakingLucy…where?Anywhere,itdoesn’tmatter.Shecangetthegirltotheboatandtheycanbeofftheislandbeforeanyonerealizesthey’vegone.And if theyget into the right current, they’llheadnorth…Shepicturesthe two of them, making land far up toward Perth, together, safe. Logicintervenes to remind her of the risks of the southerly current and the certaindeath of the Southern Ocean. Urgently she explores another route. She canswearthatthechildisherown,thatthedinghywashedupwithtwodeadbodies,and they kept only the rattle. She clutches at any possibility, no matter how

absurd.Thesameimpulsekeepsreturning:“ImustaskTomwhattodo.”Thenshe

feelssick,assheremembersthisisallTom’sdoing.Ithitsherjustaswhenshewoke in the night after learning of her brotherHugh’s death and thought, “ImusttellHughtheawfulnews.”

Gradually,somepartofherconcedesthereisnoescape,andfeargiveswaytoanger.Why?Whycouldhenotjustleavethingsbe?Tomissupposedtoprotecthisfamily,notripitapart.Deepbeneathawareness,atar-thickfeelinghasbeendisturbed,andnowlooksforasafeharbor.Herthoughtsspiralintodarkness—hehasbeenplanningthisfortwoyears.Whoisthismanwhocouldlietoher,tearherbaby away?She remembers the sightofHannahRoennfeldt touchinghisarm,andwonderswhatreallyhappenedbetweenthem.Sheretchesviolentlyontothegrass.

Theoceanthunderedagainstthecliff,showeringspittlerightuptowhereIsabelstood,hundredsoffeetabovethewater,ontheedge.Thesprayhadsoakedintothecrossesandherdresswasdampwithit.

“Izzy!Isabel!”Tom’svoicewasallbutblownofftheislandbythegale.Apetrelwaswheelingintheair,circling,circling,beforeplummetinghardas

lightningintothejaggedswelltoretrieveaherring.Butluckandthestormwereonthesideofthefish,anditwriggledfromthebird’sbeak,fallingbacktothewaves.

Tom covered the few hundred yards to his wife. The petrel continued tohoveronthestormcurrents,knowingthatthetumultofthewaterwouldmakeeasypickingsofanyfishnotshelteredinthedeepestreefs.

“We haven’t got much time,” Tom said, pulling Isabel close. “Lucy’ll beawakeanyminute.”Thepolicehadbeenquestioninghimforthepasthour,andtwoofthemwerenowheadingdowntowardtheoldgravesontheothersideoftheisland,armedwithshovels.

Isabel searchedhis face as thoughhewere a stranger. “The policeman saidsomeonesentHannahRoennfeldtarattle…”

Heheldhergaze,butsaidnothing.“…thatsomeonewrotetohertwoyearsago,tosayherbabywasalive.”She

wrestledwiththeimplicationsa little longer.“Tom!”wasallshecouldsay,hereyeswidewithterror.“Oh,Tom!”shesaidagain,steppingbackward.

“Ihadtodo something, Izzy.GodknowsI’ve tried toexplain. I justwanted

hertoknowherchildwassafe.”Shelookedathim,asiftryingtomakesenseofwordsshoutedfromfaraway,

thoughhewas standing so close that strandsofherhairblew intohis face. “Itrusted you, Tom.” She bunched her hair in her fists as she stared at him,openmouthedasshestruggledforwords.“WhatinGod’snamehaveyoudonetous?WhathaveyoudonetoLucy?”

She saw resignation inhis shoulders, relief inhis eyes.As shedroppedherhands,herhairsweptacrossherfaceagainlikeamourningveilandshebegantosob.“Twoyears!Haseverythingbeenaliefortwoyears?”

“Yousawthepoorbloodywoman!Yousawwhatwe’ddone.”“Andshemeansmoretoyouthanourfamily?”“It’snotourfamily,Izz.”“It’s the only family we’ll ever have! What on earth’s going to happen to

Lucy?”Heclaspedherarms.“Look,justdowhatIsayandyou’llbeallright.I’vetold

themitwasme,allright?I’vetoldthemkeepingLucywasallmyidea—saidyoudidn’twantto,butIforcedyou.Aslongasyougoalongwiththatnoonewilltouch you…They’re taking us back toPartageuse. Izzy, I promise I’ll protectyou.”Hepulledher close tohim again and touchedhis lips to the topofherhead.“Itdoesn’tmatterwhathappenstome.Iknowthey’llsendmetojail,butwhenIgetout,we’llstill—”

Suddenly she launched at him, her fists pounding at his chest. “Don’t talkabout ‘we,’Tom!Notafterwhatyou’vedone!”Hemadenoeffort to stopher.“Youmadeyourchoice!Youdon’tgiveatinker’sdamnaboutLucy,orme.Sodon’t”—shesearchedforwords—“don’texpectmetocarewhatthebloodyhellhappenstoyoufromnowon.”

“Izz—comeonnow,youdon’tknowwhatyou’resaying!”“Don’tI?”Hervoicewasshrill.“Iknowthey’lltakeourdaughteraway.You

can’tbegintounderstand,canyou?Whatyou’vedone—it’sunforgivable!”“Christ,Izz—”“Youmightaswellhavekilledme,Tom!Killingmeisbetterthankillingour

child.You’reamonster!Acold,selfishmonster!”Tomstood,absorbingthewordsthathurtmorethantheblows.Hesearched

herfaceforsomehintoftheloveshehadswornforhimoverandover,butshewasfulloficyfury,liketheoceanallaround.

Thepetrelplummetedagain,arisingtriumphantwithafishithadimprisonedin itsbeak so thatonly themouth, feeblyopeningandclosing, showed that it

everexisted.

“It’s too rough to start back now,” Ralph told Sergeant Knuckey. SergeantSpragg,theseniorpolicemanfromAlbany,hadbeenmakingagreatto-doabouttheneedtosetoutatonce.“Hecanbloodyswimifhe’sthatkeentogetback,”wasalltheskippersaid.

“Well Sherbourne can stay on the boat, under guard. I’m not having himcookingupstorieswithhiswife,thankyouverymuch,”Spragghadinsisted.

SergeantKnuckey lookedatRalphandraisedhiseyebrows,theangleofhismouthbetrayinghisopinionofhiscolleague.

As sunset approached, NevilleWhittnish strode briskly down to the boat.“Whatdoyouwant?”askedConstableStrugnell,whowastakinghisguarddutyseriously.

“I’llneedSherbourne todoahandover.Has to comewithme to lightup.”Although Whittnish spoke rarely and briefly, his tone never countenancedcontradiction.

Strugnellwaswrong-footed,butregainedsufficientcomposuretosay,“Right,wellI’llhavetoaccompanyhim.”

“Nounauthorizedpersonnelinthelight.Commonwealthrules.I’llbringhimbackwhenI’vefinishedwithhim.”

Tomandthekeeperwalkedinsilencetothetower.Whentheyreachedthedoor,Tomsaidquietly, “Whatwasall thatabout?Youdon’tneedmeto lightup.”

The old man said simply, “Never seen a light as well kept. None of mybusinesswhatelseyou’vedone.Butyou’llwant tosaygoodbyetoher.I’llwaitdownhere,”andheturnedhisback,lookingoutthroughtheroundedwindowtosizeupthestorm.

So, one last time, Tom climbed the hundreds of stairs. One last time, heperformedthealchemyofbrilliancefromsulphurandoil.Onelasttime,hesenthissignaltomarinersformilesabout:beware.

By the nextmorning, the storm has abated, and the sky is once again sereneblue.Thebeachesaredeckedwithbanksofyellowfoamandseaweedthrownupbythewaves.AstheboatpullsawayfromJanusRock,aschoolofdolphinsplaysabout the bow for a time, their slithering gray forms rising and subsiding likewaterspouts,nowcloser,nowfurtheraway.Isabel,eyesswollenandred,sitson

onesideofthecabin,Tomontheother.Thepolicementalkamongthemselvesofrostersandthebestwaytogetashineontheirboots.Atthestern,therottingtarpaulinexhalestheodorofitsdreadfulcontents.

OnIsabel’slap,Lucyasksagain,“Wherearewegoing,Mamma?”“BacktoPartageuse,sweetheart.”“Why?”IsabelthrowsTomalook.“Ireallydon’tknowwhy,Luce,mydarling.Butwe

havetogo.”Shehugshertight.Later, thechildclimbsdownfromhermother’skneeandclambersuponto

Tom.Heholdsherwordlessly,tryingtoimprinteverythingabouther:thesmellofherhair,thesoftnessofherskin,theshapeofhertinyfingers,thesoundofherbreathassheputsherfacesoclosetohis.

The island swims away from them, fading into an ever more miniatureversionofitself,untilitisjustaflashofmemory,helddifferently,imperfectlybyeachpassenger.TomwatchesIsabel,waitsforhertoreturnhisglance,longsforhertogivehimoneoftheoldsmilesthatusedtoremindhimofJanusLight—afixed,reliablepointintheworld,whichmeanthewasneverlost.Buttheflamehasgoneout—herfaceseemsuninhabitednow.

Hemeasuresthejourneytoshoreinturnsofthelight.

PARTTHREE

CHAPTER25

Assoonastheydisembarked,SergeantSpraggdrewapairofhandcuffsfromhispocketandstrodetowardTom.VernonKnuckeystoppedhimwithjustashakeofthehead.

“It’scorrectprocedure,”saidtheAlbanysergeant,whooutrankedVernoninimportanceofstation.

“Nevermind that.There’s a little girlhere,”Knuckey said,nodding towardLucy,whorantoTom,grabbinghisleg.

“Dadda!Dadda,pickmeup!”Nakeddistressflashedacrosshisfaceasthegirl’seyesmethis,withthismost

routine of requests. At the top of a peppermint tree, a pair of willy wagtailschittered away.Tom swallowed hard, digging his nails into his palms. “Look,Lulu!Lookatthefunnybirdsupthere.Youdon’tseethoseathome,doyou?”Keepinghiseyesonthebirds,heurged,“Goandhaveaproperlook.”

Twomotorcars were parked near the jetty, and Sergeant Spragg addressedTom.“Thisway.Intothefirstone.”

Tom turned back toward Lucy, now distracted by the play of the birdswiggling their long black tails.Hewas about to reach out a hand to her, butimaginedheranguish:bestifheslippedaway.

Shecaughtsightofhismovementandstretchedoutherarms.“Dadda,wait!Pickmeup!”sheurgedagain,hertonebetrayinghersensethatsomethingwaswrong.

“Now,ifyouplease,”urgedSpragg,takingTom’selbow.AsTomwalked away, every stepmore awful,Lucypursuedhim, arms still

outstretched.“Dadda,waitforLulu,”shebegged,woundedandconfused.Whenshetrippedandfellfacedownonthegravel,lettingoutascream,Tomcouldnotgoon,andspunaround,breakingfreeofthepoliceman’sgrip.

“Lulu!”Hescoopedherupandkissedherscratchedchin.“Lucy,Lucy,Lucy,Lucy,” hemurmured, his lips brushing her cheek. “You’re all right, little one.You’llbeallright.”

VernonKnuckeylookedatthegroundandclearedhisthroat.Tomsaid, “Sweetheart, Ihave togoawaynow. Ihope—”He stopped.He

looked into her eyes and he stroked her hair, finally kissing her. “Goodbye,littlie.”

Thechildshowednosignof lettinggo, soKnuckeyturnedtoIsabel. “Mrs.Sherbourne?”

Isabel prised her fromTom. “Come on now, sweet thing. You’re all right.Mamma’sgotyou,”shesaid,thoughthegirlcontinuedtocall,“Dadda,Iwanttogowithyou,Dadda!”

“Happy now, Tom? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Tears ran downIsabel’sfaceandontoLucy’scheek.

For amoment,Tomstoodparalyzedby the sightof the twoof them—thepainetchedontheirfaces—thetwohehadpromisedBillGraysmarkhewouldprotectandcarefor.Eventually,hemanagedtosay,“Christ,Izz—I’msorry.”

Kenneth Spragg had lost patience, and grabbed him by the arm again,shovinghimalongtothecar.AsTomduckedintothebackofthevehicle,Lucybegantohowl.“Dadda,don’tgo!Please,Dadda!Please!”Herfacewascrumpledandredandtearsranintoheropenmouth,asIsabeltriedinvaintoconsoleher.“Mamma,stopthemen!Theynaughty,Mamma!TheybeingnastytoDadda!”

“I know, darling, I know.” She put her lips to Lucy’s hair andmurmured,“Sometimesmendoverybadthings,sweetie.Verybadthings.”Asshesaidthewords,sheknewtherewasworsetocome.

Ralph watched the scene from the deck of the boat. When he got home toHilda,helookedather:reallylookedatherforperhapsthefirsttimeintwentyyears.

“What’sthatfor?”askedhiswife,disconcertedbytheattention.“Just—oh,justfornothing,”hesaid,anddrewherintoalonghug.

Inhisoffice,VernonKnuckeyaddressedKennethSpragg.“I’mtellingyouagain,Sergeant.You’renottakinghimtoAlbanythisafternoon.He’llbetransferredingoodtime,whenI’vehadachancetoaskafewmorequestions.”

“He’llendupasourprisoner.LighthousesareCommonwealth,remember,sowedothistherightway.”

“I know the rules aswell as you.”Everypoliceman this sideofPerthknewhowKennethSpragglovedtothrowhisweightaround.Stillhadachiponhis

shoulder aboutnot enlisting, and tried tomakeup for it by carryingon like asergeantbloodymajor.“He’llbesenttoAlbanyinduecourse.”

“IwantacrackatSherbourne—I’llsoongettothebottomofthings.I’mherenow.I’lltakehimwithme.”

“If you want him that badly you can bloody well come back. I run thisstation.”

“TelephonePerth.”“What?”“LetmetelephonePerth.IfIhearitfromDistrictCommand,I’llleavehim

here.Otherwisehe’sinthemotorcarandofftoAlbany.”

It had taken Isabel so long to persuade the distraught child to get into thesecondmotorcarthatTomwasalreadyinacellbythetimetheyarrivedatthepolicestation.

Inthewaitingarea,LucysatonIsabel’sknee,fractiousandexhaustedbythelongjourneyandthestrangegoings-on.ShekepttouchingIsabel’sface—pattingandprodding it togetaresponse.“Where’sDadda?Iwanttoseehim.”Isabelwas pale, her forehead set in an absent frown. Time and again, her thoughtswoulddriftoff,herattentionfocusedonanotchinthewoodofthecounter,orthe call of a distant magpie. Then, Lucy’s fingers, prodding with anotherquestion,wouldbringherbacktothesickeningknowledgeofwhereshewas.

Anoldmanwhohadcometopayafineforlettinghiscattlestrayontothehighwaystoodatthecounter,waitingforhisreceipt.HewhiledawaythetimebytryingtotemptLucyintoagameofpeek-a-boo.

“What’syourname?”heasked.“Lucy,”shesaidshyly.“That’swhatyouthink,”mutteredHarryGarstonewithasardonicsmile,as

hispenscratchedacrossthereceiptform.Atthatmoment,Dr.Sumptonarrivedfromhissurgery,puffing,baginhand.

HenoddedperfunctorilyatIsabel,butavoidedeyecontact.Sheblushedscarlet,recallinghislastexaminationofher,anditsdevastatingconclusion.

“Through here, sir,” saidGarstone, ushering him into a room at the back.TheconstablereturnedtoIsabel.“Thechildhastobeexaminedbythemedico.Ifyou’djustgivehertome.”

“Examined?Whatfor?There’snothingwrongwithher!”“Youdon’tgetasayinthis,Mrs.Sherbourne.”

“I’m her—” Isabel stopped herself before the word came out. “She doesn’tneedadoctor.Please.Showsomecommondecency!”

The policeman grabbed the child and took her away, screaming andstruggling.Theshrillcriesrangthroughoutthestation,reachingasfarasTom’scell,wheretheyseemedevenlouderasheimaginedwhatmightbehappeningtoher.

InKnuckey’soffice,SpraggreplacedthereceiverandscowledathisPartageusecounterpart.“Allright.You’vegotyourwayfornow…”Hoistinguphisbelt,hechangedtactics.“Thewomanshouldbeinthecellstoo,asfarasI’mconcerned.She’sprobablyinituptoherneck.”

“I’veknownthatgirlallherlife,Sergeant,”saidKnuckey.“Sheneversomuchas missed church. You heard Tom Sherbourne’s story: sounds like she’s hisvictimtoo.”

“Hisstory!I’mtellingyou,she’snotallbutterwouldn’tmelt.Letmeathimonmyownandwe’llsoonfindouthowthatRoennfeldtchapreallydied…”

Knuckeywaswell awareofSpragg’s reputation in that department too, butoverlookedthecomment.“Look.Idon’tknowSherbournefromabarofsoap.CouldbeJacktheRipper,forallIcantell.Ifhe’sguilty,he’sforthehighjump.Butlockinguphiswifeforthehellofit’snotgoingtohelpanyone,sojustholdyour horses. You know as well as I do that amarried woman isn’t criminallyresponsible for anything her husband makes her do.” He lined up a stack ofpaperswith the corner of his blotter. “This is a small town.Mud sticks. Youdon’t throwagirl in thecellsunlessyou’reprettybloodysureofyour facts.Sowe’lltakeitastepatatime.”

Once the thin-lippedSergeantSpragghad stalkedoutof the station,Knuckeyenteredtheexaminationroomandre-emergedwithLucy.

“The doctor’s given her the all-clear,” he said, then he lowered his voice.“We’regoingtotakethechildtohermothernow,Isabel.I’dbegratefulifyoudidn’tmakeitanyharderonanyonethanithastobe.Soifyou—ifyou’dliketosaygoodbyetoher?”

“Please!Don’tdothis!”“Don’tmakethingsworse.”VernonKnuckey,whoforyearshadobservedthe

plight of Hannah Roennfeldt, sure she was basking in a sad delusion, nowlookedatthiswomanandwonderedthesamething.

Believingshewasbacksafeinhermother’sarms,thechildgrippedhertightasIsabelkissedhercheek,unabletotakeherlipsawayfromthesoftskin.HarryGarstoneputhishandsaroundthegirl’swaistandyankedather.

Even though everything in the past twenty-four hours had been leading tothis,eventhoughitwasafearIsabelhadharboredfromthedayshehadfirstlaideyesonLucyasababy,still,themomentrippedthroughher.

“Please!”shepleadedthroughtears.“Havesomepity!”Hervoicereverberatedaroundthebarewalls.“Don’ttakemybabyaway!”

As thegirlwaswrenchedfromherscreaming,Isabel faintedonto thestonefloorwitharesoundingcrack.

Hannah Roennfeldt could not sit still. She consulted her watch, the mantelclock, her sister—anyonewho could tell her howmuch timehad passed.Theboathad setout for Janusyesterdaymorning,andeachminute since thenhadincheduphilllikeSisyphus.

Itwasalmostunbelievablethatshemightsoonholdherdaughteragain.Sincethe news of the rattle, she had daydreamed about her return. The hugs. Thetears.Thesmiles.Shehadpickedfrangipaniblossomsfromthegardenandputthem in the nursery, so that the scent filled the little cottage. Smiling andhumming,shedustedandcleaned,andsatthedollsuponthechestofdrawers.Thendoubtswoulddartin:whatwouldsheeat?ThishadpromptedhertosendGwen shopping for apples and milk and sweets. Before her sister returned,Hannahsuddenlywonderedwhethersheshouldbegivingthechildsomethingelse.She,whohardlyate,wentnextdoor toMrs.Darnley,whohad five littleones,tocheckwhatsheshouldfeedachildGrace’sage.FannyDarnley,alwayskeentohaveataletotell,immediatelyletsliptoMr.Kellyatthegrocer’sthatHannahhadgonecompletelymadandwascateringforghosts,forwordhadnotyetgotaround.“Youdon’tliketospeakillofyourneighbors,but—well,there’sareasonwhywehavelunaticasylums,isn’tthere?I’mnotkeenonsomeonewho’sashingleshortlivingsoclosetomykids.You’dfeelthesameinmyplace.”

Thetelephonecallhadbeenperfunctory.“You’dbestcomedowninperson,Mr.Graysmark.We’vegotyourdaughterhere.”

Bill Graysmark arrived at the police station that afternoon in a state ofconfusion.With the phone call, his mind had jumped straight to a vision ofIsabel’sbodylyingonaslab,awaitingcollection.Hehadhardlyheardtherestof

thewordsthatcamethroughthenewlyconnectedtelephone:deathwasthemostobviousconclusiontojumpto.Notathirdchild.Hecouldnothavelostallhischildren—surelyGodwouldnotallowthat?Hismindcouldmakenosenseofwordsabout theRoennfeldtbaby, and something scrambledaboutTomandabody.

Atthestationhewasusheredintoabackroom,wherehisdaughtersatonawoodenchair,herhandsonherlap.Hehadbeensoconvincedofherdeaththatatthesightofher,tearscametohiseyes.

“Isabel. Isabubba!” hewhispered, pulling her upwith a hug. “I thought I’dneverseeyouagain.”

It tookhima fewseconds tonoticeherpeculiar state: shedidnothughimback;shedidnotlookathim.Sheslumpeddownagaininthechair,lifelessandpale.

“Where’sLucy?”heasked,firstofhisdaughter,thenofConstableGarstone.“Where’s littleLucy?AndTom?”Hismindwas fast atworkagain: theymusthavedrowned.Theymusthave—

“Mr.Sherbourne’sinthecells,sir.”Thepolicemanstampedapieceofpaperonthedesk.“He’llbetransferredtoAlbanyafteracommittalhearing.”

“Committalhearing?Whatthedevil?Where’sLucy?”“Thechild’swithhermother,sir.”“Thechild isdemonstrablynotwithhermother!Whathaveyoudonewith

her?What’sthisallabout?”“Lookslikethechild’srealmotherisMrs.Roennfeldt.”BillassumedhemusthavemisheardwhateveritwasGarstonehadsaid,and

blunderedon,“Idemandyoureleasemyson-in-lawrightthisminute.”“I’mafraidIcan’tdothat,sir.Mr.Sherbourneisunderarrest.”“Arrest?Whatthehellfor?”“So far, falsification ofCommonwealth records. Breach of duty as a public

servant.That’sjustforstarters.Thenthere’schildstealing.AndthefactthatwedugupFrankRoennfeldt’sremainsoutonJanusRock.”

“Are you out of your mind?” He turned to his daughter, suddenlyunderstandingherpalloranddreamystate.“Don’tyouworryaboutthis,dear.I’llsortitout.Whateverit’sabout,it’sobviouslyallaterriblemistake.I’llgettothebottomofit.”

“Idon’tthinkyouunderstand,Mr.Graysmark,”beganthepoliceman.“You’redamnrightIdon’tunderstand.There’llbethedeviltopayoverthis!

Draggingmy daughter into a police station because of some ridiculous story.

Slanderingmyson-in-law.”Heturnedtohisdaughter.“Isabel—tellhimit’sallnonsense!”

She sat, still and expressionless. The policeman cleared his throat. “Mrs.Sherbournerefusestosayanything,sir.”

Tom feels the stillness of the cell weigh upon him, as dense and as liquid asmercury.Forsolong,hislifehasbeenshapedbythesoundofthewavesandthewind, therhythmof the light.Suddenly,everythinghasstopped.He listens tothe whipbird declaring its territory with song from high in the karri trees,oblivious.

Thesolitudeisfamiliar,carryinghimbacktohistimealoneonJanus,andhewondersiftheyearswithIsabelandwithLucywerejustimagined.Thenheputshis hand inhis pocket and retrieves the child’s lilac satin ribbon, recallinghersmile as shehanded it to himwhen it slipped off. “Hold this please,Dadda.”WhenHarry Garstone had tried to confiscate it at the station, Knuckey hadsnapped, “Oh, for God’s sake, boy. He’s hardly going to choke us with thatbloodything,ishe!”andTomhadfoldeditsafelyaway.

Hecannotreconcilethegriefhefeelsatwhathehasdoneandtheprofoundrelief that runs through him. Two opposing physical forces, they create aninexplicablereactionoverpoweredbya third,stronger force—theknowledgeofhavingdeprivedhiswifeofachild.Asfreshandrawasbeingspikedonameathook,hefeelsloss:whatHannahRoennfeldtmusthavefelt;whatIsabelhasfeltsomanytimes,andgripsheragainnow.Hebeginstowonderhowhecouldhaveinflictedsuchsuffering.Hebeginstowonderwhatthebloodyhellhe’sdone.

Hestrugglestomakesenseofit—allthislove,sobentoutofshape,refracted,likelightthroughthelens.

VernonKnuckeyhadknownIsabel since shewasa tot.Her fatherhad taughtfiveofhischildren.“Bestthingyoucandoistakeherhome,”hehadtoldBillgravely.“I’lltalktohertomorrow.”

“Butwhatabout—”“Justtakeherhome,Bill.Takethepoorgirlhome.”

“Isabel.Darling!”Hermother huggedher as soon as she stepped through thefrontdoor.VioletGraysmarkwasasconfusedasanyone,butwhenshesawthe

stateofherdaughter,didnotdare askquestions. “Yourbed’smadeup.Bill—fetchherbagthrough.”

Isabeldriftedin,blank-faced.Violetguidedhertoanarmchair,thenhurriedto the kitchen and returnedwith a glass. “Warmwater and brandy. For yournerves,”shesaid.Isabelsippedthedrinkmechanically,andputtheemptyglassontheoccasionaltable.

Violet brought a rug and tucked it over her knees, though the room wasperfectly warm. Isabel began to stroke the wool, tracing her index finger instraightlinesoverthetartan.Shewassoabsorbedthatshedidnotseemtohearwhenhermotherasked,“IsthereanythingIcangetyou,pet?Areyouhungry?”

Bill put his head around the door and beckonedViolet out to the kitchen.“Hasshesaidanything?”

“Notaword.Ithinkshe’sinshock.”“Wellthatmakestwoofus.Ican’tmakeheadortailofit.I’mgoingtothe

station first thing in the morning to get a straight story. That HannahRoennfeldt’sbeendaftasabrushforyearsnow.AndasforoldmanPotts:thinkshecanthrowhisweightaroundbecauseofhisdough.”Hepulledtheendsofhiswaistcoat down over his belly. “I’m not going to be pushed around by somelunaticandherfather,nomatterhowmuchmoneyhe’sgot.”

Thatnight,Isabellayinhernarrowchildhoodbed,nowforeign,constricting.Alightwindpushed at the lace curtains, andoutside, the chirrupof the cricketsreflectedthesparklingstars.Onanightlikethis,onlymomentsago,itseemed,shehad lainsleeplessandexcitedat theprospectofherweddingthefollowingmorning. She had thankedGod for sending herTom Sherbourne: for lettinghimbeborn, for keepinghim safe through thewar, forwaftinghimon somebreezeofFatetohershore,whereshewasthefirstpersonhesawashelanded.

Shetriedtorecallthatstateofecstaticanticipation,thesensethat life,afterallthegriefandlossthewarhadbrought,wasabouttobloom.Butthefeelingwas lost:now it all seemedamistake, adelusion.Herhappinesson Januswasdistant,unimaginable.Fortwoyears,Tomhadbeenlyingwitheverywordandevery silence. If she hadn’t noticed that deception, what else had shemissed?WhyhadheneversaidawordaboutmeetingHannahRoennfeldt?Whatwashehiding?InasickeningflashshesawapictureofTomandHannahandLucy,ahappy family. The thoughts of betrayal which had assailed her on Janus nowcame back darker, more insinuating. Perhaps he had other women and other

lives. Perhaps he had deserted a wife—wives—back East… and children…Fantasy seemed plausible, compelling, as it poured into the gap between hermemory of the eve of her wedding and this dreadful, oppressive present. Alighthouse warns of danger—tells people to keep their distance. She hadmistakenitforaplaceofsafety.

Tohave losther child.Tohave seenLucy terrifiedanddistraught atbeingtorn from the only people in the world she really knew: this was alreadyunbearable.Buttoknowithadhappenedbecauseofherownhusband—themanshe adored, theman she’d given her life to—was simply impossible to grasp.He’dclaimedtocareforher,yethe’ddonethethingguaranteedtodestroyher.

This focusing outward, on Tom, painful as it was, saved her from amoreintolerableexamination.Slowly,takingshapeamongtheshadowsinhermind,was an almost solid sensation: an urge to punish; the fury of a wild thingdeprivedofheryoung.Tomorrow, thepolicewouldquestionher.By the timethe stars had faded in the wakening sky, she had convinced herself: Tomdeserved to suffer forwhat he had done.Andhe himself hadhandedher theweapons.

CHAPTER26

ThepolicestationatPointPartageuse, likemanyof thetown’sbuildings,wasmade from local stone, and timber cut from the surrounding forest. Itwas anoveninsummerandaniceboxinwinter,whichledtoirregularities inuniformondaysofextremetemperatures.When it rained tooheavily, thecells floodedandbitsoftheceilingsagged—evenfellinonce,killingaprisoner.Perthwastoostingy to stump up the money to fix the structure properly, so it had apermanentlywoundedair,morebandagedthanrepaired.

