She slept like the dead, dark and dreamless. And the next morning, when she woke, she had the sense of having been asleep far longer than one night.

The sun was streaming into the room, through the gap between the curtains-like the light from a lighthouse-and she watched, as she lay there, the pieces of dust, hovering. She could have reached out and caught them on her fingertips, but she didn't. Instead, she allowed her gaze to follow the beam, turning her head towards the spot at which it pointed. The spot high up on the wardrobe, where the doors had come apart in the night, to reveal, on the top shelf, beneath a clump of plastic bags full of clothes for St. Vinnie's, an old white suitcase.

ELEVEN.

THE I INDIAN O OCEAN, NINE HUNDRED MILES.

BEYOND THE C CAPE OF G GOOD H HOPE, 1913.

IT took a long time to get to America. In the tales Papa had told her, he'd said it was further than Arabia, and the little girl knew it took a hundred days and nights to get there. The little girl had lost count of the days, but it had been quite some time since she'd boarded the boat. So long, in fact, that she'd grown used to the sensation of never ceasing to move. Getting sea legs, it was called; she had learned all about it in tales of Moby d.i.c.k. took a long time to get to America. In the tales Papa had told her, he'd said it was further than Arabia, and the little girl knew it took a hundred days and nights to get there. The little girl had lost count of the days, but it had been quite some time since she'd boarded the boat. So long, in fact, that she'd grown used to the sensation of never ceasing to move. Getting sea legs, it was called; she had learned all about it in tales of Moby d.i.c.k.

Thinking of Moby d.i.c.k made the little girl very sad. It reminded her of Papa, the stories he read to her of the great whale, the pictures he let her look at in his studio, pictures he'd drawn of dark oceans and great ships. They were called ill.u.s.trations, the little girl knew, enjoying the length of the word as she said it in her mind, and one day they might be put in a book, a real book that other children would read. For that's what her papa did, he put pictures into storybooks. Or he had on one occasion. He drew paintings of people, too, but the little girl didn't like those, the eyes that followed a person across the room.

The little girl's bottom lip began to tremble the way it sometimes did when she thought of Papa and Mamma, and she bit down on it. In the beginning she had cried a lot. She hadn't been able to help it; she'd missed her parents. But she didn't cry much anymore, and never in front of the other children. They might think she was too little to play with them and then where would she be? Besides, Mamma and Papa would be with her soon. They would be waiting for her, she knew, when the boat arrived in America. Would the Auth.o.r.ess be there, too?

The little girl frowned. In all the time it had taken to find her sea legs, the Auth.o.r.ess had not returned. This puzzled the little girl, for the Auth.o.r.ess had given many stern instructions as to how they were to stay together always, avoid separation no matter what. Perhaps she was hiding. Perhaps it was all part of the game.

The little girl wasn't sure. She was just thankful that she'd met Will and Sally on the deck that first morning, otherwise she wasn't sure she'd have known where to sleep, how to get food. Will and Sally and their brothers and sisters-they had so many, the little girl had a hard time keeping count-knew all about finding food. They'd shown her all kinds of places on the boat where an extra serving of salt beef might be found. (She didn't much like the taste, but the little boy only laughed and said it might not be what she was used to but it did for a dog's life.) They were kind to her, for the most part. The only time they became cross was when she refused to tell them her name. But the little girl knew how to play games, how to follow the rules, and the Auth.o.r.ess had told her that was the most important rule of all.

Will's family had a set of bunks down on the lower decks, with lots of other men, women and children, more people than the little girl had ever seen gathered together in one place. They had a mother traveling with them, too, though they called her "Ma." She wasn't at all like the little girl's own mother; she didn't have Mamma's pretty face and lovely dark hair set up on the top of her head by Poppy each morning. "Ma" was more like the women the little girl had sometimes seen when the carriage pa.s.sed through the village, with tattered skirts and boots that needed mending, and lined hands like the pair of old gloves Davies wore in the garden.

When Will had first taken the little girl downstairs, Ma had been sitting on the bottom bunk, nursing one baby while another lay crying beside her.

"Who's this, then?" she'd said.

"She won't say 'er