SeptimusPottswassittingatatablenearthefrontcounter,fillinginaformwith the fewdetails he could recall abouthis son-in-law.Hewas able to giveFrank’s full name anddate of birth—they had featured on the invoice for thememorial stone.Butas forplaceofbirth,parents’names…“Look, I thinkwecansafelyassumehehadparents,youngman.Let’ssticktothepointhere,”heblustered, putting Constable Garstone onto the back foot with a techniquehonedoveryearsofbusinessdeals.Theconstableconcededitwoulddoforthewriting-upoftheinitialchargesheetagainstTom.Thedayofthedisappearancewaseasyenough—AnzacDay,1926;butthedateofFrank’sdeath?

“You’ll have to ask Mr. Sherbourne that,” Potts was saying sourly, as BillGraysmarkenteredthestation.

Septimus turned around, and the men glared at one another like two oldbulls.“I’ll justgoandgetSergeantKnuckey,”splutteredtheconstable,sendinghischairclatteringtothegroundashesprangup.Herappedoutamachine-gunknockonthesergeant’sdoor,andreturnedafteramomenttosummonBill,whobargedpastPottsandintoKnuckey’soffice.

“Vernon!”helaunchedatthesergeantassoonasthedoorwasclosed.“Idon’tknowwhat’sbeengoingon,butIdemandthatmygranddaughterbereturnedtohermother,rightnow.Draggingherofflikethat!She’snotevenfouryearsold,for goodness’ sake.” He gestured toward the front of the station. “Whathappened to the Roennfeldts was all very sad, but Septimus Potts can’t justsnatchawaymygranddaughtertomakeupforwhathe’slost.”

“Bill,”saidthesergeant,“Irealizehowhardthismustbeforyou…”“Realize, my foot! Whatever this is, it’s got completely out of hand,

presumablyonthewordofawomanwho’sbeenoffwiththefairiesforyears.”“Haveadropofbrandy…”“Idon’tneedadropofbrandy!Ineedadropofcommonsense,ifthat’snot

too much to ask around here. Since when do you put men in jail on theunsubstantiatedclaimsof—ofamadwoman?”

Knuckey satdownathisdeskand rolledhispenbetweenhis fingertips. “Ifyou mean Hannah Roennfeldt, she hasn’t said anything against Tom. BlueySmartstarteditall—he’stheoneidentifiedtherattle.”Hepaused.“Isabelhasn’tspoken to us at all so far.Refuses to say aword.”He examined the pen as itturned,andsaid,“That’sprettyodd,don’tyouthink,ifit’salljustamistake?”

“Well,she’sclearlyovercome,havingherchildsnatchedlikethat.”Knuckey looked up. “Can you answer me this, then, Bill: why hasn’t

Sherbournedeniedit?”“Becausehe…”Thewordscameoutbeforehehadregisteredthepoliceman’s

answer,andhedoubledback:“Whatdoyoumean,hehasn’tdeniedit?”“OutonJanus,he toldus thebabyhadwashedup inadinghywithadead

man, and that he’d insisted they should keep her. Assumed the mother hadalreadydrownedbecauseofacardigantheyfound.SaidIsabelwantedtoreportthewholethingandhestoppedher.Heblamedherfornotproducingchildrenforhim.Looks like it’sallbeenapackof lies since then—acompletecharade.We’ve got to investigate, Bill.” He hesitated, then lowered his voice. “Thenthere’s the question of how Frank Roennfeldt died. Who knows whatSherbourne’s got to hide? Who knows what he’s forced Isabel to keep quietabout?It’saverynastybusiness.”

The town had not seen such excitement in years. As the editor of the SouthWesternTimesputittohiscolleagueinthepub,“It’sthenextbestthingtoJesusChristhimself turningupand shoutingus all abeer.We’vegot amother andbaby reunited, a mysterious death, and old Potts of Money giving away hisdoughlikeit’s—well,Christmas!Folkscan’tgetenoughofit.”

Theday after the child’s return,Hannah’s house is still decoratedwith crêpe-paperstreamers.Anewdoll, itsdaintyporcelainfaceglowing intheafternoonlight, sits abandoned on a chair in the corner, eyeswide in silent appeal.The

clockonthemantelpieceticksstolidly,andamusicboxstretchesout“Rock-a-byeBaby”withamacabre,threateningair.Itisdrownedoutbythecriescomingfromthebackyard.

Onthegrass,thechildisscreaming,herfacepucewithfearandfury,theskinonhercheeksstretchedtightandhertinyteethexposedlikekeysonaminiaturepiano. She is trying to escapeHannah, who is picking her up each time shewrestlesfreeandscreamsagain.

“Grace,darling.Shh,shh,Grace.Comeon,please.”Thechildyellshopelesslyagain,“Iwantmymamma.IwantDadda.Go’way!

Idon’tlikeyou!”

Therehadbeenagreatto-dowhenthepolicehadreunitedthemotherwithherchild. Photographs had been taken, and thanks and praise lavished on theofficersandonGodinequalmeasure.Again,thetonguesofthetownwerebusyspreadingnews,ticklingtheairwithtalesofthedreamylookonthefaceofthechild, the joyful smileof themother. “Thepoor tot—shewas so sleepyby thetimeshewasdeliveredtohermum.Lookedlikeanangel.YoucanonlythankthegoodLordthatshewasgotoutoftheclutchesofthatdreadfulman!”saidFanny Darnley, who had made it her business to extract the details fromConstableGarstone’smother.Gracehadbeennotdrowsy,however,butonthefringes of consciousness, dosed with a strong sleeping draft by Dr. SumptonwhenitwasclearthatshewashystericalatbeingpartedfromIsabel.

NowHannahwaslockedinastand-offwithherterrifieddaughter.Shehadkepthersoclosetoherheartalltheseyearsthatithadneveroccurredtoherthatthechildmightnothavedone the same.WhenSeptimusPotts came into thegarden,hewouldhavebeenhard-pressedtosaywhichofthetwofigureshesawwasmoredistressed.

“Grace,I’mnotgoingtohurtyou,mydarling.CometoMummy,”Hannahwaspleading.

“I’m not Grace! I’m Lucy!” cried the child. “I want to go home! Where’sMamma?You’renotmymummy!”

Woundedmore by each outburst,Hannah could onlymurmur, “I’ve lovedyousolong.Solong…”

SeptimusrememberedhisownhelplessnessasGwen,ataboutthesameage,had continued to demandhermother, as thoughhewere hiding his latewifesomewhereaboutthehouse.Itstillgothimintheguts.

Hannahcaughtsightofherfather.Hisexpressionbetrayedhisassessmentofthesituation,andhumiliationwashedthroughher.

“She justneeds some time togetused toyou.Bepatient,Hanny,”he said.The girl had found a safe nook behind the old lemon tree and the Capegooseberry,whereshestayedpoised,readytodartoff.

“She’sgotnoideawhoIam,Dad.Noidea.Ofcourse.Shewon’tcomenearme,”Hannahwept.

“She’ll come round,” said Septimus. “She’ll either get tired and fall asleepthere,orgethungryandcomeout.Eitherway,it’sjustaquestionofwaiting.”

“Iknow,Iknowshehastogetusedtomeagain.”Septimusputanarmaroundhershoulder.“There’sno‘again’aboutit.You’re

awholenewpersonforher.”“You try. Please, see if you can get her to come out… She ran away from

Gwentoo.”“She’sseenenoughnewfacesforoneday,I’dsay.Shedoesn’tneedmyugly

mugontopofeverythingelse.Justgiveherabitofpeaceandquiet.”“WhatdidIdowrong,todeserveallthis,Dad?”“None of this is your fault. She’s your daughter, and she’s rightwhere she

belongs.Justgiveittime,girlie.Giveittime.”Hestrokedherhair.“AndI’llseetoitthatthatSherbournefellowgetswhat’scomingtohim.That’sapromise.”

Ashemadehiswaybackthroughthehouse,hefoundGwen,standingintheshadows of the passageway, watching her sister. She shook her head andwhispered,“Oh,Dad,it’sjustawfulwatchingthepoorlittlecreature.It’senoughtobreakyourheart,allhercrying.”Shegaveadeepsigh.“Perhapsshe’llgetusedtothings,”shesaidwithashrug,thoughhereyessaidotherwise.

InthecountryaroundPartageuse,everylife-formhasitsdefenses.Theonesyouneedtoworryaboutleastarethefast-movers,whosurvivebydisappearing:theracehorsegoanna,theparrotstheycall“twenty-eights,”thebrush-tailedpossum.They’reoffat theslightestglintof trouble: retreat,evasion,camouflage—thosearetheirsurvivaltricks.Othersaredeadlyonlyifyou’retheoneintheirsights.Thetigersnake,theshark,thetrapdoorspider:they’llusetheirmeansofattacktodefendthemselvesagainsthumansifthreatened.

Theonestofearmoststaystill,unnoticed,theirdefensesundetecteduntilyoutrigger themby accident.Theymakenodistinctions.Eat theprettyheart-leafpoisonbush,say,andyourheartwillstop.Suchthingsareonlytryingtoprotect

themselves. But Lord help you if you get too close. Only when IsabelSherbournewasthreatenedwereherdefensesawakened.

VernonKnuckeysatrappinghisfingersonhisdeskasIsabelwaitedinthenextroomtobequestioned.Partageusewasafairlyquietplaceforapoliceman.Theoddassaultorabitofdrunkanddisorderlywasthemosttheaverageweekwoulddishup.ThesergeantcouldhavemovedtoPerthforpromotion,andthechancetowitness darker crimes—uglier scars on lives thatmeant less to him.But hehadseenenoughstrifeinthewartolasthimalifetime.Pettythievingandfinesforslygrogwoulddohim.KennethSpragg,ontheotherhand,wasitchingtomove to theBigSmoke.He’dgo to townon thisone ifhegothalf a chance.Literally—he’d be treating it as his ticket up the ladder to Perth.He neitherknewnorcaredaboutanyoneinPartageuse,thoughtKnuckey:BillandViolet,forexample, and theboys theyhad lost.He thoughtofall theyearshe’d seenlittle Isabel,with a beautiful voice and a face tomatch, singing in the churchchoiratChristmas.ThenhisthoughtsswungtooldPotts,devotedtothosegirlsofhis sincehiswifedied, andcrushedbyHannah’s choiceofhusband.As forpoorHannahherself…Nothingtowritehomeaboutonthelooksfront,butareal brain box, and a very decent sort. Always thought she had a screw loosebelievingherchildwouldshowupafteralltheseyears,butjustlookhowthingshadturnedout.

He took a deep breath as he turned the handle of the door and entered.Addressing Isabel, he was efficient, respectful. “Isabel—Mrs. Sherbourne—Ihave to ask you somemorequestions. I knowhe’s yourhusband,but this is averyseriousmatter.”Hetookthecapoffhispen,andresteditonthepaper.Apuddle of black leaked from the nib, and he stroked it this way and that,stretchingtheinkoutinlinesfromitscentralpoint.

“Hesaysyouwantedtoreporttheboat’sarrivalandhestoppedyou.Isthatright?”

Isabellookedatherhands.“Sayshe resentedyou fornotgivinghimchildren, and took things intohis

ownhands.”The words struck deep within her. In telling the lie, had Tom revealed a

truth?“Didn’tyoutrytotalksenseintohim?”Knuckeyasked.

Truthfully, she said, “When Tom Sherbourne thinks he’s doing the rightthing,there’snopersuadinghimotherwise.”

Heaskedgently,“Didhethreatenyou?Assaultyou,physically?”Isabelpaused,andthefuryofhersleeplessnightfloodedback.Sheclungto

silencelikearock.OftenenoughKnuckeyhadseenthewivesanddaughtersoftimberworkers

bulliedintosubmissionwithjustalookbygreathulksofmen.“Youwereafraidofhim?”

Herlipstightened.Nowordscameout.Knuckey put his elbows on the desk, and leaned forward. “Isabel, the law

recognizesthatawifecanbepowerlessatthehandsofherhusband.UndertheCriminalCode,you’renotresponsibleforanythinghemadeyoudoorstoppedyoufromdoing,soyouneedn’tworryonthatscore.Youwon’tbepunishedforhis crimes.Now, I need to ask you a question, and I want you to think verycarefully.Remember,youcan’tgetintotroubleforanythingheforcedyouinto.”Heclearedhisthroat.“AccordingtoTom,FrankRoennfeldtwasdeadwhentheboatwashedup.”Helookedherintheeye.“Isthattrue?”

Isabelwas taken aback.She couldhearherself saying, “Of course it’s true!”But before her mouth could open, her mind rushed again to Tom’s betrayal.Suddenlyoverwhelmed—bythelossofLucy,byanger,bysheerexhaustion,sheclosedhereyes.

Thepolicemanpromptedsoftly,“Isittrue,Isabel?”Shefixedhergazeonherweddingringasshesaid,“I’vegotnothingtosay,”

andburstintotears.

Tomdranktheteaslowly,watchingtheswirlingsteamvanishinthewarmair.The afternoon light angled in through the high windows of the sparselyfurnishedroom.Asherubbedthestubbleonhischin,itbroughtbacksensationsfromthedayswhenshavingwasimpossible,andwashinglikewise.

“Wantanotherone?”askedKnuckeyevenly.“No.Thanks.”“Yousmoke?”“No.”“So.Aboatwashesupatthelighthouse.Outofnowhere.”“ItoldyouallthisoutonJanus.”“Andyou’lltellmeagainasmanytimesasIlike!So.Youfindtheboat.”

“Yes.”“Andit’sgotababyinit.”“Yes.”“Whatstate’sthebabyin?”“Healthy.Crying,buthealthy.”Knuckeywaswritingnotes.“Andthere’sablokeintheboat.”“Abody.”“Aman,”saidKnuckey.Tomlookedathim,sizinguptherephrasing.“You’reprettyusedtobeingthekingofthecastleoutonJanus,areyou?”Tomconsideredtheirony,whichanyonewhoknewaboutlifeontheLights

wouldhaveregistered,buthedidn’tanswer.Knuckeywenton,“Reckonyoucangetawaywiththings.Noonearound.”

“Ithadnothingtodowithgettingawaywiththings.”“Andyoudecidedyoumightaswellkeepthebabyoutthere.Isabelhadlost

yours.Noonewouldeverknow.Thatit?”“Itoldyou:Imadethedecision.MadeIsabelgoalongwithit.”“Knockyourwifearound,doyou?”Tomlookedathim.“Isthatwhatyouthink?”“Thatwhyshelostthebaby?”ShockregisteredonTom’sface.“Didshesaythat?”Knuckey stayed silent, and Tom took a deep breath. “Look, I’ve told you

whathappened.Shetriedtotalkmeoutofit.I’mguiltyofwhateveryousayI’mguiltyof,solet’sjustgetthisover,andleavemywifeoutofit.”

“Don’ttrytotellmewhattodo,”Knuckeysnapped.“I’mnotyourbatman.I’lldowhatIdecidetodowhenI’mgoodandready.”Hepushedhischairoutfromthedesk,andfoldedhisarms.“Themanintheboat…”

“Whatabouthim?”“Whatstatewashein,whenyoufoundhim?”“Hewasdead.”“Yousureaboutthat?”“I’veseenenoughbodiesinmytime.”“WhyshouldIbelieveyouaboutthisone?”“WhyshouldIlie?”Knuckeypaused,andletthequestionhangintheair,forhisprisonertofeel

the answer weigh down upon him. Tom shifted in his chair. “Exactly,” saidKnuckey.“Whyshouldyoulie?”

“Mywife’lltellyouhewasdeadwhentheboatwashedup.”“Thesamewifeyouadmityouforcedtolie?”“Look,it’scompletelydifferent,shelteringachildand—”“Killingsomeone?”Knuckeycutin.“Askher.”“Ihave,”saidKnuckeyquietly.“Thenyouknowhewasdead.”“Idon’tknowanything.Sherefusestotalkaboutit.”Tomfeltahammerblowtohischest.HeavoidedKnuckey’seyes.“Whathas

shesaid?”“Thatshe’sgotnothingtosay.”Tom hung his head. “Christ all bloody mighty,” he muttered under his

breath,beforeresponding,“WellallIcandoisrepeatwhatIsaid.Ineversawthatman alive.”He knittedhis fingers together. “If I can just see her, talk toher…”

“Nochanceofthat.Besidesthefactthatit’snotallowed,Igettheimpressionshewouldn’ttalktoyouifyouwerethelastpersononearth.”

Quicksilver.Fascinating,butimpossibletopredict.Itcouldbearthetonofglassinthelight,buttrytoputyourfingeronadropofit,anditwouldraceawayinanydirection.TheimagekeptcomingintoTom’smindashesatthinkingaboutIsabel afterKnuckey’s questioning.He thought back to the days after the laststillbirth,whenhehadtriedtocomforther.

“We’ll be all right. If it’s just you and me for the rest of our lives, that’senoughforme.”

Her eyes had slid up to meet his and her expression chilled him. It wasdespairing.Defeated.

Hemovedtotouchher,butshedrewaway.“You’llgetbetter.Things’llgetbetter.Justgiveittime.”

Withoutwarning, she stood up and rushed to the door, doubling up for amomentfrompain,beforelimpingintothenight.

“Izzy!ForGod’ssake,stop.You’llhurtyourself!”“I’lldomorethanthat!”Themoonbalanced in thewarm,windless sky.The long,whitenightgown

Isabel hadworn on theirweddingnight four years before glowed like a paperlanternasshestood,atinywhitedot,inanoceanofdarkness.“Ican’tbearit!”

shescreamedinavoicesoloudandshrillthatthegoatsstartedfromtheirsleepandbegan tomovewitha jangleofbells in theirpaddock. “I can’tbear it anymore!God,whydoyoumakeme livewhenmychildrendie? I’dbebetteroffdead!”Shestumbledtowardthecliff.

Herushedtogatherherintohisarms.“Calmdown,Izz.”Butshebrokefreeandranagain,halfhobblingwhenthepaingottoobad.

“Don’t tellme to calmdown, you stupid, stupidman! It’syour fault. Ihatethis place! I hate you! I want my baby!” The light scythed a path far above,leavingheruntouchedbyitsbeam.

“Youdidn’twanthim!That’swhyhedied.Hecouldtellyoudidn’tcare!”“Comeon,Izz.Comebackinside.”“Youdon’t feelanything,TomSherbourne!Idon’tknowwhatyoudidwith

yourheartbutit’snotinsideyou,that’sforsure!”

A person could only take so much. He’d seen it often enough. Lads who’dturnedupfullofgingerandreadytogiveFritzhell,who’dsurvivedtheshellingandthesnowandtheliceandthemud,foryearssometimes.Thensomethinginthemjustpackedupandwenthome—wentsomewheredeepinsidewheretheycouldn’t be touched. Or sometimes they turned on you, came at you with abayonet, laughing like amaniac and crying at the same time.Christ,whenhethoughtbacktohisownstatebythetimeitwasallover…

WhowashetojudgeIsabel?She’dreachedheredge,thatwasall.Everyonehadone.Everyone.AndintakingLucyaway,hehaddrivenhertoit.

Latethatnight,SeptimusPottspulledoffhisbootsandwiggledhistoesinhisfine woolen socks. He groaned at the familiar creaking of his back. He wassittingonthesideofthesolidjarrahbedcarvedoutofatreefromhisownforest.Theonlysoundintheenormousroomwasthetickingofthecarriageclockonthenightstand.Hegaveasighashetookinthefinery—thestarchedlinen,thegleaming furniture, the portrait of his late wife, Ellen—by the light of theelectric lamps, shaded by frosted rose glass. The image of his granddaughter,distraughtandcoweringthatafternoon,wasstillvivid:BabyGrace,givenupfordeadbyeveryonebutHannah.Life.Whothebloodyhellcouldtellhowitwasgoingtoturnout?

That distress, that despair at the loss of a mother—he never imagined hewouldseeitagainafterEllen’sdeath,untilconfrontedbyhisgranddaughterin

thegarden. Justwhenhe thoughthe’dseenall the tricks lifecouldplay,out itcamewithanewone, likeanevilcardsharp.Heknewwhatthe littlegirlwasgoingthrough.Adoubtseepedintoacornerofhismind.Perhaps—perhaps itwascrueltokeepherfromtheSherbournegirl…

HelookedagainattheportraitofEllen.Gracehadthesamejawline.Maybeshewouldgrowuptobeasbeautifulashergrandmother.HewanderedoffintoimaginingsofChristmasesandbirthdaysalongtheway.Ahappyfamily, that’sall he wanted.He thought ofHannah’s tortured face; remembered with guiltthatsamelookwhenhe’dtriedtostophermarryingFrank.

No.Thiswastheplaceforthechild,withhertruefamily.She’dhavethetopbrickoff thechimney.Eventually she’dgetused toher realhomeandher realmother.IfHannahcouldjustbearupthatlong.

He felt tears inhis eyes, and anger fought itsway to the surface.Someoneshouldpay.Someoneshouldbemade to suffer thewayhisdaughterhadbeenmadetosuffer.Whocouldpossiblycomeacrossatinybabyandkeepher,likeadriftwoodsouvenir?

Hedroveouttheintrusivedoubt.Hecouldn’tchangethepast,andtheyearshe had refused to acknowledge Frank’s existence, but he couldmake it up toHannahnow.Sherbournewouldbepunished.Hewouldseetoit.

He switched off the lamp, watching the moonlight glimmer on the silverframing Ellen’s photograph. And he pushed away thoughts of what theGraysmarksmustbefeelingthatnight.

CHAPTER27

Since her return, Isabel found herself constantly on the lookout for Lucy—wherehadshegotto?Wasittimeforbed?Whatwouldshegiveherforlunch?Thenher brainwould correct her, remind her how thingswere now, and shewouldgothroughtheagonyoflossalloveragain.Whatwashappeningtoherdaughter?Whowasfeedingher?Undressingher?Lucywouldbebesideherself.

The image of the little girl’s face as she was forced to swallow the bittersleeping draftmade Isabel’s throat tighten. She tried to blot it outwith othermemories:Lucyplayinginthesand;Lucyholdinghernoseasshejumpedintothewater; her face as she slept at night—at ease, safe, perfect. Therewas nomorewonderfulsightintheworldthanyourchildsleeping.Isabel’swholebodyboretheimprintofthelittlegirl:herfingersknewthesmoothnessofherhairasshebrushedit;herhipsrememberedtheweightofher,andthetightlockingofherlegsaroundherwaist;thewarmsoftnessofhercheek.

While shewandered through these scenes, sucking comfort from them likenectar from a dying flower, she was aware of something dark behind her,somethingshecouldnotbeartolookat.Itwouldcometoherindreams,blurredand dreadful. Itwould call to her, “Izzy! Izzy, love…” but she could not turnaround,andhershoulderswouldshootuptoherearsasiftoescapeagrasp.Shewouldawaken,breathlessandsicktothestomach.

Allthewhile,Isabel’sparentstookhersilenceformisplacedloyalty.“There’snothingIcansay,”wereheronlywordsthatdayshefirstcamehome,andsherepeatedthemwheneverBillandViolettriedtobroachthesubjectofTomandwhathadhappened.

Thecellsatthebackofthepolicestationusuallyhadtodonomorethankeepadrunklongenoughtosleepitoff,orgiveanangryhusbandtimetoseesenseandpromisenottotakehistemperoutwithhisfists.Halfthetime,whoeverwasondutydidn’tbothertolockthecelldoor,andifitwassomeonetheyknew,onashiftthatwasdragging,moreoftenthannotthey’dhavethemoutintheoffice

playing cards, on the strict understanding that they wouldn’t try to shootthrough.

TodayHarryGarstonewasparticularlyexcited,at last inchargeofaseriouscriminal.Hewasstillspittingchipsthathe’dbeenoffdutythenightayearagowhentheybroughtinBobHitchingfromKarridale.ThefellowhadneverbeenrightintheheadsinceGallipoli.Gotcarriedawaywithameatcleaveranddidinhisbrotherfromthenext-doorfarmbecausetheydidn’tseeeye-to-eyeovertheirmother’swill.Endedupswingingforit.Sonow,Garstonewasdelightinginthenicetiesofprocedure.Hegottherulebookouttocheckthathewasfollowingittotheletter.

WhenRalphhadaskedtoseeTom,theconstablehadmadeagreatshowofconsultingthebook, suckinghis teeth,andslidingapout fromonesideofhisletterboxmouthtotheother.“Sorry,CaptainAddicott.IwishIcould letyou,butitsayshere—”

“Don’tgivemeanyofyournonsense,HarryGarstone,or I’llbeon toyourmother.”

“It’squitespecific,and—”Thewallsinthestationwerethin,andtheconstablewasinterruptedbythe

voice of Vernon Knuckey, who rarely bothered to rise from his seat for suchcommunications.“Don’tbesobloodywet,Garstone.It’sthelighthousekeeperinthecell,notNedbloodyKelly.Letthemanthrough.”

The deflated constable gave the keys a vigorous jangle in protest as he ledRalphthroughalockeddoor,downsomestairsandalongadarkcorridoruntilhearrivedatafewcellswithbars.

Inoneofthem,Tomsatonacanvasbunkthatfoldedoutfromthewall.HetookinRalph’sface—drawnandgray.

“Tom,”saidtheskipper.“Ralph.”Tomgaveanod.“CameassoonasIcould.Hildasayshello,”hesaid,“andBlue,”emptyinghis

pocketsofgreetingslikesmallchange.Tomnoddedagain.Thetwosatinsilence.Afterawhile,Ralphsaid,“Ifyou’dratherIleftyou…”“No,it’sgoodtoseeyou.Justnotmuchtosay,sorry.Allrightifwedon’ttalk

forabit?”Ralphwas fullofquestions,bothhisownandhiswife’s,buthe satout the

silence on a rickety chair. The day was warming up and the wooden wallscreaked, likeacreaturestretchingas itawoke.Honey-eatersandwilly-wagtails

chirrupedoutside.Onceor twicea vehicle sputtereddown the road,drowningouttheclickingofthecricketsandcicadas.

Thoughts clamored in Ralph’s mind and made it to his tongue, but hemanaged to stop them just in time. He put his hands under his thighs, toovercomehisurgetoshakeTombytheshoulders.Unabletoresistanylonger,he finally barkedout, “InGod’s name,Tom,what’s goingon?What’s all thisaboutLucybeingtheRoennfeldtbaby?”

“It’strue.”“But—How…Whatinhell…?”“I’veexplainedittothepolice,Ralph.I’mnotproudofwhatI’vedone.”“Is this—is this what you were talking about putting right, that time on

Janus?”“It’snotassimpleasthat.”Therewasalongpause.“Tellmewhathappened.”“Notmuchpoint,Ralph.Imadeabaddecision,backthen,andit’stimefor

metopayforit.”“ForGod’ssake,boy,atleastletmehelpyou!”“There’snothingyoucando.I’minthisonealone.”“Whateveryou’vedone,you’reagoodmanandIwon’tseeyougodownlike

this.”Hestoodup. “Letmegetyouadecent lawyer—seewhathemakesof itall.”

“Notmuchalawyercandonoweither,Ralph.Apriestmightbemoreuse.”“Butit’salltommyrot,what’sbeingsaidaboutyou!”“Notallofit,Ralph.”“You tell me straight to my face that this was all your doing! That you

threatenedIsabel!Youlookmeintheeyeandtellme,andI’llleaveyouinpeace,boy.”

Tominspectedthegrainofthetimberinthewall.“Yousee?”exclaimedRalphintriumph.“Youcandonosuchthing!”“Iwastheonewiththeduty,nother.”TomlookedatRalph,andconsidered

if there was anything at all he could tell him, explain to him, withoutjeopardizingIsabel.Finally,hesaid,“Izzy’ssufferedenough.Shecan’ttakeanymore.”

“Puttingyourselfinthefiringline’snowayofdealingwithit.Thishasallgottobesortedoutproperly.”

“There’snosortingout,Ralph,andthere’snogoingback.Ioweherthis.”

Miracles were possible: it was official. In the days following Grace’s return,Reverend Norkells experienced a decided increase in his congregation,particularlyamong thewomenfolk.Manyamotherwhohadgivenuphopeofseeing her darling son again, and many a war widow, took to prayer withrenewedvigor,nolongerfeelingfoolishaboutprayingforthehopeless.St.Judehad never received so much attention. Dull aches of loss reawakened, as rawlongingwassoothedbythatbalmsolongexhausted—hope.

GeraldFitzgeraldwassittingoppositeTom,thetablebetweenthemstrewnwithpapersandpinklegaltapefromthebrief.Tom’slawyerwasshortandbalding,likea jockeyinathree-piecesuit,wirybutnimble.Hehadcomedownonthetrain fromPerth the night before, and had read the brief over dinner at TheEmpress.

“You’vebeenformallycharged.Partageusegetsacircuitmagistrateeverytwomonths, and he’s just been, so you’ll be held in custody here until he’s back.You’readamnsightbetteroffonremandherethanAlbanyjail,that’sforsure.We’llusethetimetoprepareforthecommittalhearing.”

Tomlookedathimwithaquestion.“That’sthepreliminaryhearingtodecidewhetheryou’vegotacasetoanswer.

Ifyouhave,you’llgetcommittedfortrialinAlbany,orPerth.Depends.”“Onwhat?”askedTom.“Let’s go through the charges,” saidFitzgerald, “and you’ll find out.”Once

againhecasthiseyeoverthelistbeforehim.“Well,they’vecertainlyspreadthenetwideenough.WACriminalCode,CommonwealthPublicServiceAct,WACoronersAct,CommonwealthCrimesAct.Arealdog’sbreakfastofStateandCommonwealth charges.” He smiled and rubbed his hands together. “That’swhatIliketosee.”

Tomraisedaneyebrow.“Means they’re scraping around, not sure what they can get you on,” the

lawyer went on. “Neglect of Statutory Duty—that’s two years and a fine.Improperlydealingwithabody—twoyearshardlabor.Failingtoreportadeadbody—well,”hescoffed,“that’sjustaten-poundfine.Makingafalsestatementto register a birth—two years hard labor and a two-hundred-pound fine.”Hescratchedhischin.

Tomventured,“Whataboutthe—thechild-stealingcharge?”Itwasthefirsttimehehadusedthephrase,andheflinchedatthesoundofthewords.

“Section 343 of the Criminal Code. Seven years hard labor.” The lawyerscreweduphismouthandnoddedtohimself.“Youradvantage,Mr.Sherbourne,isthatthelawcoverstheusual.Statutesaredraftedtocatchwhathappensmostofthetime.Sosection343appliesto…”hepickedupthedog-earedstatuteandread from it, “‘any person who, with intent to deprive any parent of thepossessionofachild…forciblyorfraudulentlytakesorenticesaway,ordetainsthechild…’”

“Well?”Tomasked.“Wellthey’llnevergetuponthat.Luckilyforyou,mostofthetime,babies

don’t leave their mothers unless someone takes them away. And they don’tusuallyfindtheirwaytobarelyinhabitedislands.Yousee?Theycan’tmakeoutthe necessary elements of the offense. You didn’t ‘detain’ the baby: legallyspeaking, she couldhave left any time shewanted.Youcertainlydidn’t ‘enticeheraway.’Andtheycanneverprove‘intentiontodeprive’becausewe’llsayyouhonestlybelievedtheparentsweredead.SoIreckonIcangetyouoffthatone.Andyou’reawarhero,aMilitaryCrossandBar.Mostcourtswillstillgoeasyonablokewhoriskedhislifeforhiscountryandneverhadawhiffoftrouble.”

Tom’s face relaxed, but the lawyer’s expression changed, as he continued,“Butwhat they don’t like,Mr. Sherbourne, is a liar. In fact, they dislike it somuchthatthepenaltyforperjuryissevenyearshardlabor.Andifthatliarstopstherealculpritgettingwhat’scomingtothem,thenthat’spervertingthecourseofjustice,andthat’sanothersevenyears.Doyougetmydrift?”

Tomgavehimalook.“Thelawlikestomakesurethattherightpeoplearegettingpunished.Judges

areabitparticularaboutthatsortofthing.”Hestoodup,andwanderedtothewindow, gazing up through the bars into the trees beyond. “Now, if Iwalkedintoacourt,andtoldastoryofapoorwoman,besideherselfwithgriefovertheloss of her stillborn baby—a woman who wasn’t right in the head for a bit,couldn’ttellrightfromwrong—andifItoldthestoryofhowherhusband,whowasadecentbloke,who’dalwaysdonehisduty,butwho,justthisonce,tryingtomakethingsbetterforhiswife,lethisheartgetthebetterofhiscommonsense,andwentalongwithheridea…Well,Icouldsellthattoajudge.Icouldsellittoajury.TheCourt’sgotwhatwecall ‘theprerogativeofmercy’—therighttoimposealessersentence,forthewifetoo.

“Butatthemoment,I’vegotamanwhobyhisownadmissionisnotonlyaliar,butabully.Amanwho,presumablyworriedthatpeoplewillthinkhe’sgotnoleadinhispencil,decidestokeepatinybaby,andforceshiswifetolieabout

it.”Tomstraightenedhisback.“I’vesaidwhatI’vesaid.”Fitzgerald continued, “Now, if you’re the sort ofmanwho reallywould do

somethinglikethat,then,forallthepoliceknow,you’rethesortofpersonwhomightgoevenastepfurthertogetwhatyouwant.Ifyou’rethesortofmanwhotakeswhathewants becausehe can, andwho’s prepared tomakehiswife actunderduress, thenperhapsyou’rethesortofmanwho’spreparedtokill togetwhathewants.Weallknowyoudidenoughofthatduringthewar.”Hepaused.“That’swhattheymightsay.”

“Theyhaven’tchargedmewiththat.”“So far. But fromwhat I hear, that copper fromAlbany’s dying to get his

hands on you. I’ve come across him before, and I can tell you, he’s a rightbastard.”

Tomtookadeepbreath,andshookhishead.“And he’s very excited that your wife won’t corroborate your story about

Roennfeldtbeingdeadwhenyoufoundhim.”Hetwirledthecrimsontapefromthebriefaroundhisfinger.“Shemustreallyhateyourguts.”Asheunwoundit,hesaidslowly,“Now,shecouldhateyourgutsbecauseyoumadeher lieaboutkeepingababy.Orevenbecauseyoukilledaman.ButIreckonit’smorelikelyshehatesyourgutsbecauseyougavethegameaway.”

Tommadenoresponse.“It’s up to the Crown to prove how he died. With a bloke who’s been

undergroundfornearlyfouryears,that’snoeasytask.Notthatmuchleftofhim.Nobrokenbones.Nofractures.Documentedhistoryofhearttrouble.Normally,thatwouldprobablyleadtoanopenverdictbytheCoroner.Ifyoucamecleanandtoldthewholetruth.”

“IfIpleadguiltytoallthecharges—sayImadeIsabelgoalongwithme,andthere’snootherevidence—noonecantouchher:isthatright?”

“Yes,but—”“ThenI’lltakewhat’scomingtome.”“Troubleis,theremightbealotmorecomingtoyouthanyou’vebargained

for,”Fitzgerald said as he put the papers back in his briefcase. “We’ve got noideawhatyourwife’sgoingtosayyoudidordidn’tdo,ifsheeverdecidestotalk.IfIwereinyourshoes,I’dbedoingsomedamnedhardthinking.”

Ifpeopleused to stareatHannahbefore shegotGraceback, they stareda lot

harder afterward. They had expected some sort of miraculous transformation,like a chemical reaction, as mother and daughter met. But they weredisappointed on that score: the child looked distressed and the motherdistraught. Far from getting a bloom back in her cheeks,Hannah grewmoregaunt,aseveryoneofGrace’sscreamsmadeherwonderwhethershehaddonetherightthinginreclaimingher.

Old logbooks from Janus had been requisitioned by the police as theyexaminedthehandwritingontheletterstoHannah:therewasnomistakingthesure, steady penmanship in both.Nor was there any question as to the rattleBluey had identified. It was the baby herself who had altered beyondrecognition. Hannah had handed Frank a tiny, dark-haired infant weighingtwelve pounds, and Fate had handed back to her a frightened, willful blondechangelingwhocouldstandonherowntwofeet,walk,andscreamuntilherfacewasscarletandherchinwetwithtearsanddribble.TheconfidenceHannahhadgainedinhandlingherbabyinthefirstweeksofherlifewasswiftlyeroded.Therhythmsofintimacy,theunspokenunderstandings,whichshehadassumedshecouldjustpickupagain,werelosttoher:thechildnolongerrespondedinawayshecouldpredict.Theywere liketwodancerswhosestepswereforeigntooneanother.

Hannah was terrified by the moments when she lost patience with herdaughter, who at first would eat and sleep and be bathed only after pitchedbattles, and later simply withdrew into herself. In none of her years ofdaydreams,or evenhernightmares,hadher imaginationmanagedanything asawfulasthis.

Indesperation,shetookthechildtoDr.Sumpton.“Well,” said the rotund doctor as he put his stethoscope back on his desk,

“physically she’s perfectlyhealthy.”Hepushed the jar of jelly beans inGrace’sdirection.“Helpyourself,younglady.”

Thegirl,stillterrifiedfromherfirstencounterwithhimatthepolicestation,stayed mute, and Hannah offered her the jar. “Go on. Any color you like,darling.”Butherdaughterturnedherheadaway,andtookupastrandofhairtocurlaroundherfinger.

“Andshe’sbeenwettingthebed,yousay?”“Often.Atherage,surelyyou’dnormallyexpect—”“Youhardlyneedmetoremindyouthatthesearen’tnormalcircumstances.”

He rang a bell onhis desk and, after a discreet knock, awhite-hairedwomanentered.

“Mrs.Fripp,takelittleGraceouttositwithyouwhileIhaveawordtohermother,wouldyou?”

Thewomansmiled.“Comeon,dear,let’sseeifwecanfindabiscuitforyousomewhere,”shesaid,andledthelistlesschildaway.

Hannahbegan.“Idon’tknowwhattodo,whattosay.Shestillkeepsaskingfor”—shestumbled—“forIsabelSherbourne.”

“Whathaveyousaidabouther?”“Nothing.I’vetoldherthatI’mhermotherandIloveherand—”“Well,youhavetosaysomethingaboutMrs.Sherbourne.”“Butwhat?”“Mysuggestionisthatyoujusttellhersheandherhusbandhadtogoaway.”“Goawaywhere,why?”“Itdoesn’treallymatteratthatage.Justaslongasshehasananswertoher

question.She’llforgeteventually—ifthere’snothingaroundtoremindheroftheSherbournes. She’ll get used to her newhome. I’ve seen it often enoughwithadoptedorphansandsoforth.”

“Butshegetsintosuchastate.Ijustwanttodotherightthingforher.”“You don’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, I’m afraid, Mrs.

Roennfeldt. Fate’s dealt this little girl a pretty tough set of cards, and there’snothingyoucandoaboutthat.Eventuallythosetwowillfadefromhermind,aslongasshedoesn’tkeepincontactwiththem.Andinthemeantime,giveheradrop of the sleeping draft if she’s too anxious or unsettled.Won’t do her anyharm.”

CHAPTER28

Youstayawayfromthatman,youhearme?”“I’vegottogoandseehim,Ma.He’sbeeninthelockupforages!Thisisall

myfault!”lamentedBluey.“Don’ttalkrubbish.You’vereunitedababywithhermother,andyou’reabout

to pocket three thousandguineas reward.”Mrs. Smart took the iron from thestove,andpressedthetableclothharderwitheachsentence.“Useyourloaf,boy.You’vedoneyourbit,nowjustkeepoutofit!”

“He’sinmoretroublethantheearlysettlers,Ma.Idon’treckonthisisgonnaturnoutgoodforhim.”

“That’snotyourlookout,sonny.Nowoutthebackandgetonwithweedingtherosebed.”

By reflex,Bluey tooka step toward thebackdoor, ashismothermuttered,“Oh,tohavebeenleftwiththehalfwitson!”

He stopped, and to her astonishment, pulled himself up to his full height.“Yeah,well Imaybeahalfwit,but I’mnotadobber.AndI’mnot the sortofblokethatdesertshismates.”Heturnedandheadedforthefrontdoor.

“Justwheredoyouthinkyou’regoing,JeremiahSmart?”“Out,Ma!”“Overmydeadbody!”shesnapped,blockinghisway.Shewasalloffivefeettall.Blueytoppedsixfoot.“Sorry,”hesaidashepicked

hismotherupbythewaistaseasilyasapieceofsandalwood,andputherdownlightlytooneside.Helefther,jawagape,eyesflaming,ashewalkedoutofthedooranddownthefrontpath.

Bluey took in the scene.The tiny space, the slopbucket in thecorner, the tinmugonatablethatwasboltedtothefloor.InalltheyearshehadknownTom,hehadneverseenhimunshaven;neverseenhishairuncombed,hisshirtcreased.Now he had dark gulleys under his eyes, and his cheekbones rose like ridgesabovehissquarejaw.

“Tom!Goodtoseeyou,mate,”declaredthevisitor,inaphrasethatbroughtthem both back to days of jetty landings and long voyages, when they were,truly,gladtoseeoneanother.

BlueytriedtolookatTom’sface,butcouldnotnegotiatethespacebetweenthebars,soeitherthefaceorthebarswereoutoffocus.Hesearchedforafewmomentsbeforecomingupwith,“Howarethings?”

“I’vebeenbetter.”Blueyfidgetedwiththehatinhishandsuntilhescreweduphiscourage.“I’m

not going to take the reward, mate.” The words tumbled out. “Wouldn’t beright.”

Tom looked off to his side for amoment. “Thought theremust have beensomereasonyoudidn’t comeoutwith the troopers.”Hesoundeduninterestedratherthanangry.

“I’msorry!Mamademedoit.Inevershouldhavelistenedtoher.Iwouldn’ttouchthemoneywithabargepole.”

“Mightaswellbeyougetsitassomeotherbloke.Makesnodifferencetomenow.”

WhateverBlueywasexpectingfromTom,itwasnotthisindifference.“Whathappensnext?”

“BuggeredifIknow,Blue.”“Isthereanythingyouneed?AnythingIcangetyou?”“Abitofskyandsomeocean’dbenice.”“I’mserious.”“So am I.” Tom took a deep breath as he considered a thought. “There is

something you could do. You could look in on Izzy for me. She’ll be at herparents’.Just…seeshe’sOK.She’llbetakingithard.Lucymeanttheworldtoher,”andhestoppedbecauseacrackhadfounditswayintohisvoice.“Tellher—Iunderstand.That’sall.TellherthatIunderstand,Bluey.”

Thoughtheyoungmanfeltutterlyoutofhisdepth,hetookhiscommissionlikeasacredcharge.Hewouldconveythemessageasifhisownlifedependedonit.

OnceBluey had gone,Tom lay down on the bunk, andwondered again howLucywas;howIsabelwascoping.Hetriedtothinkofanyotherwayhecouldhavedonethings,startingfromthatveryfirstday.ThenherememberedRalph’swords—“no point in fighting your war over and over until you get it right.”

Instead,hesoughtcomfortinperspective:inhismind’seye,hemappedoutonthe ceiling the exact position the stars would be in that night, starting withSirius, always the brightest; theSouthernCross; then the planets—Venus andUranus—alleasilyvisibleintheskyovertheisland.Hetracedtheconstellationsas they slid their way across the roof of the world from dusk till dawn. Theprecisionof it, thequietorderlinessof the stars, gavehima senseof freedom.There was nothing he was going through that the stars had not seen before,somewhere,sometimeonthisearth.Givenenoughtime, theirmemorywouldclose over his life like healing a wound. All would be forgotten, all sufferingerased.ThenherememberedthestaratlasandLucy’sinscription:“foreverandeverandeverandever,”andthepainofthepresentfloodedback.

HesaidaprayerforLucy.“Keephersafe.Letherhaveahappylife.Letherforgetme.”And for Isabel, lost in thedarkness, “Bringherhome,back toherself,beforeit’stoolate.”

BlueyshuffledhisfeetandsilentlyrehearsedhisspeechagainashestoodattheGraysmarks’frontdoor.Whenitopened,Violetstoodbeforehim,herfacewary.

“Can I help you?” she asked, the formality a shield against any newunpleasantness.

“Afternoon,Mrs.Graysmark.”Whenshemadenoacknowledgment,hesaid,“I’mBl—JeremiahSmart.”

“Iknowwhoyouare.”“Iwonderif—doyouthinkIcouldhaveawordwithMrs.Sherbourne?”“She’snotuptovisitors.”“I—”Hewasabouttogiveup,butrememberedTom’sface,andpersisted,“I

won’tholdherup.Ijusthaveto—”Isabel’svoicedriftedoutfromthedarkenedloungeroom.“Lethimin,Ma.”Hermotherscowled.“You’dbettercomethrough.Mindyouwipeyourfeet,”

andshestaredathisbootswhilehewiped,andwipedthemagain,onthebrushdoormat,beforefollowingher.

“It’sallright,Ma.Noneedtostay,”saidIsabelfromherchair.Isabel looked as bad as Tom, Bluey thought: gray-skinned and empty.

“Thanksfor—forseeingme…”Hefaltered.Therimofhishatwasdampwhereheclutchedit.“I’vebeentoseeTom.”

Herfacecloudedandsheturnedaway.“He’sinarealbadway,Mrs.S.Arealbadway.”

“Andhesentyoutotellmethat,didhe?”Bluey continued to fidget with his hat. “No. He asked me to give you a

message.”“Oh?”“Hesaidtotellyouheunderstands.”Shecouldnotkeepthesurprisefromherface.“Understandswhat?”“Didn’tsay.Justsaidtotellyou.”Hereyes remained fixedonBluey,but shewasnot lookingathim.Aftera

longtime, inwhichheblusheddeeperatbeingstaredat,shesaid,“Wellthen,you’vetoldme.”Sheroseslowlytoherfeet.“I’llshowyouout.”

“But—well?”askedBluey,shocked.“Wellwhat?”“WhatshouldItellhimback?Imean—amessageorsomething?”Shedidn’t

answer.“He’salwaysbeengoodtome,Mrs.S…Youbothhave.”“It’sthroughhere,”shesaid,guidinghimtothefrontdoor.Asshecloseditbehindhim,sheleanedherfaceagainstthewall,shaking.“Oh, Isabel, darling!” her mother exclaimed. “Come and have a lie-down,

there’sagirl,”shesaid,andledhertoherroom.“I’mgoingtobesickagain,”saidIsabel,andVioletmaneuveredtheoldchina

basinontoherdaughter’slapjustintime.

Bill Graysmark prided himself on being a good judge of people. As aheadmaster,hegottoobservehumancharacterintheprocessofformation.Hewas rarely wrong about which ones would do well for themselves in life, andwhichwouldcomeacropper.NothinginhisguttoldhimTomSherbournewasaliar,oraviolentman.JusttoseehimwithLucywasenoughtoshowthatthechildhadn’t the least fearofhim.Andhe couldn’thave asked for someone tocherishhisdaughtermore.

But,havinglosttheonlygrandchildhewouldeverhave,Bill’sloyaltywastohisonesurvivingchild.His instinctive judgmentwaselbowedaside:bloodwasthickerthanwater—Godknowshe’dlearnedthatthehardway.

“It’saterriblebusiness,Vernon.Aterriblebusiness.PoorIsabel’sawreck,”hesaid,astheysatinthecornerofthepub.

“AslongasshegivesevidenceagainstTom,”saidKnuckey,“she’sgotnothingtoworryabout.”

Billquestionedhimwithalook.

“She’snotcriminallyliableforanythinghemadeherdo,soshejustneedstoputhersideofthestory.She’swhatwecall‘competentbutnotcompellable’asawitness for this sort of case,” the policeman explained. “Her evidence isadmissible—theCourtsaysit’sasgoodasanyone’s.Butyoucan’tforceawifetotestify againstherhusband.Andof course,he’s got the right to remain silent.Wecan’tmakehimsayanythingagainsthereither, ifhedoesn’twant to, andhe’smadeitquiteclearhe’snotgoingtosayaword.”Hepaused.“Isabel—didsheeverseem,well,uneasyaboutthechild?”

Billshothimaglance.“Let’snotgetdraggedoffthepointhere,Vernon.”Knuckeyletitpass.Hemusedaloud,“Beingalighthousekeeper’saposition

oftrust,youknow.Ourwholecountry—thewholeworld,ifyouwanttolookatitthatway—dependsonthembeingmenofgoodcharacter:honest,decent.Wecan’t have them running around falsifying government records, coercing theirwives.Let alone doingwhatever itwas he did to FrankRoennfeldt before heburiedhim.”HeregisteredthealarmonBill’sface,butcontinued,“No.Bestputastoptothatsortofthingrightaway.Magistratewillbehereinafewweeksforthe committal hearing. Given what Sherbourne’s said so far, well… He’llprobably be sent toAlbany, where theCourt’s got power to dish out harsherpenalties. Or they could really take against him and drag him up to Perth.Spragg’s looking for any hint that the fellow wasn’t dead when he reachedJanus.”Ashedrainedthelastofhisbeer,hesaid,“Thingsdon’t lookgoodforhim,Bill,Icantellyouthatmuch.”

“Doyoulikebooks,darling?”Hannahventured.Shehadbeentryingeverythingshe could think of to build a bridgewith her daughter. She herself had lovedstoriesasachild,andoneofthefewmemoriesshecouldstillmusterofherownmother was being readThe Tale of Peter Rabbit, one sunny afternoon on thelawnsofBermondsey.Sherememberedclearlythepalebluesilkofhermother’sblouse,thescentshewore—somethingfloralandrare.Andhermother’ssmile—thegreatest treasureof all. “What’s thatword?” shewas askingHannah. “Youknowthatword,don’tyou?”

“Carrot,”Hannahhadproclaimedproudly.“CleverHannah!”Hermotherhadsmiled.“You’reasbrightasabutton.”The

memoryfadedoutthere,liketheendofastory,soshewouldstartitagain,overandover.

Now she tried to temptGracewith the same book. “You see? It’s about a

rabbit.Comeandreaditwithme.”Butthechildlookedathersullenly.“IwantmyMamma.Ihatethebook!”“Oh, come on, you haven’t even looked at it.” She took a breath and tried

again.“Justonepage.Let’sreadonepageandifyoudon’tlikeit,we’llstop.”Thegirl snatched the book fromherhands and threw it at her, the corner

strikingHannah’s cheek, narrowlymissing her eye.Then she darted from theroom,runningstraightintoGwen,whowascominginatthesamemoment.

“Hey,heythere,missie!”saidGwen.“WhathaveyoudonetoHannah?Goandsaysorry!”

“Leaveherbe,Gwen,”saidHannah.“Shedidn’tmeananyharm.Itwasanaccident.”Shepickedupthebookandputitcarefullyontheshelf.“IthoughtImighttryherwithsomechickensoupfordinnertonight.Everyonelikeschickensoup,don’tthey?”sheasked,withoutmuchconviction.

Hours later, she was on her hands and knees, mopping up the soup herdaughterhadvomitedonthefloor.

“When you think about it, what did we ever really know about him?All thestories aboutbeing fromSydney—that could all be a furphy.Allweknow forcertainisthathe’snotfromPartageuse.”VioletGraysmarkwasspeakingtoBillwhentheirdaughterwassafelyasleep.“Whatsortofmanishe?Waitsuntilshecan’tlivewithoutthechild,thenwhisksheraway.”Hereyeswereontheframedphotographofhergranddaughter.Shehadremoveditfromthemantelpiece,andwasstowingitunderthelineninherunderweardrawer.

“But,well,whatdoyoumakeofit,Vi?Really?”“For heaven’s sake. Even if he didn’t hold a gun to her head, he’s still

responsible. Shewas clearly besideherselfwith losing that third baby.And toblameherforit…Itwasuptohimtosticktotherulesthenandthere,ifthat’swhat he was going to do. Not start backtracking years later, when so manypeople were affected. We live with the decisions we make, Bill. That’s whatbraveryis.Standingbytheconsequencesofyourmistakes.”

Bill said nothing, and as she rearranged the dainty bags of lavender, shecontinued,“Itwasrubbingsalt in thewound, toputhisownguiltyconscienceabovewhatitwoulddotoIsabelortoLucy,or”—sheputherhandonhis—“tous,forthatmatter,dear.Notathoughtforusinanyofthisbusiness.Asifwehadn’thadenoughtodealwithalongtheway.”Atearglistenedinhereye.“Ourlittlegranddaughter,Bill.Allthatlove…”Sheclosedthedrawerslowly.

“Comeon,Vi,dear.Iknowit’shardonyou.Iknow,”saidherhusband,andhe hugged his wife close, noticing her hair was shot throughwith gray thesedays.Thetwoofthemstoodintheembrace,Violetweeping,Billsaying,“Iwassuch a fool to believe the bad days were over.”Without warning, a great sobescapedhim, andhehuggedher tighter still, as if itmightphysicallyhalt thisnewshatteringofhisfamily.

Havingcleanedupthefloor,andwithherdaughterfinallyasleep,Hannahsitsby the littlebedandgazesather. In theday, it is impossible.Gracehidesherfaceifshethinkssheisbeingwatched.Sheturnsherback,orrunsintoanotherroom.

Now,bythelightofasinglecandle,Hannahcanobserveeveryaspectofher,andinthecurveofhercheek, intheshapeofhereyebrows,sheseesFrank.Itmakes her heart swell, and she can almost believe that if she spoke to thesleepingfigure,itwouldbeFrankwhoanswered.Theflame,throwingshadowsthattwitchwiththerhythmofherdaughter’sbreath,catchesthegoldenglintofherhair,ortheglisteningofafinefilamentofdribblethattrailsfromthecornerofthetranslucentpinkmouth.

Hannahisonlyslowlyawareofthewishthathasformeditselfatthebackofhermind: thatGracecould stayasleep, fordays, foryears, ifneedbe,until allmemory of those people, of that life, has ebbed away. She feels that peculiarhollownessinsideher,whichcamethefirsttimeshesawdistressonthefaceofthereturnedchild.IfonlyFrankwerehere.Hewouldknowwhattodo,howtoget through this.Nomatter howmany times life knocked himdown, hewasalwaysstraightbackonhisfeet,withasmileandnohardfeelings.

Hannahcastshermindbacktoseeatinierfigure—herperfectbaby,aweekold—andhearsagainFrank’slullaby,“Schlaf,Kindlein,schlaf,”“Sleep,littlechild,sleep.” She recalls the way he would gaze into the cot and whisper to her inGerman. “I’mwhispering her good things for her dreams,” hewould say. “Aslongasonehasgoodthingsinthemind,onecanbehappy.ThisIknow.”

Now,Hannah straightensher back. Just thememory is enough to givehercouragetofacethenextday.Graceisherdaughter.Somethinginthechild’ssoulwillsurelyremember,recognizeher,eventually.She justneedstotakethingsadayatatime,asherfathersays.Soonenough,thelittlegirlwillbehersagain,willbethejoyshewasonthedayshewasborn.

Quietly,sheblowsoutthecandle,andmakesherwayfromtheroombythe

lightwhichslidesalongthefloorfromtheopendoor.Whensheclimbsintoherownbed,sheisstruckbyhowemptyitfeels.

Isabelpaces.Itisthreeo’clockinthemorning,andshehasslippedoutthroughthebackdoorofherparents’house.Aghostgumhastrappedthemoonbetweentwoofitslongbrancheslikespindlyfingers.Thedrygrasscracklesfaintlyunderherbarefeetasshewalksonit—fromthejacarandatotheflametree,fromtheflametreetothejacaranda:theplaceoftheoldwicket,allthoseyearsago.

She is flicking in and out of understanding, in and out of being, in thatfluttering of thoughts that came originallywith the loss of her first baby, andgrewwith the snatchingawayof twomore, andnowLucy.And theTomsheloved,theTomshemarried,hasdisappearedtoointhefogofdeceit—slippingaway when she wasn’t looking: running off with notes to another woman;plottingtotakeherdaughteraway.

“Iunderstand.”Tom’smessageispuzzling.Herguttightensinaknotoffuryand longing.Her thoughts flyout inalldirections, and just foramoment shehasabodilymemoryofbeingnine,onarunawayhorse.Thetigersnakeonthetrack.Asuddenrearingandoffthehorseshot,betweenthetrunks,heedlessofthebranchesandthechildclingingdesperatelytoitsmane.Isabelhadlainflatagainstitsneckuntilitsfearanditsmuscleswereexhausted,anditfinallycameto a halt in a clearing nearly amile away. “There’s nothing you can do,” herfatherhadsaid.“Onceahorsebolts,youcanonlysayyourprayersandhangonforallyou’reworth.Can’tstopananimalthat’scaughtinablindterror.”

There’snooneshecantalkto.Noonewhowillunderstand.Whatsensecanherlifemakebyitself,withoutthefamilyshelivedfor?Sherunsherfingersoverthebarkofthejacarandaandfindsthescar—themarkAlfiecarvedinittoshowherheight,thedaybeforeheandHughleftforFrance.“Now,I’llbecheckinghowmuchyou’vegrownwhenwecomeback,Sis,somindyougetonwithit.”

“Whenwillyoubeback,really?”shehadasked.The boys had shot one another a look—bothworried and excited. “By the

time you reach here,”Hugh had said, and nicked the bark six inches higher.“Onceyougetthere,we’llbehometobotheryouagain,Bella.”

Shenevergrewthattall.The scurrying of a gecko brings her back to the present, back to her

predicament. The questions harangue her as the moon languishes in thebranches above:who isTom, really?Thisman she thought she knew sowell.

How couldhe be capable of such betrayal?What has her lifewithhimbeen?Andwhowere the souls—that blending of her bloodwithhis—who failed tofindtheirwayintobeingwithinher?Agoblinthoughtjumpsontohershoulder:what’sthepointoftomorrow?

TheweeksfollowingGrace’sreturnweremoreharrowingforHannahthantheweeksfollowingherloss,asshewasfacedwithtruthswhich,longpushedaway,werenowinescapable.Yearsreallyhadpassed.Frankreallywasdead.Partofherdaughter’slifehadgoneandcouldneverbebroughtback.WhileGracehadbeenabsent fromHannah’sdays, shehadbeenpresent in someoneelse’s.Herchildhad lived a lifewithout her:without, she caught herself thinking, amoment’sthoughtforher.Withshame,sherealizedshefeltbetrayed.Byababy.

She remembered Billy Wishart’s wife, and how her joy at the return of ahusband shehadbelieveddeadon theSommehad turned todespair.Thegasvictimwhocamehometoherwasasmuchastrangertohimselfastohisfamily.Afterstrugglingforfiveyears,onemorningwhentheicewasthickonthewaterintheirtank,shehadstoodonanupturnedmilkingbucketinthecowshedandhangedherself, leavingherchildrentocutherdownbecauseBillystillcouldn’tgripaknife.

Hannahprayedforpatienceandstrengthandunderstanding.Everymorning,sheaskedGodtohelphergetthroughtotheendoftheday.

Oneafternoonasshewaspassingthenursery,sheheardavoice.Sheslowedherpaceand tiptoedcloser to thedoor,whichwasajar.She felta thrill to seeherdaughterplayingwithherdolls at last: all her attempts to gether toplayhadbeenrejected.Nowpiecesofatoyteasetwerestrewnaboutonthebedcovers.Onedollstillworeitsexquisitelacedress,buttheotherhadbeenstrippedtoacamisoleandlongbloomers.Onthelapoftheonewiththeskirtlayawoodenclothespeg.“Dinnertime,”saidtheskirteddoll,asthechildheldthetinyteacupto theclothespegandmade“nyumnyum”noises. “Good littlegirl.Nowtimeforbed,sweetie.Ni-nigh,”andthedollliftedthepegtoitslipstokissit.“Look,Dadda,”itwenton,“Lucy’ssleeping,”asittouchedtheclothespegwithadaintyhand.“Goodnight,Lulu,goodnight,Mamma,”saidthedollinbloomers.“Gottolightupnow.Sun’snearlydown.”Andoffthedolltrottedundertheblanket.Thedollwith the skirt said, “Don’tworry,Lucy.Thewitchcan’t catchyou, Imakedherdead.”

Beforesheknewwhatshewasdoing,Hannahmarchedinandsnatchedthedollsaway.“That’senoughofthosesillygames,youhearme?”shesnapped,andsmackedherdaughter’shand.Thechild’s limbsstiffenedbutshedidnotcry—shejustwatchedHannahsilently.

Instantly, Hannah was flooded with remorse. “Darling, I’m sorry! I’m sosorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She remembered the doctor’s instructions.“They’ve gone, those people. They did a bad thing, keeping you away fromhome.Andthey’vegonenow.”Grace lookedpuzzledat thementionofhome,andHannahsighed.“Oneday.Onedayit’llmakesense.”

Bylunchtime,asHannahsobbedinthekitchen,ashamedofheroutburst,herdaughterwasplayingthegameagain,with threeclothespegs instead.Hannahstayeduplateintothenight,stitchingandcutting,sothatinthemorning,thechild awoke to a new rag doll on her pillow—a little girl, with “Grace”embroideredonherpinafore.

“Ican’tbearthethoughtofwhatitmustbedoingtoher,Ma,”saidIsabel,asthetwo women sat together on wicker chairs under the eaves at the back of thehouse. “She’ll bemissing us,missing home.The poor little thingwon’t knowwhatonearth’sgoingon.”

“Iknow,dear.Iknow,”repliedhermother.Violethadmadeheracupofteaandsettled itontoher lap.Herdaughter

had altered dreadfully—sunken eyes shadowed beneath in gray; hair dull andtangled.

Isabel spoke aloud the thought that had occurred to her, perhaps tounderstanditbetter.“There’sneverbeenafuneral…”

“Whatdoyoumean?”askedViolet.Isabelwasnotmakingmuchsense,thesedays.

“Everyone I’ve lost—they’ve just been ripped away—intonothing.Maybe afuneral would have made it—I don’t know—made a difference. With Hughthere’sthephotoofthegraveinEngland.Alfie’sjustanameonthatmemorial.My first three babies—three, Mum—never had so much as a hymn sung forthem.Andnow…”hervoicebrokeintotears,“Lucy…”

Violethadbeengladshe’dnevergivenhersonsafuneral:afuneralwasproof.Indisputable.A funeralmeant admitting that your boys were absolutely dead.Andburied.Itwasabetrayal.Nofuneralmeantthatonedaytheymightwaltzintothekitchenandaskwhatwasfordinnerandlaughwithheraboutthatsilly

mistakewhichhadledhertobelieveforamoment—imaginethat!—thatthey’dgoneforever.

She considered her words carefully. “Sweetheart, Lucy’s not dead.” Isabelseemed to shrug off the comment, and hermother frowned. “None of this isyourfault,dear.I’llneverforgivethatman.”

“Ithoughthelovedme,Mum.HetoldmeIwasthemostpreciousthingintheworldtohim.Thenhedidsuchadreadfulthing…”

Later,asVioletpolishedthesilverframesofthepicturesofhersons,shewentover the situation inhermind for theumpteenth time.Oncea childgets intoyourheart,there’snorightorwrongaboutit.She’dknownwomengivebirthtochildren fathered by husbands they detested, or worse, men who’d forcedthemselvesonthem.Andthewomanhadlovedthechildfiercely,allthewhilehating the brutewho’d sired it.There’s no defending yourself from love for ababy,Violetknewtoowell.

CHAPTER29

Whyareyouprotectingher?”ThequestionarrestedTom,whoeyedRalphwarilythroughthebars.“Plain

asthenoseonyourbloodyface,mate.AssoonasImentionIsabel,yougoallqueerandmakenosense.”

“Ishouldhaveprotectedherbetter.Protectedherfromme.”“Don’ttalkbilge.”“You’ve been a good friend tome,Ralph.But—there’s a lot aboutme you

don’tknow.”“Andthere’salotaboutyouIdo,boy.”Tomstoodup.“Didtheenginegetsortedout?Blueysaidyou’dbeenhaving

problemswithit.”Ralphlookedathimcarefully.“It’snotlookinggood.”“She’sservedyouwell,overtheyears,thatboat.”“Yep. I’ve always trusted her, and I didn’t think she’d ever let me down.

Fremantlewants todecommissionher.”He lookedTomin theeye. “We’realldeadsoonenough.Whoareyoutothrowawaythebestyearsofyourlife?”

“Thebestyearsofmylifewereoveralongtimeago,Ralph.”“That’scodswallopandyouknowit!It’sabouttimeyougotonyourfeetand

didsomething!ForChrist’ssakewakeuptoyourbloodyself!”“WhatareyousuggestingIdo,Ralph?”“I’msuggestingyoutellthebloodytruth,whateveritis.Theonlyplacelying

leadsistrouble.”“Sometimesthat’stheonlyplacetellingthetruthgetsyou,too…Peoplecan

onlytakesomuch,Ralph.Christ—Iknowthatbetterthananyone.Izzywasjustan ordinary, happy girl until she got tangled upwithme.None of thiswouldhavehappenedifshehadn’tcomeouttoJanus.Shethoughtit’dbeparadise.Shehadnoideawhatshewasinfor.Ishouldneverhavelethercomeout.”

“She’sagrownwoman,Tom.”He looked at the skipper, weighing his next words. “Ralph, I’ve had this

comingalongtime.Sinscatchupwithyouintheend.”Hesighed,andlookedupat a spiderweb in the cornerofhis cell,where a few flieshung like forlornChristmasdecorations.“Ishouldhavebeendeadyearsago.GodknowsIshouldhavecoppedabulletorabayonetahundredtimesover.I’vebeenonborrowedtimealongwhile.”Heswallowedhard.“It’stoughenoughonIzzbeingwithoutLucy.She’dneversurvivetimein—Ralph,thisisonethingIcandoforher.It’sasclosetomakingituptoherasI’lleverget.”

“It’snot fair.”Thechild repeats thisphraseover andover,not inawhingeingtone, but in a desperate appeal to reason. Her expression is that of someonetrying to explain anEnglish phrase to a foreigner. “It’s not fair. Iwant to gohome.”

Sometimes,Hannahmanages todistracther fora fewhours.Makingcakeswithher.Cuttingoutpaperdolls.Puttingcrumbsoutforthefairywrens,sothatthetinycreaturescomerighttothedoorandhopaboutonlegsasfineasfusewire,enthrallingGracewhiletheypeckdaintilyatthestalebread.

When she seesGrace’s expressionof delight at the tabby cat theypass oneday, she asks around town if anyonehas anykittens, anda tinyblack creaturewithwhitepawsandfacebecomespartofthehousehold.

Grace is interested, but suspicious. “Go on, he’s yours. All for you,” saysHannah,puttingthekittengentlyintoherhands.“Soyouhavetohelplookafterhim.Now,whatdoyouthinkhisnameshouldbe?”

“Lucy,”saysthechild,withouthesitation.Hannahbalks.“IthinkLucy’salittlegirl’sname,notacat’sname,”shesays.

“Whataboutapropercat’sname?”SoGracegivestheonlycat’snamesheknows.“TabathaTabby.”“TabathaTabby it is,”Hannah says, resisting the urge to tell her it’s not a

tabbycat,andit’snotagirl.Atleastshe’sgotthechildtospeak.The next day, whenHannah says, “Come on, shall we giveTabatha some

mince?”Grace responds, fiddlingwith a strand of hair, “She doesn’t like you.Sheonlylikesme.”There’snomalice.Justexplainingafact.

“Perhaps you should let her see Isabel Sherbourne,” Gwen suggested after aparticularly fierce round between mother and child over putting on a pair ofshoes.

Hannahlookedhorrified.“Gwen!”

“Iknowit’s the last thingyouwant tohear.ButI’m just saying…maybe ifGracethoughtyouwereafriendofhermother’s,thatmighthelpsomehow.”

“Afriendofhermother’s!Howcouldyouevensaysuchathing!Besides,youknowwhatDr. Sumpton said.The sooner she forgets about thatwoman, thebetter!”

But she could not escape the fact that her daughter had been irrevocablyembossed with the stamp of those other parents, that other life. When theywalkedbythebeach,Gracestrainedtogettothewater.Atnight,whereasmostchildren would be pleased to identify the moon, Grace could point to thebrighteststaroftheeveninganddeclare,“Sirius!AndtheMilkyWay,”inavoiceso confident that it frightened Hannah, and made her hurry inside, saying,“Timeforbednow.Inwego.”

Hannahprayed tobe freed fromresentment, frombitterness. “Lord, I’msoblessed to have my daughter back. Show me the right thing to do.” Butstraightaway she would imagine Frank, thrown into an unmarked grave in apieceofcanvas.Sherememberedthelookonhisfacethefirsttimehehadheldhis daughter, as though shehad presentedhimwith thewhole of heaven andearthinthatpinkblanket.

Itwasnotuptoher.ItwasonlyrightthatTomSherbourneshouldbedealtwithaccordingtothelaw.Ifacourtdecidedheshouldgotojail—well,aneyeforaneye,theBiblesaid.Shewouldletjusticetakeitscourse.

ButthenshewouldrememberthemanwhohadsteppedintosaveherfromGod knew what, years ago on that boat. She remembered how safe she’dsuddenly felt in his presence.The ironymadeher catchher breath evennow.Who could tell what someone was like on the inside? She’d seen that air ofauthorityhe’dadoptedwiththedrunk.Didhethinkhewasabovetherules?Orbeyondthem?Butthetwonotes,thatbeautifulhandwriting:“Prayforme.”Soshewouldreturntoherprayers,andpray forTomSherbourne too: thathebedealtwithjustly,eventhoughsomepartofherwantedtoseehimsufferforwhathehaddone.

Thefollowingafternoon,Gwenslippedherarmintoherfather’s,astheywalkedalongthegrass.“Imissthisplace,youknow,”shesaid,lookingbacktowardthegrandlimestonehomestead.

“Itmissesyou,Gwenny,”herfatherreplied.Afterafewmorestepshesaid,“NowthatGraceishomewithHannah,perhapsit’stimeyoucamebacktoyour

oldDad…”Shebitherlip.“I’dloveto.Ireallywould.But…”“Butwhat?”“Idon’tthinkHannahcanmanageyet.”Shepulledawayandfacedherfather.

“Ihatetobetheonetosayit,Dad,butIdon’tknowshe’llevercope.Andthatpoorlittlegirl!Ididn’tknowachildcouldbethatmiserable.”

Septimus touched her cheek. “I know a little girl who used to be thatmiserable.Fairbrokemyheart,youdid.Wentonformonthsafteryourmotherdied.” He stooped to smell one of the old red roses, just past its full, velvetbloom.Hebreathedthescentdeepintohislungs,thenputhishandonhisbacktostraightenup.

“Butthat’sthesadthing,”insistedGwen.“Hermother’snotdead.She’shereinPartageuse.”

“Yes.HannahisrighthereinPartageuse!”Sheknewher fatherwellenoughnot topress thepoint.Theycontinuedto

walk in silence,Septimus inspecting the flowerbeds,Gwen tryingnot tohearthesoundofherniece’sdistress,sosharplyetchedinhermind.

Thatnight,Septimusthoughthardaboutwhattodo.Heknewathingortwoaboutlittlegirlswhohadlosttheirmother.Andheknewathingortwoaboutpersuasion.Whenhehadsettledonhisplan,henoddedofftoadreamlesssleep.

Inthemorning,hedrovetoHannah’s,andannounced,“Right.Allready?We’regoingonamysteryouting.It’sabout timeGracegot toknowPartageuseabitbetter;learnedwhereshe’sfrom.”

“But I’m in the middle of mending the curtains. For the church hall. IpromisedReverendNorkells…”

“I’lltakeherbymyself.She’llberightasrain.”The“mysteryouting”beganwithatriptoPotts’sTimberMill.Septimushad

remembered how, as children, Hannah and Gwen had delighted in feedingapples and cube sugar to theClydesdales there.Thewoodwasmoved by railthesedays,butthemillstillkeptsomeoftheolddrafthorsesforemergencies,whenrainwashedawaysectionsofrailtrackintheforest.

Pattingoneofthehorses,hesaid,“This,youngGrace,isArabella.Canyousay‘Arabella’?

“Righeruptothecart,there’sagoodlad,”saidSeptimustothestablehand,who jumped to.A shortwhile later, he ledArabella into the yard, drawing a

sulky.SeptimushoistedGraceontotheseat,beforeclimbingupbesideher.“Let’s

haveanexplore,shallwe?”hesaid,andgaveagiddy-uptotheoldhorse’sreins.Gracehadneverseensuchabighorse.Shehadneverbeeninarealforest—

theclosestshehadgotwasherill-starredadventureinthescrublandbehindtheGraysmarks’house.Formostofherlife,shehadonlyeverseentwotrees—theNorfolk pines on Janus. Septimus followed the oldmilling tracks through thetoweringkarri,pointingoutkangaroosandgoannashereandthere:thechildwasengrossedinthefairy-taleworld.Fromtimetotimeshepickedoutabirdorawallaby.“What’sthat?”Andhergrandfatherwouldnamethecreature.

“Look, a baby kangaroo,” she said, pointing to amarsupial hopping slowlynearthetrack.

“That’snotababy’roo.Thatlittlechap’saquokka.Likeakangaroobuttiny.That’sasbigashe’lleverget.”Hepattedherhead.“It’sgoodtoseeyousmile,girlie.Iknowyou’vebeensad…Youmissyouroldlife.”Septimusconsideredforamoment.“Iknowwhatthat’slikebecause—well,that’swhathappenedtome.”

Thegirlgaveapuzzledlook,andhecontinued,“Ihadtosaygoodbyetomymum,andgoacrossthesea,allthewaytoFremantleonasailingship.WhenIwas justa littlebitolderthanyou.Hardto imagine,Iknow.ButIcamehere,and I got a newmumanddad, calledWalt andSarah.They looked aftermefromthenon.AndtheylovedmejustlikemyHannahlovesyou.Sosometimes,youdon’tjusthaveonefamilyinyourlife.”

Grace’sfacegavenoclueastowhatshehadmadeofthisconversation,sohechangedtack.Asthehorsewalkedongently,thesuncamedapplingthroughthehighbrancheshereandthere.“Doyoulikethetrees?”

Gracenodded.Septimuspointedtosomesaplings.“See—littletrees,growingback.Wechop

downthebigoldones,andnewonestaketheirplaces.Everythinggrowsback,ifyou give it time.By the time you’remy age, that tree’ll be a giant. It’ll comegood.”Athoughtoccurredtohim.“Thisforestwillbelongtoyouoneday.It’llbeyourforest.”

“Myforest?”“Well, it belongs tome, andoneday it’ll belong to yourmummyandyour

AuntieGwen,andthenit’llbeyours.Whatdoyouthinkofthat?”“CanIgiddyupthehorse?”sheasked.Septimuslaughed.“Givemeyourhandsandwe’llholdthereinstogether.”

“Heresheis,safeandsound,”saidSeptimusashedeliveredGracetoHannah.“Thanks,Dad.” She bobbeddown to her daughter’s level. “Did youhave a

lovelyday?”Gracenodded.“Anddidyoupatthehorses?”“Yes,”shesaidsoftly,rubbinghereyes.“It’sbeena longday,sweetie.It’s timeforabath,andthenwe’llgetyouto

bed.”“Hegivedmetheforest,”saidGrace,withthetraceofasmile,andHannah’s

heartskipped.

AfterGrace’sbaththatevening,Hannahsatonthelittlegirl’sbed.“I’msogladyouhadagoodday.Tellmeallaboutthethingsyousaw,sweetheart.”

“Aquotta.”“Pardon?”“Aquottathat’slittleandhops.”“Ah!Aquokka!Sweetlittlethings,aren’tthey?Andwhatelse?”“Abighorse.Idroveit.”“Doyourememberitsname?”Thegirlthought.“Araballa.”“Arabella,that’sright.She’slovely.She’sgotfriendstheretoo—Samson,and

Hercules, andDiana. Arabella’s quite old now, you know. But she’s still verystrong. Did Granddad show you the timber whims she can pull?” The girllooked confused, and Hannah said, “The great big carts, with just two hugewheels.That’showtheyusedtopullthebigtreesoutoftheforestoncetheycutthem down.” The child shook her head, andHannah said, “Oh, my darling.There’ssomuchIwanttoshowyou.You’lllovetheforest,Ipromise.”

AsGracedriftedofftosleep,Hannahstayedbesideher,planning.Shewouldshowherthewildflowerswhenspringcame.Shewouldgetalittleponyforher—a Shetland, perhaps, so they could ride through the narrow forest trailstogether.A vista of decades suddenly opened out in her imagination, and shedared to explore them. “Welcome home,” she whispered to her sleepingdaughter. “Welcomehomeat last,mydarling,” and shewent aboutherdutiesthateveninghummingunderherbreath.

CHAPTER30

Partageusehasonlysomanypeople,andonlysomanyplacesthosepeoplecanbe.Soonerorlater,you’reboundtobumpintosomeoneyou’dratheravoid.

It had taken days for Violet to persuade her daughter to leave the house.“Comeon,justcomeforawalkwithmewhileIpopintoMouchemore’s.Ineedsomemore wool for that bedcover I’m doing.”Nomore sweet cardigans.Nomore diminutiveLiberty lawn dresses.These days shewas back to crochetingblanketsforthelastofthewretcheslanguishingintheRepathome.Well,itkeptherhandsbusy,evenifitcouldn’talwaysoccupyhermind.

“Mum,really,Idon’tfeeluptoit.I’lljuststayhere.”“Oh,comeon,darling.”Asthepairwalkeddownthestreet,peopletriednottolooktooobviously.A

fewofferedpolitesmiles,buttherewasnoneoftheold“Howarethings,Vi?”or“SeeyouatchurchonSunday?”Noonewassurehowtotreatthismourningthatwasn’t foradeath.Somecrossed thestreet toavoid them.Townsfolk read thenewspaperstoextractwhatgobbetstheycould,butthingshadgonequietoflate.

AsViolet and her daughter passed through the doors of the haberdasher’s,FannyDarnley,onherwayout,gavealittlegasp,andhaltedoutside,wide-eyedwithalarmandrelish.

Theshopsmelledoflavenderpolish,andoldrosesfromthepotpourrisetoutinabasketnearthecashregister.Highupthewallsonallsidesrankedboltsofcloth—damasksandmuslins,linensandcottons.Therewererainbowsofthreadandcloudsofballedwool.Cardsoflace—thick,thin,Brussels,French—layonthe tablewhereMr.Mouchemorewas serving an elderlywoman.All thewayfromthecounteratthefarend,arowoftableslinedthestoreoneachside,withchairsforthecomfortofcustomers.

SeatedatoneofthetableswiththeirbackstoIsabelweretwowomen.Onewas blonde; the other, who was dark-haired, was considering a bolt of palelemonlinenunrolledbeforeher.Atherside,glumandfidgetingwitharagdoll,was a little blonde girl, immaculately turned out in a pink smockeddress, her

whitesockstrimmedwithlace.Asthewomanexaminedthecloth,askingtheattendantquestionsaboutprice

andquantity,thelittlegirl’seyesdrifteduptoseewhohadcomein.Shedroppedthedollandscrambleddownfromthechair. “Mamma!”shecalled,dashingtoIsabel.“Mamma!Mamma!”

Beforeanyonecouldtakeinwhathadhappened,LucyhadwrappedherarmsaroundIsabel’slegsandwasholdingasfastasacrab.

“OhLucy!”Isabelbundledherupandhuggedher, lettingthechildsnuggleintoherneck.“Lucy,mydarling!”

“Thatbadladytookme,Mamma!Shedidsmackme!”thechildwhimpered,pointing.

“Oh,mypoor,poorsweetheart!”Isabelwassqueezingthegirltoher,sobbingatthetouchofher,thelegsfittingsnuglyaroundherwaistandtheheadslottingautomaticallyintothespacebeneathherchin,likethefinalpieceofajigsaw.Shewasoblivioustoanythingandanyoneelse.

Hannahwatched, stricken: humiliated, and despairing at themagnetic pullIsabelexertedonGrace.Forthefirsttime,theenormityofthetheftcamehometoher.Rightinfrontofherwastheevidenceofallthathadbeenstolen.Shesawthehundredsofdays and the thousandsof embraces the twohad shared—theloveusurped.Shewasawareofatremblinginherlegs,andshefearedshemightfalltotheground.Gwenputahandonherarm,unsureofwhattodo.

Hannah tried to fend off the humiliation, and the tears it brought. Thewoman and childwere knitted together like a single being, in aworldnoonecould enter. She felt sick as she fought to stay upright, to maintain somefragmentofdignity.Struggling tobreathe calmly, shepickedupherbag fromthecounterandwalkedassteadilyasshecouldtowardIsabel.

“Grace darling,” she tried. The child was still burrowing into Isabel, andneithermoved.“Gracedear,it’stimetocomehome.”Shereachedoutahandtotouchthe littlegirl,whoscreamed:notasquealbutafull-throated,murderouscrythatbouncedoffthewindows.

“Mamma,makehergo’way!Mamma,makeher!”Thesmallcrowdlookedon,themenperplexedandthewomenhorrified.The

little girl’s features were distorted and purple. “Please, Mamma!” She wasbegging,atinyhandoneachsideofIsabel’s face,shoutingthewordsatherasthoughtoovercomedistanceordeafness.Still,Isabelremainedmute.

“Perhapswecould—”Gwen’ssentencewascutoffbyhersister.“Let her go!” Hannah shouted, unable to address Isabel by name. “You’ve

doneenough,”shewentonmorequietly,inavoiceedgedwithbitterness.“Howcanyoubesocruel?”Isabelburstout.“Youcanseethestateshe’sin!

Youdon’tknowthe first thingabouther—aboutwhat sheneeds,howto lookafterher!Havesomecommonsense,ifyoucan’thaveanykindnesstoher!”

“Let go of my daughter! Now!” demanded Hannah, shaking. She wasdesperatetogetoutoftheshop,tobreakthemagnetichold.Shepulledthechildawayandheldheraroundthewaist,as sheresistedandscreamed,“Mamma!IwantMamma!Letmego!”

“It’sallright,darling,”shesaid.“Iknowyou’reupset,butwecan’tstay,”andshe went on, trying to soothe the child with words while keeping a strongenoughgriponhertostopherwrigglingoutofherarmsandrunningaway.

GwenglancedatIsabel,andshookherheadindespair.Thensheturnedtoherniece.“Shh,shh,love.Don’tcry,”andshedabbedatherfacewithadelicatelacehandkerchief.“Comehomeandwe’llfindyouatoffee.TabathaTabbywillbemissingyou.Comeon,darling.”Thewordsofreassurance,fromHannahandfromGwen,continuedinagentlestreamasthetriomadetheirwayout.Atthedoor,GwenturnedagaintobeholdIsabel,andthedesperationinhereyes.

Foramoment,noonestirred.Isabelstaredintothinair,notdaringtomoveher limbssoasnotto losethefeelofherdaughter.Hermothereyedtheshopassistants,defyingthemtocomment.Finally,theboywhohadbeenunravelingthelinenpickeduptheboltandstartedtore-rollit.

LarryMouchemoretookthatasthecuetosaytotheoldwomanhehadbeenserving,“Anditwasjustthetwoyardsyouwanted?Ofthelace?”

“Ye-yes,justthetwoyards,”shereplied,asnormallyasshecould,thoughshetriedtopayhimwithahaircombratherthanthecoinsshehadmeanttoextractfromherhandbag.

“Comeon,dear,” saidViolet softly.Then louder, “Idon’t think Iwant thesamewoolthistime.I’lllookatthepatternagainandthendecide.”

FannyDarnley,gossiping toawomanbesideheron thepavement, frozeasthetwowomencameout,onlyhereyesdaringtofollowthemdownthestreet.

Knuckey walks along the isthmus of Point Partageuse, listening to the waveslaunchthemselvesattheshoreonbothsides.Hecomesheretoclearhishead,intheeveningsaftertea.He’sdriedthedisheshiswifewashed.Hestillmissesthedayswhentherewerekidsaroundtodoitwiththem,andthey’dmakeagameofit.Mostlygrownup,now.He smiles at amemoryof littleBilly, forever three

yearsold.Betweenhisfingerandthumbheisturningashell,coolandroundedlikea

coin.Families.Godknowswhathe’dbewithouthisfamily.Mostnaturalthingin theworld, itwas, for awoman towantababy.His IrenewouldhavedoneanythingtogetBillyback.Anything.Whenitcomestotheirkids,parentsarealljustinstinctandhope.Andfear.Rulesandlawsflystraightoutthewindow.

The law’s the law, but people are people. He thinks back to the day thatstartedthewholesorrybusiness:theAnzacDaywhenhewasupinPerthforhisaunt’s funeral. He could have gone after the lot of them, themob,Garstoneincluded.AllthemenwhousedFrankRoennfeldttotakethepainaway,justforamoment.Butthatwouldhavemadethingsworse.Youcan’tconfrontawholetownwithitsshame.Sometimes,forgettingistheonlywaybacktonormality.

His thoughts returned tohisprisoner.ThatTomSherbournewasapuzzle.ClosedasaQueenslandnut.Nowayofknowingwhatwas inside thesmooth,hardshell,andnoweakspottoputpressureon.BloodySpraggwasdesperateforagoathim.He’dstalledhimaslongashecould,buthe’dhavetolethimcomeandquestionSherbourne soon.Down inAlbany,or inPerth,whoknewwhatthey’d make of him. Sherbourne was his own worst enemy, the way he wascarryingon.

Atleasthe’dmanagedtokeepSpraggawayfromIsabel.“Youknowwecan’tcompel awife to talk, so stay away from her. If you put pressure on her, shecouldclamupforgood.Isthatwhatyouwant?”he’daskedthesergeant.“Youleavehertome.”

Christ, all thiswas toomuch.Aquiet life inaquiet town, that’swhathe’dsignedupfor.Andnowhewassupposedtomakesenseofallthis.Abastardofacase,thiswas.Arealbastard.Hisjobwastobefair,andthorough.AndtohanditovertoAlbanywhenthetimecame.Hethrewtheshellintothewater.Didn’tevenmakeasplash,drownedbytheroarofthewaves.

Sergeant Spragg, still sweating from the long journey from Albany, flicked apieceof fluff fromhis sleeve.Slowly,he turnedback to thepapers in frontofhim.“ThomasEdwardSherbourne.Dateofbirth,28September1893.”

Tomofferedno response to the statement.Thecicadas clicked shrilly fromtheforest,asthoughtheywerethesoundoftheheatitself.

“Quite the war hero, too.MilitaryCross and Bar. I’ve read your citations:capturedaGermanmachine-gunnestsingle-handed.Carriedfourofyourmen

tosafetyundersniperfire.Andtherest.”Spraggletamomentpass.“Youmusthavekilledalotofpeopleinyourtime.”

Tomremainedsilent.“Isaid”—Spraggleanedtowardhimoverthetable—“youmusthavekilleda

lotofpeopleinyourtime.”Tom’s breathing remained steady. He looked straight ahead, his face

expressionless.Spragg thumped the table. “When I ask you a question you’ll bloody well

answerit,understandme?”“Whenyouaskmeaquestion,Iwill,”saidTomquietly.“WhydidyoukillFrankRoennfeldt?That’saquestion.”“Ididn’tkillhim.”“WasitbecausehewasGerman?Stillhadtheaccent,byallaccounts.”“Hedidn’thaveanaccentwhenIcameacrosshim.Hewasdead.”“You’d killed plenty of his sort before. One more would have made no

difference,wouldit?”Tomletoutalongbreath,andfoldedhisarms.“That’saquestiontoo,Sherbourne.”“What’s all this about? I’ve told you I’m responsible for keepingLucy. I’ve

toldyouthemanwasdeadwhentheboatwashedup.Iburiedhim,andthat’smyresponsibilitytoo.Whatmoredoyouwant?”

“Oh,he’s so brave, sohonest, copping it sweet like that, prepared to go tojail,”Spraggmimickedinasingsong.“Wellitdoesn’twashwithme,mate,youunderstand?It’sabittoomuchlikeyou’retryingtogetawaywithmurder.”

Tom’s stillness riled him evenmore, and he went on, “I’ve seen your typebefore.AndI’vehadenoughofbloodywarheroes.Camebackhereandexpectedtobeworshippedfortherestofyourlives.Lookingdownonanyonewhodidn’thaveauniform.Wellthewar’slongover.Godknowswesawplentyofyougetbackandgorightofftherails.Thewayyousurvivedoverthereisn’tthewaytosurviveinacivilizedcountryandyouwon’tgetawaywithit.”

“Thishasgotbuggeralltodowiththewar.”“Someone’sgottotakeastandforcommondecency,andI’mtheonewho’s

goingtodoithere.”“Andwhataboutcommonsense,Sergeant?ForChrist’ssake,thinkaboutit!I

could have denied everything. I could have said that FrankRoennfeldtwasn’tevenintheboat,andyou’dhavebeennonethewiser.ItoldthetruthbecauseIwantedhiswifetoknowwhathadhappened,andbecausehedeservedadecent

burial.”“Ormaybeyoutoldhalfthetruthbecauseyouwantedtoeaseyourconscience

andgetletoffwithaslaponthewrist.”“I’maskingyouwhatmakessense.”The sergeant eyed him coldly. “Sevenmen, it says you killed in your little

machine-gunescapade.That looks tome like theworkofaviolentman.Ofaruthlesskiller.Yourheroicsmight justbethedeathofyou,”hesaid,gatheringup his notes. “It’s hard to be a hero when you’re swinging from a rope.”HeclosedthefileandcalledtoHarryGarstonetotaketheprisonerbacktothecells.

CHAPTER31

SincetheincidentatMouchemore’s,Hannahhardlysetsfootoutsidethehouse,andGracehas regressed,becomingmorewithdrawn,despitehermother’sbestefforts.

“Iwanttogohome.Iwantmymamma,”thegirlwhimpers.“Iamyourmummy,Grace,darling.Iknowitmustbeconfusingforyou.”She

putsa fingerunder the littlegirl’s chin. “I’ve lovedyousince thedayyouwereborn. I waited so long for you to come home. One day you’ll understand, Ipromise.”

“Iwantmydadda!”thechildrejoins,smackingthefingeraway.“Daddycan’tbewithus.Buthe lovedyouverymuch.Soverymuch.”And

she pictures Frank, his baby in his arms. The child looks at Hannah withbewilderment,sometimesanger,andeventuallyresignation.

Walking home from a visit to her dressmaker the following week,Gwen ranoverandoverthesituation.Sheworriedwhatwouldbecomeofherniece:itwasasinforachildtosufferthatmuch,surely.Shecouldn’tstandidlybyanylonger.

As shepassed the edgeof theparkwhere it fringed intobush,her eyewasdrawntoawomansittingonabench,staringintothedistance.Shenoticedfirsttheprettyshadeofhergreendress.ThensherealizeditwasIsabelSherbourne.Shehurriedpast,buttherewasnoriskofIsabelseeingher:shewasinatrance.Thefollowingday,andthenext,Gwensawherinthesameplace,inthesamedazedstate.

Who could say if the idea had already come to her before the to-do overGracetearingallthepagesoutofherstorybook?Hannahhadscoldedher,thenstoodintearsasshetriedtogatherupthepagesofthefirstbookFrankhadeverboughtforhisdaughter—Grimms’fairytalesinGerman,elaboratelyillustratedwithwatercolorplates.“WhathaveyoudonetoDaddy’sbook?Oh,darling,howcouldyou?”Thegirlrespondedbyscramblingunderherbedandcurlingintoaball,outofreach.

“There’s so little left that’sFrank…”Hannahsobbedagainas she lookedattheruinedpagesinherhands.

“I know,Hanny. I know.ButGrace doesn’t. Shedidn’t do it onpurpose.”She put a handonher shoulder. “Tell youwhat, you go andhave a lie-downwhileItakeherout.”

“Sheneedstogetusedtobeinginherownhome.”“We’lljustgotoDad’s.He’llloveit,andthefreshairwilldohergood.”“Really,no.Idon’twant—”“Comeon,Hanny.Youreallycoulddowitharest.”Hannahsighed.“Allright.Butjuststraightthereandback.”

Astheystarteddownthestreet,Gwenhandedhernieceatoffee.“You’dlikealolly,wouldn’tyou,Lucy?”

“Yes,”thechildreplied,thencockedherheadtoonesideasshenoticedthename.

“Nowyoubeagoodgirl,andwe’llgoandvisitGranddad.”Thegirl’s eyes flickeredat thementionof themanwith thebighorsesand

bigtrees.Shewanderedalong,suckingthetoffee.Shedidnotsmile,butneitherdidshescreamorhowl,Gwennoted.

Strictlyspeaking,therewasnoneedtopassthepark.TheycouldhavegottoSeptimus’s house more quickly by taking the route by the cemetery and theMethodistchapel.

“Areyoutired,Lucy?Whydon’twehaveabitofabreather?It’salongwayto Granddad’s, and you’re only a little mite…” The girl merely continued toopen and close her thumb and fingers like pincers, experimenting with thestickinessofthetoffeeresidue.Outofthecornerofhereye,GwensawIsabelonthebench.“Yourunaheadnow,that’sagoodgirl.YouruntothebenchandI’llfollow.” The child did not run, but ambled, dragging her rag doll along theground.Gwenkeptherdistanceandwatched.

Isabelblinked.“Lucy?Sweetheart!”sheexclaimed,andgatheredherintoherarmsbeforeitoccurredtohertoseehowshe’dgotthere.

“Mamma!”criedthechild,grippinghertightly.IsabelturnedandatadistancesawGwen,whogaveanod,asiftosay“Go

on.”Whateverthewomanwasdoingorwhy,Isabeldidnotcare.Sheweptasshe

huggedthegirlandthenheldheratarm’s length toseeherbetter.Somehow,

despiteeverything,perhapsLucycouldstillbehers.Awarmthspread throughherattheidea.

“Oh,you’vegot thin, littleone!You’re skinandbone.Youmustbeagoodgirl and eat. For Mamma.” Gradually she took in the other changes to herdaughter: hair partedon the other side; a dressmadeof finemuslin sprinkledwithdaisies;newshoeswithbutterfliesonthebuckles.

Relief swept over Gwen to see her niece’s response. She was watching acompletely different child, suddenly safe with the mother she loved. She leftthemtogetherforaslongasshedared,beforeapproaching.“I’dbettertakehernow.Iwasn’tsureyou’dbehere.”

“But—Idon’tunderstand…”“It’s all sodreadful.Sohardon everyone.”She shookherhead and sighed.

“My sister’s a good woman, really she is. She’s been through so much.” Shenodded in thechild’sdirection. “I’ll try tobringheragain. I can’tpromise.Bepatient.That’s all I’m saying.Bepatient andperhaps…”She left the sentencehanging. “But please, don’t tell anyone. Hannah wouldn’t understand. She’dneverforgiveme…Comeonnow,Lucy,”shesaid,andheldherarmsouttothegirl.

ThechildclungtoIsabel.“No,Mamma!Don’tgo!”“Come on, sweet thing. Be good forMamma,won’t you?You need to go

withthisladynow,butI’llseeyouagainsoon,Ipromise.”Stillthechildclung.“Ifyou’regoodnow,wecancomeagain.”Gwensmiled,

pullinghercarefullyaway.Someremnantof the rational stoppedIsabel fromactingon the impulse to

snatchthechildaway.No.Ifshecouldbepatient,thewomanhadpromisedtobringheragain.Whoknewwhatelsemightchangewithtime?

IttookGwenalongwhiletocalmherniece.Shecuddledher,andcarriedher,taking every opportunity to distract her with riddles and snatches of nurseryrhymes.Shewasn’tsureyethowshewouldmakeherplanwork,butshesimplycouldn’t bear to see the poor child kept fromhermother any longer.Hannahhadalwayshadastubbornstreak,andGwenfeareditwasblindinghernow.ShewonderedhowlikelyitwasthatshecouldkeepthemeetingfromHannah.Evenif she couldn’t, itwasworth trying.WhenGrace had finally quietened down,Gwenasked,“Doyouknowwhatasecretis,sweetheart?”

“Yes,”shemumbled.

“Good.Sowe’regoingtoplayagameaboutsecrets,OK?”Thelittlegirllookedupather,waitingtounderstand.“YouloveMammaIsabel,don’tyou?”“Yes.”“And Iknowyouwant to seeher again.ButHannahmightbe abit cross,

becauseshe’sverysad,sowemustn’ttellher,orGranddad,allright?”Thechild’sfacetightened.“Wehavetokeepthisaspecialsecret,andifanyoneaskswhatwedidtoday,

youjustsaywewenttoGranddad’s.Youmustn’ttellaboutseeingyourmamma.Understand,love?”

Thegirlkeptherlipspursedasshenoddedgravely,theconfusionshowinginhereyes.

“She’sanintelligentchild.SheknowsIsabelSherbourneisn’tdead—wesawheratMouchemore’s.”Hannah sat again inDr. Sumpton’s consulting room, thistimewithoutherdaughter.

“I’mtellingyou,asaprofessional,thattheonlycureforyourdaughteristime,andkeepingherawayfromMrs.Sherbourne.”

“Ijustwondered—well,IthoughtifIcouldgethertotalktome—aboutherotherlife.Outontheisland.Wouldithelp?”

He took a puff of his pipe. “Think of it like this—if I’d just taken yourappendixout, the lastthingtobedoingwouldbetoopenupthewoundeveryfiveminutesandprodaboutagaintoseeifithadhealed.Iknowit’shard,butit’sacaseofleastsaid,soonestmended.She’llgetoverit.”

Butsheshowednosignofgettingoverit,asfarasHannahcouldsee.Thechildbecameobsessedwithputtingher toys inorder andmakingherbedneat.Shesmacked the kitten for knocking over the dolls’ house, and kept her mouthsnappedshutlikeamiser’spurse,notwantingtoletslipanysignofaffectiontothisimpostermother.

Still,Hannahpersevered.Shetoldherstories:aboutforestsandthemenwhoworked in them;about school inPerthand the things she’ddone there; aboutFrank, and his life in Kalgoorlie. She would sing her little songs inGerman,even though the child paid no particular attention. She made clothes for herdollsandpuddingsforherdinner.Thelittlegirlrespondedbydrawingpictures.Always the samepictures.MammaandDaddaandLulu at the lighthouse, its

beamshiningrighttotheedgeofthepage,drivingawaythedarknessallaround.

From the kitchen,Hannah could seeGrace sitting on the lounge room floor,talkingtoherclothespegs.Thesedaysshewasmoreanxiousthanever,exceptwhen she was around Septimus, so her mother was glad to see her playingquietly.Shecamealittleclosertothedoor,tolisten.

“Lucy,eatatoffee,”saidapeg.“Yum,” said anotherpeg, as it gobbled the thinair the childdeliveredwith

herfingertips.“I’vegotaspecialsecret,”saidthefirstpeg.“ComewithAuntieGwen.When

Hannahisasleep.”Hannahwatchedintently,acoldsicknessspreadingthroughher.Fromthepocketofherpinafore,Gracetooka lemonandcovered itwitha

handkerchief. “Goodnight, Hannah,” said Auntie Gwen. “Now we visitingMammainthepark.”

“Pwoi,pwoi.”Twootherpegspressedagainstoneanotherwithkisses. “MydarlingLucy.Comeon,sweetheart.OffwegotoJanus.”Andthepegstrottedalongtherugforabit.

Thewhistlingofthekettlestartledthechild,andsheturnedandsawHannahinthedoorway.Shethrewthepegsdown,saying,“BadLucy!”andsmackedherownhand.

Hannah’shorroratthecharadeturnedtodespairatthislastadmonishment:thiswashowherdaughtersawher.Notasthemotherwholovedher,butasatyrant.Shetriedtostaycalmassheconsideredwhattodo.

Herhandsshookalittleasshemadesomecocoaandbroughtitin.“Thatwasanicegameyouwereplaying,darling,”shesaid,battlingthetremorinhervoice.

Thechildsatstill,neitherspeakingnordrinkingfromthebeakerinherhand.“Doyouknowanysecrets,Grace?”Thegirlnoddedslowly.“Ibetthey’relovelysecrets.”Again, the littlechinmovedupanddown,while theeyes triedtoworkout

whatrulestofollow.“Shallweplayagame?”Thechildslidhertoebackandforthinanarconthefloor.“Let’s play a game where I guess your secret. That way it’s still a secret,

becauseyouhaven’ttoldme.AndifIguessit,youcanhavea lollyasaprize.”

Thechild’sfacetensedasHannahsmiledawkwardly.“Iguess…thatyouwenttovisittheladyfromJanus.Isthatright?”

The child began to nod, and then stopped. “We saw the man in the bighouse.Hisfacewaspink.”

“Iwon’tbecrosswithyou,darling.It’snicetovisitsometimes, isn’t it?Didtheladygiveyouanicebighug?”

“Yes,”shesaidslowly,tryingtoworkoutasthewordcameoutwhetherthiswaspartofthesecretornot.

AsHannahtookthewashingoffthelinehalfanhourlater,herstomachwasstillchurning.Howcouldherownsisterhavedonesuchathing?Theexpressiononthe faces of the customers atMouchemore’s came back to her, and she had asense that they could see something she couldn’t—everyone, Gwen included,was laughingbehindherback.She left apetticoatdanglingbyonepegas sheheadedbackintothehouseandstormedintoGwen’sroom.

“Howcouldyou?”“Whatonearth’swrong?”askedGwen.“Asifyoudon’tknow!”“What,Hannah?”“Iknowwhatyoudid.IknowwhereyoutookGrace.”ItwasHannah’sturntobetakenabackastearssprangtohersister’seyesand

shesaid,“Thatpoorlittlegirl,Hannah.”“What?”“Thepoorthing!Yes,ItookhertoseeIsabelSherbourne.Inthepark.AndI

let them speak to each other. But I did it for her. The child doesn’t knowwhethershe’sArthurorMartha.Ididitforher,Hanny—forLucy.”

“Hername’sGrace!Hername’sGraceandshe’smydaughterandIjustwanthertobehappyand—”Hervoicelostitsforceasshesobbed,“ImissFrank.OhGod,Imissyou,Frank.”Shelookedathersister.“Andyoutakehertothewifeofthemanwhoburiedhiminaditch!Howcouldyoueventhinkofit?Gracehastoforgetaboutthem.Bothofthem.I’mhermother!”

Gwenhesitated,thenapproachedhersister,andhuggedhergently.“Hannah,youknowhowdearyouaretome.I’vetriedtodoeverythingIpossiblycantohelpyou—sincethatday.AndI’vetriedsohardsinceshecamehome.Butthat’sthetrouble.It’snotherhome,isit?Ican’tbeartowatchhersuffer.AndIcan’tbearhowmuchithurtsyou.”

Hannahtookabreathbetweenagulpandagasp.Gwen straightened her shoulders. “I think you should give her back. To

IsabelSherbourne.Ijustdon’tthinkthere’sanyotherway.Forthechild’ssake.Andforyours,Hannydear.Foryours.”

Hannahdrewback,hervoicesteely.“Shewillneverseethatwomanagain,aslongasIlive.Never!”

Neithersistersawthesmall facepeepingthroughthecrackinthedoor;thelittleearsthatheardeverythinginthatstrange,strangehouse.

VernonKnuckey satacross the table fromTom. “I thought I’d seenevery sorttherewas,untilyouturnedup.”Helookedatthepageinfrontofhimagain.“Aboatwashesupandyousaytoyourself,‘Thatlookslikeafinebaby.Icankeepit,andnoonewilleverknow.’”

“Isthataquestion?”“Areyoutryingtobedifficult?”“No.”“HowmanychildrenhadIsabellost?”“Three.Youknowthat.”“Butyouwere theonewhodecided tokeep thebaby.Not thewomanwho

had lost three?All your idea, because you thought people wouldn’t think youwerearealmanwithoutfatheringkids.HowbloodywetdoyouthinkIam?”

Tomsaidnothing,andKnuckeyleanedintowardhim,hisvoicesoftening.“Iknowwhatit’slike,tolosealittleone.AndIknowwhatitdidtomywife.Fairwentmadwithitforabit.”Hewaited,butgotnoreply.“They’llgoeasyonher,youknow.”

“Theywon’tbloodytouchher,”saidTom.Knuckeyshookhishead.“Committalhearing’llbenextweek,whentheBeak

comestotown.Fromthenon,you’reAlbany’sproblem,andSpragg’llwelcomeyouwith open arms andChrist knowswhat else.He’s taken against you, anddownthere,there’llbenothingIcandotostophim.”

Tommadenoresponse.“Anyoneyouwantmetotellaboutthehearing?”“No.Thanks.”Knuckey gave him a look.Hewas about to leave,whenTom said, “Can I

writetomywife?”“Of course you can’t bloody write to your wife. You can’t interfere with

potentialwitnesses.If this is thewayyou’regoingtoplay it,youplay itbytherules,mate.”

Tomsizedhimup. “Justabitofpaperandapencil.Youcanread it ifyouwant…She’smywife.”

“AndI’mthepolice,forGod’ssake.”“Don’ttellmeyouneverbentarule—neverturnedablindeyeforsomepoor

bastard…Apieceofpaperandapencil.”

Ralph delivered the letter to Isabel that afternoon. She took it from himreluctantly,handtrembling.

“I’ll leave you to get on with reading, then.”He reached out to touch herforearm.“Thatmanneedsyourhelp,Isabel,”hesaidgravely.

“Andsodoesmylittlegirl,”shesaid,withtearsinhereyes.Whenheleft,shetookthelettertoherbedroomandstaredatit.Sheraisedit

to her face to smell it, to find a trace of her husband, but therewas nothingdistinctiveaboutit—notraceoftheman.Shepickedupsomenailscissorsfromthedressingtableandbegantoslitthecorner,butsomethingfrozeherfingers.Lucy’s face swam before her, screaming, and she shuddered at the knowledgethatitwasTomwhohadcausedthat.Sheputthescissorsdown,andslippedtheletterintoadrawer,closingitslowlyandwithoutasound.

Thepillowcase iswetwith tears.A scytheofmoonhangs in thewindow, toofeebletolightevenitsownpaththroughthesky.Hannahwatchesit.Thereissomuchoftheworldshewishesshecouldsharewithherdaughter,butthechildandtheworldhavesomehowbeensnatchedaway.

Sunburn. At first, she is puzzled at the memory that has presented itself,unbidden,irrelevant.AnEnglishgoverness,unfamiliarwiththeveryconceptofsunburn,letaloneitstreatment,hadputherinabathofhotwater“totaketheheatout”of theburn shehadgot frombathing too long in thebaywhenherfather was away. “There’s no use complaining,” the woman had told the ten-year-old Hannah. “It’s doing you good, the pain.” Hannah had continued toscream until finally the cook had come to see who was beingmurdered, andhauledheroutofthesteamingwater.

“Haveyoueverheardsuchnonsenseinallyourlife!”thecookhaddeclared.“The last thing you do to a burn is burn it. You don’t need to be FlorenceflippingNightingaletoknowthatmuch!”

ButHannah had not been angry, she remembers. The governess had trulybelievedshewasdoingtherightthing.Sheonlywantedwhatwasbestforher.Shewasinflictingpainonlytohelpher.

Suddenlyfuriousattheweaklingmoon,shehurlsthepillowacrosstheroomandslamsherfistintothemattress,overandover.“IwantmyGraceback,”shemouths silently, through her tears. “This isn’tmyGrace!”Her baby had died,afterall.

Tomheardtherattleofthekeys.“Afternoon,”saidGeraldFitzgerald,guidedinbyHarryGarstone.“SorryI’m

late.TrainhitaherdofsheepjustoutsideBunbury.Slowedusupabit.”“Iwasn’tgoinganywhere.”Tomshrugged.The lawyer arranged his papers on the table. “Committal hearing’s in four

days.”Tomnodded.“Changedyourmindyet?”“No.”Fitzgeraldsighed.“Whatareyouwaitingfor?”Tomlookedathim,andthemanrepeated.“Whatareyoudamnwellwaiting

for?The bloody cavalry’s not coming over the hill,mate.No one’s coming tosaveyou,exceptme.AndI’monlyherebecauseCaptainAddicott’spaidmyfee.”

“Iaskedhimnottowastehismoney.”“Itdoesn’thavetobeawasteofmoney!Youcouldletmeearnit,youknow.”“How?”“Letmetellthetruth—giveyouthechancetowalkawayafreeman.”“Youthinkdestroyingmywifecouldmakemeafreeman?”“AllI’msayingis—halfofthesechargeswecanputupadecentdefenseto,

whatever you’ve done: at least put them to proof. If you plead not guilty, theCrown’sgottoproveeveryelementofeveryoffense.ThatbloodySpraggandhiskitchen-sink charges: let me have a go at him, if only for the sake of myprofessionalpride!”

“IfIpleadguiltytoeverything, they’ll leavemywifealone,you’vesaid.Youknowthelaw.AndIknowwhatIwanttodo.”

“Thinkingaboutitanddoingitaretwodifferentthings,you’llfind.Hellofaplace,Fremantlejail.Bastardofawaytospendtwentyyears.”

Tomlookedhimintheeye.“Youwanttoknowabastardofaplacetospend

time?YougotoPozieres,Bullecourt,Passchendaele.Yougothere,thentellmehowawfulaplace iswhere theygiveyouabedand foodanda roofoveryourhead.”

Fitzgeraldlookeddownathispapersandmadeanote.“Ifyoutellmetoentera guilty plea, that’s what I’ll do. And you’ll go down for the whole kit andcaboodle.Butyouneedyourbloodyheadread,as farasI’mconcerned…Andyou’d better pray to the Good Lord bloody Jesus that Spragg doesn’t up thechargesonceyougettoAlbany.”

CHAPTER32

What thedevil’s thematter?”demandedVernonKnuckey, asHarryGarstoneclosedthedoorbehindhimandstooddumblyinthesergeant’soffice.

Garstoneshuffledhisfeetandclearedhisthroat,jerkinghisheadbacktowardthefrontofthepolicestation.

“Gettothepoint,Constable.”“There’savisitor.”“Forme?”“Notforyou,sir.”Knuckeyshothimawarninglook.“It’sforSherbourne,sir.”“Well?Youknowwhattodo,forPete’ssake.Write’emdownandsend’em

in.”“It’s—HannahRoennfeldt,sir.”Thesergeantsatup.“Oh.”Heclosedafileonhisdeskandrubbedhischin.

“IsupposeI’dbetterhaveaword.”

Knuckey stood near the counter in the front of the station. “It’s not usualproceduretoletthevictim’sfamilymembersseetheaccused,Mrs.Roennfeldt.”

Hannahheldthesergeantwithasilent,steadygaze,forcinghimintospeechagain.

“Itreallywouldbeoutoftheordinary,I’mafraid.Allduerespect…”“Butnotagainsttherules?Againstthelaw?”“Look, ma’am. It’s going to be hard enough for you when it all comes to

Court.Takeitfromme:it’sadistressingthing,atriallikethis.Youreallydon’twanttobestirringthingsupforyourselfbeforeitevenstarts.”

“Iwant to seehim. Iwant to lookhim in the eye, themanwhokilledmychild.”

“Killedyourchild?Steadyonnow.”“ThebabyI lost isnevercomingback,Sergeant,never.Gracewillneverbe

thesame.”“Look,I’mnotsurewhatyoumean,Mrs.Roennfeldt,butinanycaseI—”“I’mentitledtothatmuch,don’tyouthink?”Knuckey sighed. The woman was a pitiful sight. She’d been haunting the

townforyearsnow.Maybethiswouldletherlayherghoststorest.“Ifyouwaithere…”

Tomhadrisentohisfeet,stillpuzzledbythenews.“HannahRoennfeldtwantstotalktome?Whatfor?”

“You’renotobliged,ofcourse.Icansendheraway.”“No…,”Tomsaid.“I’llseeher.Thankyou.”“Uptoyou.”A few moments later, Hannah entered, followed by Constable Garstone

bearingasmallwoodenchair.Heplaceditafewfeetfromthebars.“I’ll leave the door open,Mrs.Roennfeldt, andwait outside.Or I can stay

hereifyou’dprefer?”“There’snoneed.Iwon’tbelong.”Garstonegaveoneofhispoutsandjangledhiskeys.“Right.I’llleaveyouto

it,ma’am,”hesaid,andmarchedbackdownthecorridor.Hannahstaredinsilence,takingineveryinchofTom:thesmallhook-shaped

shrapnel scar just below his left ear; the unattached earlobes, the fingers thatwerelongandfinedespitetheircalluses.

He submitted toher inspectionwithout flinching, likequarryoffering itselfuptoahunteratcloserange.Allthewhile,scenesflashedthroughhismind—the boat, the body, the rattle, each fresh and vivid. Then other memories—writingthefirstletterlateatnightintheGraysmarks’kitchen,thechurninginhisgutashechosethewords;thesmoothnessofLucy’sskin,hergiggle,thewayher hair floated like seaweed as he heldher in thewater at ShipwreckBeach.Themomenthediscoveredhehadknownthemotherofthechildallalong.Hecouldfeelthesweatonhisback.

“Thankyouforlettingmeseeyou,Mr.Sherbourne…”IfHannahhadswornathimorhurledherchairatthebars,Tomwouldhave

beenlessshockedthanatthiscivility.“Irealizeyoudidn’thaveto.”Hegavejustaslightnod.“Strange,isn’tit?”shewenton.“Untilafewweeksago,ifI’dthoughtofyou

at all, itwould have beenwith gratitude.But it turns out youwere the one Ishouldhavebeenafraidofthatnight,notthedrunk.‘Beingovertherechangesaman,’ you said. ‘Can’t tell the difference between right and wrong.’ I finallyunderstandwhatyoumeant.”

Inasteadyvoicesheasked,“Ineedtoknow:wasthisreallyallyourdoing?”Tomnodded,slowlyandgravely.PainflittedacrossHannah’sface,asifshehadbeenslapped.“Areyousorry

forwhatyoudid?”Thequestionstabbedhim,andhefocusedonaknotinthefloorboard.“I’m

sorrierthanIcansay.”“Didn’tyoueventhinkforamomentthatthechildmighthavehadamother?

Didn’t itoccur toyou that shemightbe lovedandmissed?”She lookedaboutthecell,thenbacktoTom.“Why?IfIcouldunderstandwhyyoudidit…”

Hisjawwasrigid.“Ireallycan’tsaywhyIdidwhatIdid.”“Try.Please?”Shedeserved the truth.But therewas nothinghe could say toherwithout

betrayingIsabel.Hehaddonewhatmattered—Lucyhadbeenreturned,andhewastakingtheconsequences.Therestwasjustwords.“Really.Ican’ttellyou.”

“ThatpolicemanfromAlbanythinksyoukilledmyhusband.Didyou?”Helookedherstraightintheeye.“Isweartoyou,hewasalreadydeadwhenI

foundhim…IknowIshouldhavedonethingsdifferently.I’mtrulysorryhowmuchharmthedecisionsI’vemadesincethatdayhavedone.Butyourhusbandwasalreadydead.”

Shetookadeepbreath,abouttoleave.“Dowhatyouliketome.I’mnotaskingforforgiveness,”Tomsaid,“…but

mywife—hadnochoice.Shelovesthatlittlegirl.Shecaredforherlikeshewastheonlythingintheworld.Showhersomemercy.”

ThebitternessinHannah’sfacefadedtowearysadness.“Frankwasalovelyman,”shesaid,andwalkedslowlybackdownthecorridor.

In thedim light,Tom listened to the cicadas that seemed to tick the secondsaway,thousandsatatime.Hebecameawareofopeningandclosinghishands,as though they might take him somewhere his feet could not. He looked atthem,andforamoment,consideredall theyhaddone.Thiscollectionofcellsandmusclesandthoughtswashislife—andyetsurelytherewasmoretoit.Hecamebacktothepresent,tothehotwallsandthethickair.Thelastrungoftheladderthatmightleadhimoutofhellhadbeentakenaway.

Forhoursata time,IsabelputTomfromhermind:asshehelpedhermotheraroundthehouse;asshelookedatthepaintingsViolethadkept,donebyLucyduringherbriefvisitsback;as she feltevermoredeeply thegriefof losingherchild.ThenthoughtsofTomwouldcreepbackandshepicturedtheletterRalphhaddelivered,banishedtothedrawer.

GwenhadpromisedtobringLucytoseeheragain,butshehadn’tappearedattheparkinthedaysafterward,eventhoughIsabelhadwaitedforhours.Butshemust stay firm, while there was themerest sliver of a hope of seeing herdaughter again. She must hate Tom, for Lucy’s sake. And yet. She took theletterout,observedthetearinthecornerwhereshehadbeguntoopenit.Sheputitback,andhurriedouttothepark,towait,justincase.

“Tellmewhatyouwantmetodo,Tom.YouknowIwanttohelpyou.Please,justtellmewhattodo.”Bluey’svoicewastightandhiseyesglistened.

“Nothing more needs doing, Blue.” Tom’s cell was hot, and smelled ofcarbolicfromthemoppinganhourearlier.

“IwishtoChristI’dneverseenthatbloodyrattle.Shouldhavekeptmetrapshut.”Hegrippedthebars.“ThatsergeantfromAlbanycametoseeme,askingall sorts of questions about you—whether you were handy with your fists,whether you were a drinker. He’s been to see Ralph, too. People are talkingabout—they’re talking about murder, for Pete’s sake, Tom. Down the pubthey’retalkingabouthanging!”

Tomlookedhimintheeye.“Doyoubelievethem?”“OfcourseIdon’tbelievethem.ButIbelievethatsortoftalktakesonalife

ofitsown.AndIbelievethataninnocentblokecanbeaccusedofsomethingheneverdid.It’snousesayingsorrywhenhe’sdead.”Bluey’sexpressioncontinuedtoimploreTomsilently.

“Therearethingsthatarehardtoexplain,”Tomsaid.“TherearereasonswhyIdidwhatIdid.”

“Butwhatdidyoudo?”“Ididsomethingsthathaveruinedpeople’slives,andnowit’stimetopay.”“They’resayinghowOldManPottsreckonsthatifabloke’swifewon’tstick

upforhim,thenhemusthavedonesomethingprettycrook.”“Thanks,mate.You’rearealcomfort.”“Don’tgodownwithoutafight,Tom.Promiseme!”“I’llberight,Blue.”

But as Bluey’s footsteps echoed away, Tom wondered how true that was.Isabelhadnotrespondedtohisletter,andhehadtofacethefactthatitcouldbefortheveryworstofreasons.Still,hehadtoholdontowhatheknewofher,ofwhoheknewhertobe.

On the outskirts of the town are the old timber workers’ cottages, meagerclapboardconstructionsrangingfromthederelicttotherespectable.They’reseton smaller blocks of land, near the pumping station that brings the town itswater.Oneofthem,Isabelknows,iswhereHannahRoennfeldtlives,andwherehertreasuredLucyhasbeentaken.IsabelhaswaitedinvainforGwentoappear.Indesperation, shenowseeksLucyout. Just to seewhereshe is. Just toknowsheiscoping.It’smiddayandthereisn’tasoulinthebroadstreet,braidedwithjacarandas.

Oneofthehousesisparticularlywellkept.Itswoodisnewlypainted,itsgrasscut, and,unlike theothers, it’s boundedby a tallhedge,more effective than afenceinkeepingpryingeyesaway.

Isabel goes to the laneway at the back of the houses, and frombehind thehedge,hears the rhythmic squeakof iron.Shepeers througha tinygap in thefoliage,andherbreathcomesfasterassheseesherlittlegirl,ridingatricycleupanddownthepathway.Allalone,shehasnoexpressionofhappinessorsadness,justfierceconcentrationasshepedals.Sheissoclose:Isabelcouldalmosttouchher,holdher,comforther.Suddenly,it’sabsurdthatshecan’tbewiththechild—asifthewholetownhasgonemad,andsheistheonlysaneoneleft.

She considers things. The train comes once a day from Perth down toAlbany,andonceadayfromAlbanytoPerth.Ifshewaiteduntilthelastminutetogeton,mighttherebeachancethatnoonewouldnoticeher?Thatthechild’sabsence mightn’t be discovered? In Perth, it would be easier to melt intoanonymity.Then she could get toSydney by the boat.England, even.Anewlife.The fact that she has not a shilling to her name—has never held a bankaccount—doesn’tseemtostopher.Shewatchesherdaughter,andweighsuphernextaction.

Harry Garstone hammered on the Graysmarks’ door. Bill answered, afterpeeringthroughtheglasstoseewhoitcouldbeatthishour.

“Mr.Graysmark,”theconstablesaid,andgaveaperemptorynod.“Evening,Harry.Whatbringsyouhere?”

“Officialbusiness.”“Isee,”saidBill,bracedformoregrimnews.“I’mlookingfortheRoennfeldtgirl.”“Hannah?”“No,herdaughter.Grace.”IttookBillamomenttorealizehemeantLucy,andhegavethepolicemana

questioninglook.“Haveyougotherhere?”Garstoneasked.“OfcourseIhaven’tgother.Whyonearth…?”“Well,she’snotwithHannahRoennfeldt.She’sgonemissing.”“Hannahlosther?”“Orshewastaken.Isyourdaughterathome?”“Yes.”“Sure?”heasked,justfaintlydisappointed.“OfcourseI’msure.”“Beenhereallday,hasshe?”“Notallday,no.Whatareyouonabout?Where’sLucy?”BynowVioletwasstandingbehindBill.“Whatever’sthematter?”“I need to see your daughter,Mrs.Graysmark,” saidGarstone. “Could you

gether,please?”Reluctantly,VioletwenttoIsabel’sroom,butitwasempty.Shehurriedout

totheback,whereshefoundhersittingontheswingingseat,staringintospace.“Isabel!It’sHarryGarstone!”“Whatdoeshewant?”“I thinkyou’dbetter comeand seehim,”Violet said, and something inher

tonemadeIsabelfollowhermotherthroughthehousetothefrontdoor.“Evening, Mrs. Sherbourne. I’m here about Grace Roennfeldt,” Garstone

began.“Whatabouther?”askedIsabel.“Whendidyoulastseeher?”“Shehasn’tbeennearhersinceshecameback,”hermotherprotested,before

correcting herself. “Well, she did… come across her, by accident, atMouchemore’s,butthat’stheonlytime—”

“Thatright,Mrs.Sherbourne?”Isabel didn’t speak, so her father said, “Of course it’s right.What do you

thinkshe—”“No,Dad.Actually,Ididseeher.”

Bothparentsturned,mouthsopeninconfusion.“At the park, three days ago. Gwen Potts brought her to see me.” Isabel

consideredwhethertosaymore.“Ididn’tgolookingforher—Gwenbroughthertome,Iswear.Where’sLucy?”

“Gone.Disappeared.”“When?”“I thought you might be able to tell me that,” said the policeman. “Mr.

Graysmark,doyoumindifIhavealookaround?Justtobesure.”Billwasabouttoprotest,butthenewinformationfromIsabelworriedhim.

“There’snothingtohideinthishouse.Lookwhereyoulike.”Thepoliceman,whostillrememberedgettingthecanefromBillGraysmark

for cheating on amaths test,made a showof openingwardrobes and peeringunder beds, though he did so with a trace of nerves, as though it wasn’timpossible that theheadmastermight stillgivehimsixof thebest.Finally,hereturnedtothehallway.“Thankyou.Ifyouseeher,makesureyouletusknow.”

“Let you know!” Isabel was outraged. “Haven’t you started a search?Whyaren’tyououtlookingforher?”

“That’snotyourconcern,Mrs.Sherbourne.”AssoonasGarstonehadgone,Isabelturnedtoherfather.“Dad,we’vegotto

findher!Whereonearthcouldshebe?I’vegottogoand—”“Hold your horses, Izz. Letme see if I can get some sense out ofVernon

Knuckey.I’lltelephonethestation,andseewhat’sgoingon.”

CHAPTER33

Fromherearliestdays,thechildfromJanusRockhasexperiencedtheextremesofhumanlifeasthenorm.Whoknowswhatvisceralmemoriesofherfirsttriptotheisland,andthescenethatcausedit, linger inherbody?Evenifthathasbeenerasedcompletely,herdaysatthelighthouse,inaworldinhabitedbyonlythreepeople, have seeped intoher very being.Her bondwith the couplewhoraisedher is fierce andbeyondquestioning.She cannotname the sensationoflosingthemasgrief.Shehasnowordforlongingordespair.

But sheaches forMammaandDadda,pines for themand spendsherdaysthinking of them, even now she has been onshore formanyweeks. Shemusthave done something very naughty tomakeMamma cry somuch.As for thewomanwiththedarkhairandthedarkeyeswhosayssheisherrealmother…lyingiswrong.Sowhydoesthissadladyinsistontellingsuchabiglie,andtoeveryone?Whydothegrown-upslether?

She knows Mamma is here in Partageuse. She knows the bad men tookDadda away, but doesn’t knowwhere. She has heard theword “police”manytimes,buthasonlythevaguestnotionofwhattheyare.Shehasoverheardmanyconversations.People in the street,muttering, “What a to-do,what adreadfulsituation.”HannahsayingshewillneverseeMammaagain.

Janus is enormous, yet she knows every inch of it: Shipwreck Beach,Treacherous Cove, Windy Ridge. To get home, she need only look for thelighthouse,Daddaalwayssays.Sheknows,forshehashearditsaidmanytimes,thatPartageuseisaverysmallplace.

WhileHannahisinthekitchen,andGwenisout,thelittlegirlgoestoherroom.She looksabouther.Carefully, shebucklesonher sandals. Ina satchel,sheputs adrawingof the lighthousewithMammaandDadda andLulu.Sheaddstheappletheladygaveherthismorning;thepegssheusesasdolls.

Shecloses thebackdoorquietly, and searches thehedgeat thebackof thegarden,untilshefindsanarrowgap justwideenoughtoslipthrough.ShehasseenMammaat thepark.Shewill go there.Shewill findher.Theywill find

Dadda.Theywillgohome.

Itislateintheafternoonwhensheembarksonhermission.Thesunisslantingin fromthe sideof the sky, and the shadowsof the trees arealready stretchedlikerubbertoimprobablelengths.

Having scrambled through the hedge, the girl drags her satchel along thegroundasshemakesherwaythroughlowscrubbehindthehouse.ThesoundsherearesodifferentfromJanus.Somanybirds,callingtooneanother.Asshewanders, the scrub becomesmore dense, and the vegetation greener. She isn’tfrightened of the skinks she sees skittering now, black and quick and scaly,through the undergrowth. Skinks won’t hurt her, she knows well. But shedoesn’t know that, unlike Janus, here not everything black and slithering is askink.Shehasneverhadtomakethevitaldistinctionbetweenthe lizards thathavelegs,andthosethatdon’t.Shehasneverseenasnake.

Bythe timethe littlegirl reaches thepark, the light is fading.Sheruns to thebench,butfindsnotraceofhermother.Haulinghersatchelupafterher,shesitsthere, taking in the empty surroundings. From the satchel she pulls out theapple,bruisedfromthejourney,andtakesabite.

Atthishour,thekitchensofPartageusearebusyplaces,filledwithtestymothersandhungrychildren.Thereismuchwashingofhandsandfaces,grubbyfromaday’s skirmishing in trees or walking back from the beach. Fathers allowthemselvesabeer fromtheCoolgardie safe,mothersoversee saucepansboilingpotatoesandovensincubatingstews.Familiesgather,safeandwhole,attheendof another day. And darkness seeps into the sky second by second, until theshadows no longer fall but rise from the ground and fill the air completely.Humanswithdrawtotheirhomes,andsurrenderthenighttothecreaturesthatown it: the crickets, the owls, the snakes. A world that hasn’t changed forhundredsof thousandsofyearswakesup,andcarriesonas if thedaylightandthe humans and the changes to the landscape have been an illusion. No onewalksthestreets.

BythetimeSergeantKnuckeyhasarrivedatthepark,thereisonlyasatchelonthe park bench, and an apple core with small teeth marks, though ants have

overruntheremainsnow.Asthenightfalls,lightsbegintotwinkleinthegloom.Dotsinthedarkness,

sometimes from a gas lamp in a window; sometimes electric lights, from thenewer houses. The main street of Partageuse has electric street lights strungalong its lengthoneither side.The stars, too, illuminate theclear air, and theMilkyWayrubsabrightsmudgeacrossthedarkness.

Some of the bright dots among the trees sway like fiery fruit: people withlanterns are searching thebush.Not justpolice, butmen fromPotts’sTimberMill,men fromHarbor andLights.Hannahwaits anxiously athome, as she’sbeeninstructed.TheGraysmarkswalkthebushpaths,callingthechild’sname.Both“Lucy”and“Grace”filltheair,thoughonlyonechildislost.

Clutchingher drawing, ofMammaandDadda and the light, the child recallsthe story of theWiseMen finding theirway toBaby Jesus by a star. Shehasspotted the light of Janus, out to sea: it’s not far at all—the light never is.Thoughthere’ssomethingnotquiteright.Theflashhasaredbeambetweenthewhiteones.Stillshefollowsit.

Down toward the water she heads, where the swell has picked up for thenight and thewaveshave taken the shorehostage.At the lighthouse, shewillfind Mamma and Dadda. She makes her way down toward the long, thinisthmus—the “Point” of Point Partageuse, where years before, Isabel taughtTomto liedownwhen looking into theblowhole, toavoidbeing sweptaway.Everysteptakesthelittlegirlclosertothelight,outintheocean.

Butit’snotJanus’sbeamshe’sfollowing.Eachlighthasadifferentcharacter,and the flash of red that punctuates the white in this one tells mariners thatthey’renearingtheshoalsatthemouthofPartageuseHarbor,nearlyahundredmilesawayfromJanusRock.

Thewindpicksup.Thewaterchurns.Thechildwalks.Thedarknessabides.

Fromhiscell,Tomheardvoicescarriedontheairoutside.“Lucy?Lucy,areyouthere?”Then“Grace?Whereareyou,Grace?”

Aloneinthecells,Tomcalledouttowardthefrontofthestation,“SergeantKnuckey?Sergeant?”

There was a rattling of keys, and Constable Lynch appeared. “Wantsomething?”

“What’sgoingon?Therearepeopleoutside,callingLucy.”

Bob Lynch thought about his response. The bloke deserved to know.Nothinghecoulddoaboutitanyway.“She’sgonemissing,thelittlegirl.”

“When?How?”“Afewhoursago.Ranoff,bythelooks.”“ChristAlmighty!Howthebloodyhelldidthathappen?”“Noidea.”“Wellwhataretheydoingaboutit?”“They’relooking.”“Letmehelp.Ican’tjustsithere.”TheexpressiononLynch’sfacewasreply

enough.“Ohforcryingoutloud!”saidTom.“WhereamIlikelytogetto?”“I’llletyouknowifIhearanything,mate.BestIcando.”Andwithanother

metallicclang,hewasgone.Inthedarkness,Tom’sthoughtsturnedtoLucy,alwayscurioustoexploreher

surroundings.Neverafraidofthedark.Perhapsheshouldhavetaughthertobefearful.HehadfailedtoprepareherforlifebeyondJanus.Thenanotherthoughtcametohim.WherewasIsabel?Whatwasshecapableofinhercurrentstate?Heprayedshehadn’ttakenthingsintoherownhands.

ThankChristitwasn’twinter.VernonKnuckeycouldfeelthecoolnesssettinginas midnight approached. The kid was wearing a cotton dress and a pair ofsandals.AtleastinJanuaryshehadachanceofmakingitthroughthenight.InAugustshe’dhavebeenbluewithcoldbynow.

Nopointinsearchingatthishour.Sun’dbeupnotlongafterfive.Bettertohavepeoplefreshandalertwhenthelightwasontheirside.“Spreadtheword,”he said as he met Garstone at the end of the road. “We’re calling it off fortonight.Geteveryonetothestationatfirstlight,andwe’llstartagain.”

Itwasonea.m.,butheneededtoclearhishead.Hesetoffonthe familiarrouteofhis eveningwalk, still carryinghis lantern,which took a swing at thedarkwitheachofhissteps.

Inthelittlecottage,Hannahprayed.“Keephersafe,Lord.Protectherandsaveher.You’ve savedherbefore…”Hannahworried—perhapsGracehadusedupher share ofmiracles?Then she soothedherself. It didn’t take amiracle for achildtosurviveasinglenighthere.Shejustneededtoavoidbadluck.Thatwasadifferent thing altogether. But that thought was pushed aside by the morepanicked,more urgent fear. Exhausted, a thought came to herwith a twisted

clarity.PerhapsGoddidn’twantGracetobewithher.Perhapsshewastoblameforeverything.Shewaited,andprayed.AndshemadeasolemnpactwithGod.

There’sakickingatthedoorofHannah’shouse.Thoughthelightsareoff,she’sstillwideawake,andspringsuptoopenit.BeforeherstandsSergeantKnuckey,withGrace’sbodyinhisarms,herlimbsfloppy.

“OhdearLord!”Hannah lunges forher.Hereyesare fixedonthegirl,nottheman,soshedoesn’tseethathe’ssmiling.

“AlmosttrippedoverherdownonthePoint.Fastasleep,”hesays.“She’sgotnine lives, thisone,that’s forsure.”Andthoughhe’sgrinning,there’satear inhiseye,asherecallstheweightofthesonhecouldn’tsave,decadesbefore.

Hannahbarelyregistershiswordsasshehugsherdaughter,whosleepsoninherarms.

Thatnight,HannahlaidGracebesideherinherbed,listeningtoeverybreath,watchingevery turnof theheadorkickof a foot.But the reliefof feelingherdaughter’swarmbodywasovershadowedbyadarkerknowing.

Thefirstsoundofrain,likegravelscatteredonthetinroof,carriedHannahback to her wedding day: to a time of leaking ceilings and buckets in theirhumblecottage,andloveandhope.Aboveall,hope.Frank,withhissmile,andhischeerfulnessnomatterwhatthedaybrought.ShewantedGracetohavethat.Shewantedherdaughtertobeahappylittlegirl,andsheprayedtoGodforthecourageandstrengthtodothethingsneededtoallowit.

When the thunder woke the child, she looked sleepily at Hannah, andsnuggledinclosertoher,beforereturningtoherdreams,leavinghermothertoweepsilently,rememberinghervow.

TheblackhousespiderhasreturnedtoitswebinthecornerofTom’scell,andisgoingoverandoverthehiggledy-piggledythreads,settingtheshapeinordertoadesignwhichonlyitcanknow—whythesilkmustbeinthisparticularplace,atthisparticulartensionorangle.Itcomesoutatnighttorepairitsweb,afunnelof fibers that accumulate dust and form haphazard patterns. It is weaving itsarbitraryworld,alwaystryingtomend,neverabandoningitswebunlessforced.

Lucy is safe. The relief fills Tom’s body. But there is still no word fromIsabel.Nosignthatshehasforgivenhim,orthatsheeverwill.Thehelplessness

hefeltatbeingunabletodoanythingforLucynowstrengthenshisresolvetodowhathecanforhiswife.Itistheonefreedomlefttohim.

Ifheisgoingtohavetolivehislifewithouther,somehowitmakesiteasierto letgo, to let things take their course.Hismindwanders intomemory.Thewoomphof theoilvapor ignitingintobrillianceatthetouchofhismatch.Therainbows thrown by the prisms. The oceans spreading themselves before himaboutJanuslikeasecretgift.IfTomistotakehisleaveoftheworld,hewantstoremember the beauty of it, not just the suffering. The breaths of Lucy, whotrustedtwostrangers,bondingwiththeirheartslikeamolecule.AndIsabel,theoldIsabel,wholitthewayforhimbackintolife,afteralltheyearsofdeath.

Alightrainwafts thesteamof forest scents intohiscell: theearth, thewetwood,thepungentsmellofbanksiaswiththeirflowerslikebig,featheryacorns.It occurs to him that there are different versions of himself to farewell—theabandoned eight-year-old; the delusional soldier who hovered somewhere inhell; the lightkeeper who dared to leave his heart undefended. Like Russiandolls,theselivessitwithinhim.

The forest sings to him: the rain tapping on the leaves, dripping into thepuddles, the kookaburras laughing like madmen at some joke beyond humancomprehension.He has the sensation of being part of a connected whole, ofbeing enough. Another day or another decade will not change this. He isembracedbynature,whichiswaiting,ultimately,toreceivehim,tore-organizehisatomsintoanothershape.

The rain is falling more heavily, and in the distance, thunder grumbles atbeingleftbehindbythelightning.

CHAPTER34

TheAddicotts lived inahousewhich,but fora fewyardsof seagrass,wouldhavebeenpaddlingitstoesintheocean.ThetimberandbrickwerekeptingoodorderbyRalph,andHildacoaxedasmallgardenfromthesandysoilattheback:zinniasanddahliasasgarishasdancinggirlsborderedatrailtoalittleaviaryinwhichfincheschirpedgaily,tothepuzzlementofthenativebirds.

Thesmellofmarmaladedrifted through thewindowsandmetRalphashetrudgedupthefrontpaththedayafterLucyhadbeenfound.Ashetookhiscapoffinthehallway,Hildarushedtointercepthim,thewoodenspooninherhandglisteninglikeanorangelollipop.Sheputafingertoherlipsandledhimtothekitchen. “In the lounge room!” she whispered, eyes wide. “Isabel Sherbourne!She’sbeenwaitingforyou.”

Ralphshookhishead.“World’sgonebloodyhaywire.”“Whatdoesshewant?”“That’sthetrouble,Ireckon.Shecan’tmakeuphermindwhatshewants.”

Thesmall,tidyloungeroomoftheseacaptainwasdecoratednotwithshipsinbottlesorscalemodelsofmen-o’-war,but icons.TheArchangelsMichaelandRaphael, theMadonna and child, and numerous saints, stared at any visitorswithsterncalmfromtheirplaceineternity.

TheglassofwaterbesideIsabelwasalmostempty.Hereyeswerefixedonanangel, his sword and shield in hand, poised over a serpent at his feet.Heavyclouds dimmed the room, so that the paintings seemed faint pools of gold,hoveringindarkness.

She didn’t notice Ralph come in, and he watched her for a while beforesaying,“ThatwasthefirstoneIgot.IfishedaRussiansailoroutofthedrink,nearSevastopol, forty-oddyearsago.Gaveit tomeasathank-you.”Hespokeslowly, pausing now and then. “I picked up the others along the way in mymerchantmarinedays.”Hegaveachuckle.“I’mhardlytheHolyJoesort,andIcouldn’ttellyouthefirstthingaboutpainting.Butthere’ssomethingaboutthis

lotthatmakesthemtalkbacktoyou.HildasaystheykeephercompanywhenI’maway.”

Heput his hands in his pockets andnodded toward the picture Isabelwaslooking at. “I’ve bent that fella’s ear in my time, I can tell you. ArchangelMichael. There he is with his sword in his hand, but he’s got his shield halfraised,too.Likehe’sstillmakinguphismindaboutsomething.”

The room fell silent, and the wind seemed to rattle the windows moreurgently, demanding Isabel’s attention.All the way to the horizon, the wavesthrashed in chaos, and the sky began to smudge with another approachingshower.HermindwasthrustbacktoJanus—backtothevastemptiness,backtoTom.Shestartedtocry,ingreatsobslikewaves,washingherbackontofamiliarshoreatlast.

Ralph sat down beside her, and held her hand. She wept and he sat, andnothingatallwassaidforagoodhalfhour.

Finally, Isabel ventured, “Lucy ran away last night because ofme, Ralph—tryingto findme.Shecouldhavedied.Oh,Ralph, it’sall suchamess.Ican’ttalktoMumandDadaboutit…”

Still the old man stayed silent, holding Isabel’s hand, looking at thefingernails,bittentothequick.Henoddedhisheadslowly,justatouch.“She’salive.Andshe’ssafe.”

“Ionlyeverwantedhertobesafe,Ralph.FromthemomentshearrivedonJanus,Iwantedtodowhatwasbest.Sheneededus.Andweneededher.”Shepaused. “I needed her. When she just appeared—out of nowhere—it was amiracle,Ralph.Iwassureshewasmeanttobewithus.Itwassocrystalclear.Alittlebabyhadlostherparents,we’dlostalittlebaby…

“Ilovehersomuch.”Sheblewhernose.“Outthere…Ralph,you’reoneoftheonlypeopleintheworldwhoknowswhatit’slikeonJanus.Oneoftheonlypeoplewhocanimagine.Butevenyou’veneverwavedtheboatoff:stoodonthatjettyandheardthesoundoftheenginedieaway,watchedtheboatgetsmallerandsmaller.Youdon’tknowwhatit’sliketosaygoodbyetotheworldforyearsatatime.Januswasreal.Lucywasreal.Everythingelsewasjustmake-believe.

“By the timewe found out aboutHannahRoennfeldt—oh, it was too latethen,Ralph. I just didn’thave it inme togiveLucyup: I couldn’t do that toher.”

Theoldman sat,breathing slowlyanddeeply,noddingnowandagain.Heresistedanyurgetoquestionorcontradicther.Keepingsilentwasthebestwaytohelpher;tohelpeveryone.

“Weweresuchahappyfamily.Then,whenthepolicecametotheisland—when IheardwhatTomhaddone—nothing felt safe.Nowherewas safe.Noteveninsidemyselfwassafe.Iwassohurt,andsoangry.Andterrified.Nothingmadesense,fromthemomentthepolicemantoldmeabouttherattle.”

Shelookedathim.“WhathaveIdone?”Thequestionwasn’trhetorical.Shewassearchingforamirror,somethingtoshowherwhatshecouldnotsee.

“Can’tsaythatconcernsmeasmuchaswhatyou’regoingtodonow.”“There’snothingIcando.Everything’sruined.There’snopointinanything

anymore.”“Thatmanlovesyou,youknow.That’sgottobeworthsomething.”“ButwhataboutLucy?She’smydaughter,Ralph.”Shesearchedforawayto

explain.“CanyouimagineaskingHildatogiveawayoneofherchildren?”“Thisisn’tgivingaway.Thisisgivingback,Isabel.”“Butwasn’tLucygiventous?Isn’tthatwhatGodwasaskingofus?”“MaybeHewasaskingyoutolookafterher.Andyoudid.Andmaybenow

He’saskingyoutoletsomeoneelsedothat.”Hepuffedoutabreath.“Hell,I’mnot a priest.What do I know aboutGod?But I do know that there’s amanabout to give up everything—everything—to protect you.Do you think that’sright?”

“But you sawwhat happened yesterday. You know how desperate Lucy is.She needsme,Ralph.How could I explain it to her?You can’t expect her tounderstand,notatherage.”

“Sometimeslifeturnsouthard,Isabel.Sometimesit justbitesrightthroughyou.Andsometimes,justwhenyouthinkit’sdoneitsworst,itcomesbackandtakesanotherchunk.”

“Ithoughtithaddoneallitcouldtome,yearsago.”“If you think things are bad now, they’ll be awhole lotworse if you don’t

speakup forTom.This is serious, Isabel.Lucy’s young.She’sgotpeoplewhowanttocareforher,andgiveheragoodlife.Tom’sgotnoone.IneversawamanwholessdeservedtosufferthanTomSherbourne.”

Underthewatchfulgazeofsaintsandangels,Ralphcontinued,“Godknowswhatgot into thepairofyouout there.There’sbeen lieupon lie, allwith thebest intentions.But it’sgonefarenough.Everythingyou’vedonetohelpLucyhashurtsomeoneelse.GoodGod,ofcourseIunderstandhowharditmustbeforyou.ButthatSpragg’sanastypieceofworkandIwouldn’tputanythingpasthim.Tom’syourhusband.Forbetterorworse,insicknessandinhealth.Unlessyouwanttoseehiminjail,or—”Hecouldn’tfinishthesentence.“Ireckonthis

isyourlastchance.”

“Where are you going?”Anhour later,Violetwas alarmed at the state of herdaughter.“You’veonlyjustwalkedinthedoor.”

“I’mgoingout,Ma.There’ssomethingIhavetodo.”“Butit’sbucketingdown.Waittillitstops,atleast.”Shegesturedtoapileof

clothes on the floor besideher. “I’ve decided to go through someof the boys’things. Some of their old shirts, their boots: they might be some good tosomeone. I thought I couldgive them to the church.”Aquiver crept intohervoice.“ButitwouldbenicetohavesomecompanywhileIsortthem.”

“Ihavetogotothepolicestation,now.”“Whatonearthfor?”Isabellookedathermother,andforamomentalmostdaredtellher.Butshe

said,“IneedtoseeMr.Knuckey.“I’llbebacklater,”shecalledbehindher,headingdownthepassagewaytothe

frontdoor.As sheopened it, shewas startledby a silhouette in thedoorway, about to

ringthebell.Thefigure,soakedwithrain,wasHannahRoennfeldt.Isabelstoodspeechless.

Onthedoorstep,Hannahspokequickly,keepinghereyesonabowlofrosesonthe tablebehindIsabel, fearing that to lookatherdirectlywouldmakeherchangehermind.“I’vecometosaysomething—justtosayitandgo.Don’taskmeanything,please.”She thoughtback to thevowshehadmade toGod justhoursago: therewasnoreneging.She tookabreath, likea run-up. “AnythingcouldhavehappenedtoGracelastnight.Shewassodesperatetoseeyou.ThankGodshewasfoundbeforeshecametoanyharm.”Shelookedup.“Canyouhaveany ideawhat it feels like?Tosee thedaughteryouconceivedandcarried, thedaughteryouboreandnursed,callsomeoneelsehermother?”Hereyesdartedtooneside.“ButIhavetoacceptthat,howevermuchithurts.AndIcan’tputmyhappinessabovehers.

“ThebabyIhad—Grace—isn’tcomingback.Icanseethatnow.Theplainfactis,shecanlivewithoutme,evenifIcan’tlivewithouther.Ican’tpunishherforwhathappened.AndIcan’tpunishyouforyourhusband’sdecisions.”

Isabelbegantoprotest,butHannahspokeoverher.Withhereyesfixedagainontheroses,shesaid,“IknewFranktohisverysoul.PerhapsIonlyeverknewGraceaverylittle.”ShelookedIsabelintheeye.“Gracelovesyou.Perhapsshe

belongstoyou.”Withgreateffort,shepushedontohernextwords:“ButIneedto know that justice is done. If you swear to me now that this was all yourhusband’sdoing—swearonyourlife—thenI’llletGracecometolivewithyou.”

NoconsciousthoughtwentthroughIsabel’smind—itwasbysheerreflexthatshesaid,“Iswear.”

Hannahcontinued,“Aslongasyougiveevidenceagainstthatman,assoonashe’ssafelylockedaway,Gracecancomebacktoyou.”Suddenlyshewasintears.“Oh,Godhelpme!”shesaid,andrushedaway.

Isabel is dazed. She runs over and over what she has just heard, wonderingwhethershehasmadeitup.Buttherearethewetfootprintsontheveranda;thetrailofdropsfromHannahRoennfeldt’sfurledumbrella.

Shelooksthroughthefly-wiredoorsocloseupthatthelightningseemstobedividedintotinysquares.Thenthethunderrollsinandshakestheroof.

“I thought you were going to the police station?” The words crash intoIsabel’sthoughts,andforamomentshehasnoideawheresheis.Sheturnsandnoticeshermother.“Ithoughtyou’dalreadygone.Whathappened?”

“There’slightning.”

“At leastLucywon’t be frightened,” Isabel catches herself thinking as the skycracksopenwithabrilliant flash.Fromwhenshewasababy,Tomhastaughtthegirl to respect,butnot fear, the forcesofnature—the lightningthatmightstrikethe lighttoweronJanus, theoceansthatbatterthe island.ShethinksofthereverenceLucyshowed in the lanternroom:not touching the instruments,keepingherfingersofftheglass.SherecallsanimageofthechildinTom’sarms,wavingandlaughingfromuponthegallerytoIsabelatthewashinglineontheground. “Once upon a time there was a lighthouse…” How many of Lucy’sstoriesstartedthatway?“Andtheredidbeastorm.Andthewindblewandblewand the lightkeepermade the light shine, andLucydidhelphim.And itwasdarkbutthelightkeeperwasn’tscaredbecausehehadthemagiclight.”

Lucy’storturedfacecomestohermind.Shecankeepherdaughter,keephersafeandhappy,andputallthisbehindthem.Shecanloveherandcherishherandwatchhergrow…Inafewyears,thetoothfairywillspiritawaymilkteethfor threepence, then gradually Lucy will get taller and together they will talkabouttheworldandabout—

Shecankeepherdaughter.If.Curledinaballonherbed,shesobs,“Iwant

mydaughter.Oh,Lucy,Ican’tbearit.”Hannah’sdeclaration.Ralph’sentreaty.Herownfalseoath,betrayingTomas

surely as he ever betrayed her. Around and around like a merry-go-round ofpossibilitiestheywhirlandjumble,pullingherwiththem,firstinonedirection,thenanother.Shehearsthewordsthathavebeenspoken.Buttheonevoicethatisabsent isTom’s.ThemanwhonowstandsbetweenherandLucy.BetweenLucyandhermother.

Unabletoresistitscallanylonger,sheedgestothedrawer,andtakesouttheletter.Sheopenstheenvelopeslowly.

Izzy,love,Ihopeyou’reallright,andkeepingyourstrengthup.Iknowyourmumand

dadwillbetakinggoodcareofyou.SergeantKnuckey’sbeengoodenoughtoletmewrite to you, but he’ll be reading this before youdo. Iwishwe could talkface-to-face.

I’mnotsureiforwhenI’llbeabletospeaktoyouagain.Youalwaysimagineyou’llgetthechancetosaywhatneedstobesaid,toputthingsright.Butthat’snotalwayshowitgoes.

Icouldn’tgoonthewaythingswere—Icouldn’tlivewithmyself.I’msorrierthanI’lleverbeabletosayforhurtingyou.

Weeachgetalittleturnatlife,andifthisendsupbeinghowmyturnwent,itwillstillhavebeenworthit.Mytimeshouldhavebeenupyearsago.Tohavemet you, when I thought life was over, and been loved by you—if I livedanotherhundredyearsIcouldn’taskforbetterthanthat.I’velovedyouasbestasIknowhow,Izz,whichisn’tsayingmuch.You’reawonderfulgirl,andyoudeservedsomeonealotbetterthanme.

You’reangryandhurtandnothingmakessense,andIknowwhatthatfeelslike.Ifyoudecidetowashyourhandsofme,Iwon’tblameyou.

Perhapswhenitcomestoit,nooneisjusttheworstthingtheyeverdid.AllIcandoistoaskGod,andtoaskyou,toforgivemefortheharmI’vecaused.Andtothankyouforeverydaywespenttogether.

Whateveryoudecidetodo,I’llacceptit,andI’llstandbyyourchoice.Iwillalwaysbeyourlovinghusband,

Tom

As though it is a picture, not a note, Isabel traces her fingertip over theletters, following the steady lean, thegraceful loops—as though that ishow tomake sense of the words. She imagines his long fingers on the pencil as ittraveledacross thepage.Over andover, she traces “Tom,” theword somehowboth foreign and familiar. Her mind wanders to the game they would play,whereshewoulddrawletterswithherfingeronhisnakedbackforhimtoguess,thenhewoulddothesameonhers.ButtherecollectionisswiftlycounteredbythememoryofLucy’stouch.Herbaby’sskin.SheimaginesTom’shandagain,thistimeasitwrotethenotestoHannah.Likeapendulum,herthoughtsswingbackandforward,betweenhatredandregret,betweenthemanandthechild.

Sheliftsherhandfromthepaperandreadstheletteragain,thistimetryingto make out the meaning of the words on the page, hearing Tom’s voicepronouncethem.Shereadsitoverandover,feelingasthoughherbodyisbeingrentintwo,untilfinally,shakingwithsobs,shemakesherdecision.

CHAPTER35

WhenitrainsinPartageuse,thecloudshurldownwaterandsoakthetowntoitsverybones.Millenniaofsuchdelugeshavebroughtforththeforestsfromtheancientloam.Theskydarkensandthetemperatureplummets.Greatgulleysarecarved acrossdirt roads, and flash floodsmake them impassablebymotorcars.Theriversquicken,finallyscentingtheoceanfromwhichtheyhavesolongbeenparted.Theywillnotbestoppedintheirurgencytogetbacktoit—togethome.

Thetowngoesquiet.Thelastfewhorsesstandforlornlywiththeirwagonsasthe rain drips off their blinkers, and bounces off the motorcars which faroutnumberthemthesedays.Peoplestandunderthewideverandasofshops inthemainstreet,armsfolded,mouthsturneddowningrimacesofdefeat.Attheback of the schoolyard, a couple of tearaways stamp their feet in puddles.Womenlookinexasperationatwashingnotretrievedfromlines,andcatsslinkthrough the nearest convenient doorway, meowing their disdain. The waterrushesdownthewarmemorial,wherethegoldletteringisfadednow.Itspringsoffthechurchroofand,throughthemouthofagargoyle,ontothenewgraveofFrank Roennfeldt. The rain transforms the living and the dead withoutpreference.

“Lucywon’tbefrightened.”ThethoughtoccursinTom’smind,too.Herecallsthe feeling inhis chest—that strange shiverofwonder for the littlegirl,whenshewould facedown the lightning and laugh. “Make it gobang,Dadda!” shewouldcry,andwaitforthethundertorollin.

“Bugger it!” exclaimedVernonKnuckey. “We’ve sprung a bloody leak again.”Therunofffromthehillabovethestationwasrathermorethana“leak.”Waterwas pouring into the back of the building, set lower than the front. Withinhours,Tom’scellwassixinchesdeepinwater,enteringfromaboveandbelow.Thehousespiderhadabandoneditswebforsomewheresafer.

Knuckeyappeared,keysinhand.“Yourluckyday,Sherbourne.”Tomdidnotunderstand.“Usuallyhappenswhen it rains thismuch.The ceiling in thispart tends to

collapse. Perth’s always saying they’re going to fix it, but they just send somecovetoputabitofflourandwaterglueonit,asfarasIcansee.Still,theygetabit darkwithus if theprisoners cark it before trial.You’dbetter comeup thefront for a while. Till the cell drains.” He left the key unturned in the lock.“You’renotgoingtobestupidaboutthis,areyou?”

Tomlookedathimsquarely,andsaidnothing.“Allright.Outyoucome.”HefollowedKnuckeytothefrontoffice,wherethesergeantputonehandcuff

onhiswristandanotheraroundanexposedpipe.“Notgoingtobefloodedwithcustomersaslongasthisholdsout,”hesaidtoHarryGarstone.Hechuckledtohimselfathispun.“Ah,MoMcCackie,eatyourheartout.”

Therewasnosoundexcepttherain,thunderingdown,turningeverysurfaceintoadrumoracymbal.Thewindhadfled,andnothingoutsidemovedexceptthewater.Garstoneset towithamopandsometowels,attemptingtoredeemthesituationinside.

Tomsat looking throughthewindowat the road, imagining theviewfromthegalleryatJanusnow:thekeeperwouldfeellikehewasinacloud,withthesuddenairinversion.Hewatchedthehandsontheclockinchtheirwayaroundthedialasiftherewereallthetimeintheworld.

Something caughthis attention.A small figurewasmaking itsway towardthe station.No raincoatorumbrella, arms folded,andbent forwardas thoughleaningontherain.Herecognizedtheoutlineinstantly.Moments later,Isabelopenedthedoor.Shelookedstraightaheadasshemadeforthecounter,whereHarry Garstone had stripped to the waist and was busy trying to mop up apuddle.

“I’ve…”Isabelbegan.Garstoneturnedtoseewhowasspeaking.“I’vegottoseeSergeantKnuckey…”The flustered constable, half-naked and mop in hand, blushed. His eyes

flickedtowardTom.Isabelfollowedhisgaze,andgasped.Tom jumped to his feet, but could notmove from thewall.He reached a

handtoher,asshesearchedhisface,terrified.“Izzy!Izzy,love!”Hestrainedatthehandcuffs,stretchinghisarmtothevery

fingertips.Shestood,crippledbyfearandregretandshame,notdaringtomove.

Suddenly,herterrorgotthebetterofher,andsheturnedtodashoutagain.ItwasasthoughTom’swholebodyhadbeenbroughtbacktolifeatthesight

ofher.Thethoughtthatshemightvanishagainwasmorethanhecouldbear.He pulled again at themetal, this timewith such force that hewrenched thepipefromthewall,sendingwatergushinghighintotheair.

“Tom!” Isabel sobbed as he caught her in his arms, “Oh Tom!” her bodyshakingdespitethestrengthofhishold.“I’vegottotellthem.I’vegotto—”

“Shh,Izzy,shh,it’sallright,darl.It’sallright.”SergeantKnuckeyappearedfromhisoffice.“Garstone,whatinthenameof

Christ—”He stopped at the sight of Isabel in Tom’s arms, the two of themsoakingfromthepipe’sdownpour.

“Mr. Knuckey, it’s not true—none of it’s true!” cried Isabel. “FrankRoennfeldtwasdeadwhentheboatwashedup.ItwasmyideatokeepLucy.Istoppedhimreportingtheboat.It’smyfault.”

Tomwasholdinghertight,kissingthetopofherhead.“Shh,Izzy.Justleavethings be.” He pulled away and held her shoulders as he bent his knees andlookedstraightintohereyes.“It’sallright,sweetheart.Don’tsayanymore.”

Knuckeyshookhisheadslowly.Garstonehadhastilyreplacedhistunicandwassmoothinghishairintosome

sortoforder.“ShallIarresther,sir?”“Foronceinyourbloodylife,showsomesense,Constable.Getbusyandfix

theblinkingpipebeforewealldrown!”Knuckeyturnedtotheothers,whowerestaringintentlyatoneanother,theirsilencealanguageinitself.“Andasforyoutwo,you’dbettercomeintomyoffice.”

Shame. To her surprise, it was shame Hannah felt more than anger, whenSergeantKnuckeyvisitedherwithnewsof IsabelSherbourne’s revelation.HerfaceburnedasshethoughtbacktohervisittoIsabeljustthepreviousday,andtothebargainshehadstruck.

“When?Whendidshetellyouthis?”sheasked.“Yesterday.”“Whattimeyesterday?”Knuckey was surprised by the question. What bloody difference could it

make?“Aboutfiveo’clock.”“Soitwasafter…”Hervoicediedaway.“Afterwhat?”

Hannah blushed even deeper, humiliated at the thought that Isabel hadrefusedhersacrifice,anddisgustedathavingbeenliedto.“Nothing.”

“Ithoughtyou’dwanttoknow.”“Ofcourse.Ofcourse…”Shewasconcentratingnotonthepoliceman,buton

awindowpane. Itneededcleaning.Thewholehouseneededcleaning: shehadhardly touched it for weeks. Her thoughts climbed this familiar trellis ofhousework,keepingheronsafeterritory,untilshemanagedtohaulthemback.“So—whereisshenow?”

“She’sonbail,atherparents’.”Hannahpickedatahangnailonherthumb.“Whatwillhappentoher?”“She’llfacetrialalongsideherhusband.”“Shewaslying,allthattime…Shemademebelieve…”Sheshookherhead,

lostinanotherthought.Knuckey took a breath. “All a pretty rum business. A decent sort, Isabel

Graysmarkwas,beforeshewenttoJanus.Beingoutonthatislanddidn’tdoheranygoodatall.Notsureitdoesanyoneanygood.Afterall,SherbourneonlygotthepostingbecauseTrimbleDochertydidawaywithhimself.”

Hannah wasn’t sure how to put her question. “How long will they go toprisonfor?”

Knuckeylookedather.“Therestoftheirlives.”“Therestoftheirlives?”“I’mnottalkingaboutthejailtime.Thosetwowillneverbefreenow.They’ll

nevergetawayfromwhat’shappened.”“NeitherwillI,Sergeant.”Knuckeysizedherup,anddecidedtotakeachance.“Look,youdon’tgeta

MilitaryCrossforbeingacoward.Andyoudon’tgetaBartogowithitunless—well, unless you saved a lot of your side’s lives by risking your own. TomSherbourne’sadecentman,I reckon.I’dgoso faras to sayagoodman,Mrs.Roennfeldt.AndIsabel’sagoodgirl.Threemiscarriagesshehadoutthere,withno one to help her. You don’t go through the things those two have beenthroughwithoutbeingbentoutofshape.”

Hannahlookedathim,herhandsstill,waitingtoseewherehewasgoing.“It’saGod-awfulshametoseeafellowlikethatinthepositionhe’sin.Notto

mentionhiswife.”“Whatareyousaying?”“I’mnotsayinganythingthatwon’toccurtoyouinafewyears’time.Butit’ll

betoolatebythen.”

Sheturnedherheadafraction,asiftounderstandhimbetter.“I’mjustasking,is itreallywhatyouwant?Atrial?Prison?You’vegotyour

daughterback.Theremightbesomeotherway…”“Someotherway?”“Spragg’ll lose interest now that he’s had to drop hismurdermalarkey.As

long as this is still a Partageuse matter, I’ve got some leeway. And maybeCaptainHasluckcouldbepersuadedtoputinawordforhimwiththeLights.Ifyouweremindedtospeakupforhimtoo.Askforclemency…”

Hannah’sfacereddenedagain,andwithoutwarningshejumpedtoherfeet.Words that had been building up for weeks, for years, words Hannah didn’tknow were there, burst from her. “I’m sick of this! I’m sick of being pushedaround,ofhavingmyliferuinedbythewhimsofotherpeople.Youhavenoideawhatit’sliketobeinmyposition,SergeantKnuckey!Howdareyoucomeintomyhouseandmakesuchasuggestion?Howbloodydareyou!”

“Ididn’tmeanto—”“Let me finish! I’ve had enough, do you understand me?” Hannah was

shoutingnow.“Nooneisevergoingtotellmehowtolivemylifeagain!Firstit’s my father telling me who I can marry, then it’s the whole bloody townturningonFranklikeamobofsavages.ThenGwentriestoconvincemetogiveGrace back to IsabelGraysmark, and I agree—I actually agree!Don’t look soshocked:youdon’tknoweverythingthatgoesonaroundhere!

“Anditturnsoutthewomanliedtomyface!Howdareyou?Howdareyoupresumetotellme,toevensuggesttome,thatIshould,yetagain,putsomeoneelse first!”Shepulledherselfupstraight. “Getoutofmyhouse!Now! Justgo!BeforeI”—shepickedupthethingnearesttohand,acutglassvase—“throwthisatyou!”

Knuckeywastooslowingettingtohisfeetandthevasecaughthimontheshoulder,ricochetingagainsttheskirtingboard,whereitsmashedinadazzleofshards.

Hannah stopped, not sure whether she was imaginingwhat she had done.Shestaredathim,waitingforaclue.

He stoodperfectly still.The curtain flappedwith the breeze.A fat blowflybuzzedagainsttheflywire.Alastfragmentofglassgaveadulltinkleasitfinallysuccumbedtogravity.

Afteralongsilence,Knuckeysaid,“Makeyoufeelbetter?”StillHannah’smouthwasopen.Shehadneverinherlifehitanyone.Shehad

rarelysworn.Andshehaddefinitelyneverdoneeithertoapoliceofficer.

“I’vehadalotworsethrownatme.”Hannahlookedatthefloor.“Iapologize.”Thepolicemanbent to pick up someof the bigger pieces of glass, andput

themonthetable.“Don’twantthelittleonecuttingherfeet.”“She’s at the river with her grandfather,” muttered Hannah. Gesturing

vaguelytowardtheglass,sheadded,“Idon’tusually…”butthesentencetrailedoff.

“You’vehadenough.Iknow.Justaswell itwasmeyouthrewitatandnotSergeantSpragg.”Heallowedatraceofasmileatthethought.

“Ishouldn’thavespokenlikethat.”“People do, sometimes. People who’ve had less to contend with than you.

We’renotalwaysinfullcontrolofouractions.I’dbeoutofajobifwewere.”Hepickeduphishat.“I’llleaveyouinpeace.Letyouthinkaboutthings.Butthereisn’t a lot of time left. Once the magistrate gets here and sends them off toAlbany,there’snothingIcandoaboutit.”

Hewalkedthroughthedoor intothedazzleofdaylight,where thesunwasburningthelastofthecloudsawayfromtheeast.

Hannahfetchedthedustpanandbrush,herbodymovingwithoutanyapparentinstruction. She swept up the shards of glass, checking carefully for anyoverlookedsplinters.Shetookthedustpanintothekitchenandemptieditontooldnewspaper,wrappingtheglasssafelyandtakingitoutsidetotherubbishbin.ShethoughtofthestoryofAbrahamandIsaac,howGodtestedAbrahamrighttothelimit,toseewhetherhewouldsurrenderthethingdearesttohimintheworld.Onlyastheknifewaspoisedabovethechild’sneckdidGoddirecthimtoalessersacrifice.Shestillhadherdaughter.

She was about to go back inside when she caught sight of the Capegooseberrybush,andrememberedthatterribledayafterGrace’sreturnwhenherdaughterhadwedgedherself behind it.As she sank toherkneeson thegrassand sobbed, the memory of a conversation with Frank floated into herawareness.“Buthow?Howcanyoujustgetoverthesethings,darling?”shehadaskedhim.“You’vehadsomuchstrifebutyou’realwayshappy.Howdoyoudoit?”

“Ichoose to,”hesaid. “Ican leavemyself torot in thepast, spendmytimehatingpeopleforwhathappened,likemyfatherdid,orIcanforgiveandforget.”

“Butit’snotthateasy.”

He smiled that Frank smile. “Oh, but my treasure, it is so much lessexhausting.Youonlyhavetoforgiveonce.Toresent,youhavetodoitallday,every day. You have to keep remembering all the bad things.” He laughed,pretending towipe sweat fromhis brow. “Iwouldhave tomake a list, a very,very long listandmakesureIhatedthepeopleon it therightamount.ThatIdidaveryproperjobofhating,too:veryTeutonic!No”—hisvoicebecamesober—“wealwayshaveachoice.Allofus.”

Now,shelaydownonherbelly inthegrass,feelingthestrengthofthesunsaphers.Exhausted,half awareof thebeesand the scentofdandelionsbesideher,halfawareofthesoursopsunderherfingerswherethegrasswasovergrown,finallysheslept.

Tom still feels the touch of Isabel’s wet skin, even though the cell is nowdrained, his clothes dry, and his reunion with her yesterday evening just amemory.Hewantsitbothtobereal,andtobeanillusion.If it’sreal,hisIzzyhascomebacktohim,asheprayedshewould.Ifit’sanillusion,she’sstillsafefromtheprospectofprison.Reliefanddreadmixinhisgut,andhewondersifhewilleverfeelhertouchagain.

Inherbedroom,VioletGraysmarkisweeping.“Oh,Bill.Ijustdon’tknowwhattothink,whattodo.Ourlittlegirlcouldgotojail.Thepityofit.”

“We’llgetthroughit,dear.She’llgetthroughit,too,somehow.”HedoesnotmentionhisconversationwithVernonKnuckey.Doesn’twanttogetherhopesup.Buttheremightbetheshadowofachance.

Isabel sits aloneunder the jacaranda.Hergrief forLucy is as strongas ever: apain thathasno locationandnocure.Puttingdowntheburdenof the liehasmeantgivingupthefreedomofthedream.Thepainonhermother’sface,thehurt inher father’s eyes,Lucy’sdistress, thememoryofTom,handcuffed: shetries to fend off the army of images, and imagines what prison will be like.Finally, she has no more strength. No more fight in her. Her life is justfragments,thatshewillneverbeabletoreunite.Hermindcollapsesundertheweightofit,andherthoughtsdescendintoadeep,blackwell,whereshameandlossandfearbegintodrownher.

Septimusandhisgranddaughterarebytheriver,watchingtheboats.“Tellyouwhousedtobeagoodsailor:myHannah.Whenshewaslittle.Shewasgoodateverythingasa littleone.Brightasabutton.Alwayskeptmeonmytoes, justlikeyou.”Hetousledherhair.“MysavingGrace,youare!”

“No,I’mLucy!”sheinsists.“YouwerecalledGracethedayyouwereborn.”“ButIwanttobeLucy.”Heeyesherup,takingthemeasureofher.“Tellyouwhat,let’sdoabusiness

deal.We’llsplitthedifference,andI’llcallyouLucy-Grace.Shakehandsonit?”

Hannahwasawokenfromhersleeponthegrassbyashadowoverherface.SheopenedhereyestofindGracestandingafewfeetaway,staring.Hannahsatupandsmoothedherhair,disoriented.

“Told you that’d get her attention,” laughed Septimus. Grace gave a faintsmile.

Hannahbegan to standbut Septimus said, “No, stay there.Now,Princess,whydon’tyousitonthegrassandtellHannahallabouttheboats.Howmanydidyousee?”

Thelittlegirlhesitated.“Goon,rememberhowyoucountedthemonyourfingers?”Sheheldupherhands.“Six,”shesaid,showingfivefingersononehand,and

threeontheother,beforefoldingtwoofthemdownagain.Septimus said, “I’llgoandhavea rummage in thekitchenandgetus some

cordial. You stay and tell her about the greedy seagull you saw with that bigfish.”

Gracesatonthegrass,afewfeetfromHannah.Herblondehairshoneinthesun.Hannahwascaught:shewantedtotellherfatheraboutSergeantKnuckey’svisit,askhisadvice.ButshehadneverseenGracethisreadytotalk,toplay,andcouldn’tbeartoruinthemoment.Outofhabit,shecomparedthechildwithhermemory of her baby, trying to recapture her lost daughter. She stopped. “Wealwayshaveachoice.”Thewordsranthroughhermind.

“Shallwemakeadaisychain?”sheasked.“What’sadaisytrain?”Hannahsmiled.“Chain.Here,we’llmakeyouacrown,”shesaid,andstarted

topickthedandelionsbesideher.AssheshowedGracehowtopierceastemwithherthumbnailandthreadthe

next stem through it, shewatchedher daughter’s hands, theway theymoved.Theywerenot thehandsofherbaby.Theywere thehandsof a littlegirl shewouldhavetogettoknowalloveragain.Andwhowouldhavetogettoknowher,too.“Wealwayshaveachoice.”Alightnessfillsherchest,asifagreatbreathhasrushedthroughher.

CHAPTER36

Asthesundangledabovethehorizon,attheendofthejettyatPartageuseTomstoodwaiting.HecaughtsightofHannah,approachingslowly.Sixmonthshadpassed sincehehad last seenher, andshe seemed transformed:her face fuller,morerelaxed.Whenshefinallyspoke,hervoicewascalm.“Well?”

“IwantedtosayI’msorry.Andtothankyou.Forwhatyoudid.”“Idon’twantyourthanks,”shesaid.“If you hadn’t spoken up for us it would have been a lotmore than three

monthsIspentinBunburyjail.”Tomsaidthelasttwowordswithdifficulty:thesyllables felt thick with shame. “And Isabel’s suspended sentence—that wasmostlythankstoyou,mylawyersaid.”

Hannahlookedoffintothedistance.“Sendinghertojailwouldn’thavefixedanything.Norwouldkeepingyouthereforyears.What’sdone’sdone.”

“Allthesame,itcan’thavebeenaneasydecisionforyou.”“ThefirsttimeIsawyou,itwasbecauseyoucametosaveme.WhenIwasa

complete stranger, and you owed me nothing. That counts for something, Isuppose. And I know that if you hadn’t foundmy daughter, she would havedied.Itriedtorememberthattoo.”Shepaused.“Idon’tforgiveyou—eitherofyou.Being lied to like that…But I’mnot going to get dragged under by thepast.LookwhathappenedtoFrankbecauseofpeopledoingthat.”Shestopped,twistingherweddingring foramoment. “Andthe irony is,Frankwouldhavebeenthefirstonetoforgiveyou.He’dhavebeenthefirstonetospeakinyourdefense.Indefenseofpeoplewhomakemistakes.

“Itwas theonlywayIcouldhonorhim:doingwhatIknowhewouldhavedone.”Shelookedathim,hereyesglistening.“Ilovedthatman.”

Theystoodinsilence,lookingoutatthewater.Eventually,Tomspoke.“Theyears youmissedwithLucy—we cannever give themback.She’s awonderfullittle girl.” Hannah’s expression made him add, “We’ll never come near heragain,Ipromiseyou.”

Hisnextwordscaughtinhisthroat,andhetriedagain.“I’vegotnorightto

askanything.Butifoneday—maybewhenshe’sgrownup—sheremembersusand asks about us, if you can bear to, tell herwe loved her. Even thoughwedidn’thavetheright.”

Hannahstood,weighingsomethinginhermind.“Herbirthday’stheeighteenthofFebruary.Youdidn’tknowthat,didyou?”“No.”Tom’svoicewasquiet.“Andwhenshewasborn,shehadthecordwrappedaroundhernecktwice.

AndFrank…Frankusedtosinghertosleep.Yousee?TherearethingsIknowaboutherthatyoudon’t.”

“Yes.”Henoddedgently.“Iblameyou.AndIblameyourwife.OfcourseIdo.”Shelookedstraightat

him.“Iwassoscaredthatmydaughtermightneverloveme.”“Love’swhatchildrendo.”She turned her eyes to a dinghy nudging the jetty with each wave, and

frownedatanewthought.“Nooneevermentions itaroundhere—howFrankandGracecametobeinthatboatinthefirstplace.Notasouleverapologized.Evenmy father doesn’t like to talk about it.At least you’ve said you’re sorry.Paidthepriceforwhatyoudidtohim.”

Afterawhile,shesaid,“Whereareyouliving?”“InAlbany.RalphAddicotthelpedfindmeworkattheharbortherewhenI

gotout,threemonthsagonow.MeansIcanbenearmywife.Thedoctorssaidsheneededcompleterest.Forthemoment,she’sbetteroffinthenursinghome,whereshecanbeproperlycaredfor.”Heclearedhisthroat.“Best letyougo.Ihopelifeturnsoutwellforyou,andforLu—forGrace.”

“Goodbye,”Hannahsaid,andmadeherwaybackdownthejetty.

ThesettingsundippedthegumleavesingoldasHannahwalkedupthepathatherfather’shousetocollectherdaughter.

“This little piggy stayed home…” Septimus was saying, giving hisgranddaughter’s toe awiggle as she satonhiskneeon theveranda. “Oh, lookwho’shere,Lucy-Grace.”

“Mummy!Wheredidyougo?”Hannahwasstruckanewbyherdaughter’sversionofFrank’ssmile,Frank’s

eyes,ofhisfairhair.“MaybeI’lltellyouoneday,littleone,”shesaid,andkissedherlightly.“Shallwegohomenow?”

“CanwecomebacktoGranddadtomorrow?”

Septimuslaughed.“YoucanvisitGranddadanytimeyoulike,Princess.Anytimeyoulike.”

Dr.Sumptonhadbeenright—giventime,thelittlegirlhadgraduallygottenusedtohernew—orperhapsitwasherold—life.Hannahheldoutherarmsandwaitedforherdaughtertoclimbintothem.Herownfathersmiled.“That’stheway,girlie.That’stheway.”

“Comeon,darling,offwego.”“Iwanttowalk.”Hannahputherdownandthechildallowedherselftobeledoutthroughthe

gateandalongtheroad.Hannahkeptherpaceslow,sothatLucy-Gracecouldkeepup. “See thekookaburra?” she asked. “He looks likehe’s smiling,doesn’the?”

Thegirlpaidlittleattention,untilamachine-gunburstoflaughtercamefromthe bird as they drew closer. She stopped in astonishment, and watched thecreature,whichshehadneverseensocloseup.Again, itrattledoff itsraucouscall.

“He’slaughing.Hemustlikeyou,”saidHannah.“Ormaybeit’sgoingtorain.Thekookasalwayslaughwhentherain’scoming.Canyoumakehissound?Hegoeslikethis,”andshebrokeintoafairimitationofitscall,whichhermotherhadtaughtherdecadesago.“Goon,youhaveagoatit.”

Thegirl couldnotmanage thecomplicatedcall. “I’llbea seagull,” she said,andcameoutwithapitch-perfect imitationofthebirdsheknewbest,ashrill,harsh barracking. “Nowyoudo it,” she said, andHannah laughed at her ownunsuccessfulattempts.

“You’llhavetoteachme,sweetheart,”shesaid,andthetwoofthemwalkedontogether.

Onthejetty,TomthinksbacktothefirsttimehesawPartageuse.Andthelast.Between them, Fitzgerald and Knuckey had traded off charges and whittleddownSpragg’s“kitchensink.”Thelawyerhadbeeneloquentinshowingthatthechild-stealingchargewouldn’tstandandthatallrelatedchargesmustthereforealso fall. The guilty plea to the remaining administrative counts, tried inPartageuse rather than Albany, could still have brought a severe penalty, hadHannahnotspokenarticulatelyintheirdefense,urgingclemency.AndBunburyjail,halfwayuptoPerth,was lessbrutalthanFremantleorAlbanywouldhavebeen.

Now, as the sun dissolves into the water, Tom is aware of a nagging reflex.MonthsafterleavingJanus,hislegsstillpreparetoclimbthehundredsofstairstolightup.Instead,hesitsontheendofthejetty,watchingthelastfewgullsontheliltingwater.

Heconsiderstheworldthathascarriedonwithouthim,itsstoriesunfolding,whetherheistheretoseethemornot.Lucyisprobablyalreadytuckedintobed.Heimaginesherface,leftnakedbysleep.Hewonderswhatshelookslikenow,andwhethershedreamsabouthertimeonJanus;whethershemissesherlight.HethinksofIsabel,too,inherlittleironbedinthenursinghome,weepingforherdaughter,forheroldlife.

Timewill bring her back.He promises her.He promises himself. Shewillmend.

The train forAlbanywill be leaving in anhour.Hewillwait until dark towalkthroughtown,backtothestation.

InthegardenofthenursinghomeatAlbanyafewweekslater,Tomsatatoneendofthewrought-ironbench,Isabelattheother.Thepinkzinniaswerepasttheirbestnow,raggedandtingedwithbrown.Snailshadstartedontheleavesoftheasters,andtheirpetalshadbeencarriedoffinclumpsbythesoutherlywind.

“Atleastyou’restartingtofilloutagain,Tom.Youlookedsodreadful—whenIfirstsawyouagain.Areyoumanagingallright?”Isabel’stonewasconcerned,thoughdistant.

“Don’t worry about me. It’s you we’ve got to concentrate on now.” Hewatchedacricketsettleonthearmofthebench,andstartupachirrup.“Theysayyou’reallrighttoleavewheneveryouwant,Izz.”

Shebowedherheadandtuckedastrandofhairbehindanear. “There’snogoing back, you know.There’s no undoingwhat happened—whatwe’ve bothbeenthrough,”shesaid.Tomlookedathersteadily,butshedidn’tmeethisgazeasshemurmured,“Andbesides,what’sleft?”

“Leftofwhat?”“Ofanything.What’sleftof—ourlife?”“There’snogoingbackontheLights,ifthat’swhatyoumean.”Isabel sighed sharply. “It’s not what I mean, Tom.” She pulled a piece of

honeysuckle from theoldwallbesideher, andexamined it.As she shreddedaleaf, thenanother, the finepieces fell ina jaggedmosaiconher skirt. “LosingLucy—it’s as if something has been amputated. Oh, I wish I could find the

wordstoexplainit.”“Thewordsdon’tmatter.”Hereachedahandtoher,butsheshrankaway.“Tellmeyoufeelthesame,”shesaid.“Howdoessayingthatmakeanythingbetter,Izz?”Shepushedthepiecesintoaneatpile.“Youdon’tevenunderstandwhatI’m

talkingabout,doyou?”He frowned, struggling, and she looked away at a billowing white cloud

whichthreatenedthesun.“You’reahardmantoknow.Sometimeslivingwithyouwasjustlonely.”

Hepaused.“Whatdoyouwantmetosaytothat,Izzy?”“Iwantedus tobehappy.All ofus.Lucygotunder your skin.Openedup

your heart somehow, and it was wonderful to see.” There was a long silence,beforeherexpressionchangedwiththereturnofamemory.“Allthattime,andIdidn’tknowwhatyou’ddone.Thateverytimeyoutouchedme,everytimeyou—Ihadnoideayou’dbeenkeepingsecrets.”

“Itriedtotalkaboutit,Izz.Youwouldn’tletme.”Shejumpedtoherfeet,thefragmentsofleafspiralingtothegrass.“Iwanted

tomakeyouhurt,Tom,likeyouhurtme.Doyourealizethat?Iwantedrevenge.Haven’tyougotanythingtosayaboutthat?”

“Iknowyoudid,sweet.Iknow.Butthattime’sover.”“What,soyouforgiveme,justlikethat?Likeit’snothing?”“Whatelseistheretodo?You’remywife,Isabel.”“Youmeanyou’restuckwithme…”“ImeanIpromisedtospendmy lifewithyou.I stillwant tospendmy life

withyou.Izz,I’velearnedthehardwaythattohaveanykindofafutureyou’vegottogiveuphopeofeverchangingyourpast.”

Sheturnedaway,andpulledsomemorehoneysucklefromitsvine.“Whatarewegoingtodo?Howarewegoingtolive?Ican’tgoonlookingatyoueverydayandresentingyouforwhatyoudid.Beingashamedofmyself,too.”

“No,love,youcan’t.”“Everything’sruined.Nothingcaneverbeputright.”Tomrestedahandonhers.“We’veputthingsrightaswellaswecan.That’s

allwecando.Wehavetolivewiththingsthewaytheyarenow.”Shewanderedalongthepathbesidethegrass,leavingTomontheseat.After

a full circuit of the lawn, she returned. “I can’t go back toPartageuse. I don’tbelong there anymore.” She shookher head andwatched the progress of thecloud.“Idon’tknowwhereIbelongthesedays.”

Tom stood up, and put his hand on her arm. “You belong with me, Izz.Doesn’tmatterwhereweare.”

“Isthattrueanymore,Tom?”Shewasholdingthestrandofhoneysuckle,strokingtheleavesabsently.Tom

pluckedoneofthecreamybloomsfromit.“Weusedtoeatthese,whenwewerekids.Didyou?”

“Eatthem?”Hebitthenarrowendoftheflowerandsuckedthedropletofnectarfromits

base.“Youonlytasteitforasecond.Butit’sworthit.”Hepickedanother,andputittoherlipstobite.

CHAPTER37

Hopetoun,28thAugust1950

TherewasnothingmuchinHopetounnow,exceptforthelongjettythatstillwhisperedoftheglorydayswhenthetownservedastheportfortheGoldfields.Theportitselfhadclosedin1936,afewyearsafterTomandIsabelhadmovedhere.Tom’sbrother,Cecil,hadoutlivedhis fatherbybarelya coupleof years,andwhenhedied,themoneywasenoughtobuyafarmoutsidethetown.Theirpropertywassmallbylocalstandards,butstilledgedthecoastforseveralmiles,and the house stood on a ridge just inland, looking down over the sweep ofbeach below. They lived a quiet life. They went into town occasionally.Farmhandshelpedwiththework.

Hopetoun,onawidebaynearly fourhundredmileseastofPartageuse,wasfar enough away that theyweren’t likely tobump into anyone from there, butcloseenoughforIsabel’sparentstomakethejourneyatChristmas,intheyearsbefore theydied.TomandRalphwrote to eachotheronce in awhile—just agreeting, short, plain, but deeply felt all the same. Ralph’s daughter and herfamilyhadmoved intohis littlecottageafterHildadied,and lookedafterhimwell, thoughhis healthwas frail these days.WhenBlueymarriedKittyKelly,TomandIsabelsentagift,buttheydidn’tattendthewedding.NeitherofthemeverreturnedtoPartageuse.

And the best part of twenty years flowed past like a quiet country river,deepeningitspathwithtime.

The clock chimes.Almost time to leave. It’s a shortdrive to town thesedays,with the sealed roads.Not likewhen they first arrived.AsTom ties his tie, astrangerwithgrayhaircatchesaglimpseofhim,justaflickofaneye,thenheremembers it’shimself in themirror.Now, the suithangsmore looselyonhisframe,andthereisagapbetweenthecollarandtheneckinsideit.

Through thewindow, thewaves rise, sacrificing themselves in ablizzardof

white, far out to sea.Theoceangivesnot the slightesthint that any timehaspassed,ever.TheonlysoundisthebuffetingoftheAugustgales.

Having placed the envelope in the camphor chest, Tom closes the lidreverently. Soon enough, the contents will lose all meaning, like the lostlanguageofthetrenches,soimprisonedinatime.Yearsbleachawaythesenseofthings until all that’s left is a bone-white past, stripped of feeling andsignificance.

Thecancerhadbeenfinishingitsworkformonths,nibblingthedaysfromher,and therehadbeennothing todobutwait.Hehadheldherhand forweeks,sittingbyherbed. “Remember thatgramophone?”hewouldask,or “Iwonderwhatever happened to old Mrs. Mewett?” And she would smile faintly.Sometimes,shemusteredtheenergytosay,“Don’tforgetthepruning,willyou?”Or,“Tellmeastory,Tom.Tellmeastorywithahappyending,”andhewouldstrokehercheekandwhisper,“OnceuponatimetherewasagirlcalledIsabel,and shewas the feistiestgirl formiles around…”Andashe told the story,hewould watch the sunspots on her hand, and notice how the knuckles swelledslightly,thesedays,andtheringmovedlooselyontheskinbetweenthejoints.

Toward theend,whenshecouldno longer sipwater,hehadgivenher thecornerofadampflanneltosuck,andsmearedlanolinonherlipstostopthemcracking with the dryness. He had caressed her hair, now shot-through withsilver, tied inaheavyplaitdownherback.Hehadwatchedherthinchestriseand fall with that same uncertainty he remembered in Lucy’s when she firstarrivedonJanus:eachbreathastruggleandatriumph.

“Areyousorryyouevermetme,Tom?”“Iwasborntomeetyou,Izz.Ireckonthat’swhatIwasputherefor,”hesaid,

andkissedhercheek.Hislipsrememberedthatveryfirstkissdecadesbefore,onthewindybeachin

thesettingsun:thebold,fearlessgirlguidedonlybyherheart.HerememberedherloveforLucy,instantandfierceandwithoutquestion—thesortoflovethat,hadthingsbeendifferent,wouldhavebeenreturnedforalifetime.

HehadtriedtoshowIsabelhislove,ineveryactofeverydayforthirtyyears.Butnow,therewouldbenomoredays.Therecouldbenomoreshowing,andtheurgencydrovehimon.“Izz,”hesaid,hesitating.“Isthereanythingyouwanttoaskme?Anythingyouwantmetotellyou?Anythingatall.I’mnotverygoodatthis,but,ifthereis,IpromiseI’lltrymybesttoanswer.”

Isabelattemptedasmile.“Meansyoumustthinkit’snearlyoverthen,Tom.”Shenoddedherheadalittle,andpattedhishand.

Heheldhergaze.“OrmaybethatI’mjustfinallyreadytotalk…”Hervoicewasweak.“It’sallright.There’snothingmoreIneed,now.”Tomstrokedherhair,lookingalongwhileintohereyes.Heputhisforehead

tohers,andtheystayed,unmoving,untilherbreathingchanged,growingmoreragged.

“Idon’twanttoleaveyou,”shesaid,clutchinghishand.“I’msoscared,love.Soscared.WhatifGoddoesn’tforgiveme?”

“Godforgaveyouyearsago.It’sabouttimeyoudidtoo.”“Theletter?”sheaskedanxiously.“You’lllookaftertheletter?”“Yes,Izz.I’lllookafterit.”Andthewindshookthewindowsasithaddone

decadesagoonJanus.“I’mnotgoingtosaygoodbye,incaseGodhearsandthinksI’mreadytogo.”

Shesqueezedhishandagain.Afterthat,wordswerebeyondher.Nowandthenshe would open her eyes and there would be a sparkle in them, a light thatbrightenedasherbreathinggotshallowerandharder,asifshehadbeentoldasecretandsuddenlyunderstoodsomething.

Then,onthatlastevening,justasthewaningmoonpartedwintryclouds,herbreathingchangedinthewayTomknewalltoowell,andsheslippedawayfromhim.

Even though they had electricity, he sat with just the soft glow of thekerosenelamptobatheherface:somuchgentler,thelightofaflame.Kinder.He stayed by the body all night, waiting until dawn before telephoning thedoctor.Standingto,likeintheolddays.

As Tom walks down the path, he snaps off a yellow bud from one of therosebushes Isabel plantedwhen they firstmoved here. Its fragrance is alreadystrong,andtakeshimbackalmosttwodecadestothepictureofher,kneelinginthe freshly dug bed, hands pressing down the earth around the young bush.“We’vefinallygotourrosegarden,Tom,”shehadsaid.ItwasthefirsttimehehadseenhersmilesinceshehadleftPartageuse,andtheimagestayedwithhim,asclearasaphotograph.

There isasmallgatheringatthechurchhallafterthefuneral.Tomstaysaslongaspolitenessdemands.Buthewishesthepeoplereallyknewwhotheyweremourning: the Isabel he had met on the jetty, so full of life and daring and

mischief.HisIzzy.Hisotherhalfofthesky.

Twodaysafterthefuneral,Tomsatalone,inahousenowemptyandsilent.Aplumeofdust fannedout in the sky, signaling thearrivalof a car.Oneof thefarmhands coming back, probably. As it got closer, he looked again. It wasexpensive,new,withPerthnumberplates.

Thecardrewupnearthehouse,andTomcametothefrontdoor.A woman emerged and took a moment to smooth down her blonde hair,

gatheredinatwistatthenapeofherneck.Shelookedaroundher,thenwalkedslowlyuptotheveranda,whereTomnowwaited.

“Afternoon,”hesaid.“Youlost?”“Ihopenot,”repliedthewoman.“CanIhelpyou?”“I’mlookingfortheSherbournes’property.”“You’vefoundit.I’mTomSherbourne.”Hewaitedforclarification.“ThenI’mnotlost.”Shegaveatentativesmile.“I’m sorry,” saidTom, “it’s been a longweek.Have I forgotten something?

Anappointment?”“No,Ihaven’tgotanappointment,butit’syouI’vecometosee.And…”she

hesitated,“Mrs.Sherbourne.Iheardshewasveryill.”Tom was puzzled, and she said, “My name’s Lucy-Grace Rutherford.

Roennfeldtaswas…”Shesmiledagain.“I’mLucy.”He looked in disbelief. “Lulu?LittleLulu,” he said, almost to himself.He

didn’tmove.The woman blushed. “I don’t know what I should call you. Or… Mrs.

Sherbourne.” Suddenly a thought crossed her face and she asked, “I hope shewon’tmind.IhopeIhaven’tintruded.”

“Shealwayshopedyou’dcome.”“Wait.I’vebroughtsomethingtoshowyou,”shesaid,andheadedbacktothe

car.Shereachedintothefrontseat,andreturnedcarryingabassinet,herfaceamixtureoftendernessandpride.

“ThisisChristopher,mylittleboy.He’sthreemonthsold.”TomsawpeepingoutfromablanketachildwhosoexactlyresembledLucy

asababy thata tinglecrept throughhim.“Izzywouldhave loved tohavemethim.Itwouldhavemeantsomuchtoher,thatyoucame.”

“Oh.I’msosorry…Whendid…?”Sheletthewordstrailoff.

“Aweekago.HerfuneralwasonMonday.”“Ididn’tknow.Ifyou’dpreferIleft…”Hecontinuedto lookat thebabyforagoodwhile,andwhenheeventually

raisedhishead,therewasawistfulsmileabouthislips.“Comein.”

Tombrought ina traywithteapotandcups,asLucy-Gracesat lookingoutattheocean,thebabybesideherinthebasket.

“Wheredowebegin?”sheasked.“Whatsaywejustsitquietlyforabit?”Tomreplied.“Getusedtothings.”He

sighed.“LittleLucy.Afteralltheseyears.”Theysatsilently,drinkingtheirtea,listeningtothewindwhichcameroaring

upfromtheocean,occasionallybanishingacloudlongenoughtoletashaftofsunlightslicethroughtheglassandontothecarpet.Lucybreathedinthesmellsofthehouse:oldwood,andfiresmoke,andpolish.Shedidn’tdarelookdirectlyatTom,butglancedaroundtheroom.AniconofSt.Michael;avaseofyellowroses.AweddingphotoofTomandIsabellookingradiantlyyoungandhopeful.Ontheshelveswerebooksaboutnavigationandlightandmusic,some,suchastheone calledBrown’s StarAtlas, sobig that theyhad to lie flat.Therewas apianointhecorner,withsheetmusicpiledontopofit.

“Howdidyouhear?”Tomaskedeventually.“AboutIsabel?”“Mumtoldme.WhenyouwrotetoRalphAddicott,tolethimknowhowill

shewas,hewenttoseemymother.”“InPartageuse?”“Shelivesbackdowntherenow.MumtookmetoPerthwhenIwasfive—

wanted to start again. She onlymoved back to Partageuse when I joined theWAAFin1944.Afterthat,well,sheseemedsettledtherewithAuntyGwenatBermondsey,Granddad’soldplace.IstayedinPerthafterthewar.”

“Andyourhusband?”Shegaveabrightsmile.“Henry!AirForceromance…He’salovelyman.We

gotmarriedlastyear.I’msolucky.”Shelookedoutatthedistantwaterandsaid,“I’vethoughtofyoubothsooften,overtheyears.Wonderedaboutyou.Butitwasn’t”—she paused—“well, it wasn’t until I had Christopher that I reallyunderstood:whyyoutwodidwhatyoudid.AndwhyMumcouldn’tforgiveyouforit.I’dkillformybaby.Noquestion.”

Shesmoothedherskirt.“Iremembersomethings.AtleastIthinkIdo—abitlikesnatchesfromadream:thelight,ofcourse;thetower;andasortofbalcony

aroundit—what’sitcalled?”“Thegallery.”“I remember being on your shoulders. And playing the piano with Isabel.

Somethingaboutsomebirdsinatreeandsayinggoodbyetoyou?“Then, it all sortof jumbled togetherand Idon’t remembermuch. Just the

newlifeupinPerth,andschool.Butmostofall,Irememberthewindandthewavesandtheocean:can’tgetitoutofmyblood.Mumdoesn’tlikethewater.Neverswims.”Shelookedatthebaby.“Icouldn’tcomesooner.IhadtowaitforMumto…well,togiveherblessing,Isuppose.”

Watchingher,Tomcaughtflashesofheryoungerface.Butitwasdifficulttomatchthewomanwiththegirl.Difficulttoo,atfirst,tofindtheyoungermanwithinhimselfwhohadlovedhersodeeply.Andyet.Andyethewasstillthere,somewhere, and for amoment, clear as a bell, he had amemory of her voicepiping,“Dadda!Pickmeup,Dadda!”

“She left something for you,” he said, and went to the camphor chest.Reachinginside,hetooktheenvelopeandhandedittoLucy-Grace,whohelditforamomentbeforeopeningit.

MyDarlingLucy,Ithasbeenalongtime.Suchalongtime.IpromisedI’dstayawayfromyou,

andI’vestucktomyword,howeverhardthatwasforme.I’m gone now, which is why you have this letter. And it brings me joy

becauseitmeansthatyoucametofindus.Inevergaveuphopethatyouwould.In the chest with this letter are some of the earliest things of yours: your

christeninggown,youryellowblanket, someof thedrawingsyoudidasa tot.AndtherearethingsImadeforyouovertheyears—linenandsoforth.Ikeptthemsafe foryou—things fromthat lostpartofyour life. In caseyou came insearchofit.

Youareagrownwomannow.Ihopelifehasbeenkindtoyou.Ihopethatyoucanforgivemeforkeepingyou.Andforlettingyougo.

Knowthatyouhavealwaysbeenbeloved.Withallmylove.

The delicately embroidered handkerchiefs, the knitted bootees, the satin

bonnet:theywerefoldedcarefullyinthecamphorchest,hiddenway,waybelowthe things from Isabel’s own childhood. Tom did not know, until then, thatIsabel had kept them. Fragments of a time. Of a life. Finally, Lucy-Grace

unrolledascroll,tiedwithasatinribbon.ThemapofJanus,decoratedbyIsabelsolongago:ShipwreckBeach,TreacherousCove—theinkstillbright.Tomfeltapangasherememberedthedayshehadpresentedittohim,andhisterroratthebreachof therules.Andhewassuddenlyawashagainwiththe lovingandthelosingofIsabel.

AsLucy-Gracereadthemap,ateartraileddownhercheek,andTomofferedherhisneatly foldedhandkerchief.Shewipedhereyes, consideringa thought,andfinallysaid,“Ineverhadthechancetosaythankyou.Toyouandto…toMamma,forsavingme,andfortakingsuchgoodcareofme.Iwastoolittle…andthenitwasalltoolate.”

“There’snothingtothankusfor.”“I’monlyalivebecauseofyoutwo.”The baby started to cry, andLucy bent to pick him up. “Shh, shh, bubba.

You’re all right.You’re all right, bunny rabbit.” She rockedhimup anddownandthecryingsubsided.SheturnedtoTom.“Doyouwanttohaveahold?”

Hehesitated.“I’mabitoutofpracticethesedays.”“Goon,”shesaid,andpassedthelittlebundlegentlyintohisarms.“Well,lookatyou,”hesaid,smiling.“Justlikeyourmummywhenshewasa

baby, aren’t you? Same nose, same blue eyes.” As the child held him with aseriousgaze,long-forgottensensationsfloodedback.“Oh,Izzywouldhavelovedtomeetyou.”Abubbleofsalivaglistenedonthebaby’slips,andTomwatchedtherainbowthesunlightmadethere.“Izzywouldhavejustlovedyou,”hesaid,andhefoughtthecrackinhisvoice.

Lucy-Grace looked at herwatch. “I’d better be heading off, I suppose. I’mstayingatRavensthorpetonight.Don’twanttobedrivinginthedusk—there’llbe’roosontheroad.”

“Of course.”Tomnodded toward the camphor chest. “Shall Ihelp youputthethingsinthecar?Thatis,ifyou’dliketotakethem.I’llunderstandifyou’drathernot.”

“I don’t want to take them,” she said, and as Tom’s face fell, she smiled,“becausethatwaywe’llhaveanexcusetocomeback.Onedaysoon,maybe.”

ThesunisjustaslivershimmeringabovethewavesasTomlowershimselfintothe old steamer chair on the veranda. Beside him, on Isabel’s chair, are thecushions shemade, embroideredwith stars and a sicklemoon. Thewind hasdropped,andcloudsscarredwithdeeporangebroodonthehorizon.Apinpoint

oflightpiercesthedusk:theHopetounlighthouse.Thesedaysit’sautomatic—noneedforkeeperssincethemainportclosed.HethinksbacktoJanus,andthelight he cared for there for so long, every one of its flashes still travelingsomewhereintothedarknessfarouttowardtheuniverse’sedge.

Hisarmsstill feelthetinyweightofLucy’sbaby,andthesensationunlocksthebodilymemoryofholdingLucyherself,andbeforethat,thesonheheldinhisarmssobriefly.Howdifferentsomanyliveswouldhavebeenifhehadlived.Hebreathesthethoughtforalongwhile,thensighs.Nopointinthinkinglikethat.Onceyoustartdownthatroad,there’snoendtoit.He’slivedthelifehe’slived.He’slovedthewomanhe’sloved.Nooneeverhasoreverwilltravelquitethesamepathonthisearth,andthat’sallrightbyhim.HestillachesforIsabel:hersmile,thefeelofherskin.ThetearshefoughtoffinfrontofLucynowtraildownhisface.

Helooksbehindhim,whereafullmoonisedgingitswayintotheskylikeacounterweightonthetwinhorizon,heavedupbythedyingsun.Everyendisthebeginningofsomethingelse.LittleChristopherhasbeenbornintoaworldTomcouldneverhaveimagined.Perhapshe’llbesparedawar,thisboy?Lucy-Grace,too,belongs toa futureTomcanonlyguessat. If shecan lovehersonhalfaswellasIsabellovedher,theboywillbeallright.

There are stillmoredays to travel in this life.Andheknows that themanwhomakesthejourneyhasbeenshapedbyeverydayandeverypersonalongtheway.Scarsarejustanotherkindofmemory.Isabelispartofhim,whereversheis,justlikethewarandthelightandtheocean.Soonenoughthedayswillcloseovertheir lives, thegrasswillgrowovertheirgraves,until theirstory is justanunvisitedheadstone.

He watches the ocean surrender to night, knowing that the light willreappear.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thisbookhasmanymidwives.Somanypeoplehaveplayedapartinbringingitintotheworldthat tonamethemindividuallywouldtakeaseparatevolume.Ihave, I hope, thanked them in person along the way, but would like toacknowledge their importance again here. Each has contributed somethingunique and invaluable: some at a specificmoment; someover a longer period;someoveralifetime.

Thankyou—eachandeveryoneofyou—forhelpingmetellthisstory.Iamblessedbyyourkindness.

M.L.STEDMANwasbornandraisedinWesternAustraliaandnowlivesin

London.TheLightBetweenOceansisherfirstnovel.

MEETTHEAUTHORS,WATCHVIDEOSANDMOREAT

SimonandSchuster.com•THESOURCEFORREADINGGROUPS•

JACKETDESIGNBYREXBONOMELLIJACKETPHOTOGRAPHS:LIGHTHOUSE©ALISONSHAW/CORBIS;

SKY©MALCOLMPARK;BABY©REXBONOMELLI

WehopeyouenjoyedreadingthisScribnereBook.

Joinourmailinglistandgetupdatesonnewreleases,deals,bonuscontentandothergreatbooksfromScribnerandSimon&Schuster.

CLICKHERETOSIGNUP

orvisitusonlinetosignupateBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

ScribnerADivisionofSimon&Schuster,Inc.

1230AvenueoftheAmericasNewYork,NY10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitherareproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualeventsorlocalesorpersons,livingordead,is

entirelycoincidental.

Copyright©2012byGrasshillCommunicationsMapbyNeilGowerAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyformwhatsoever.

ForinformationaddressScribnerSubsidiaryRightsDepartment,1230AvenueoftheAmericas,NewYork,NY10020.

FirstScribnerhardcovereditionAugust2012

SCRIBNERanddesignareregisteredtrademarksofTheGaleGroup,Inc.usedunderlicensebySimon&Schuster,Inc.,thepublisherofthiswork.

TheSimon&SchusterSpeakersBureaucanbringauthorstoyourliveevent.FormoreinformationortobookaneventcontacttheSimon&SchusterSpeakersBureauat1-866-248-3049orvisitourwebsiteat

www.simonspeakers.com.

DesignedbyCarlaJayneJonesLibraryofCongressControlNumber:2011050244

ISBN978-1-4516-8173-4ISBN978-1-4516-8176-5(ebook)DetailfromlighthouselogbookcourtesyoftheAustralianNational

Archives.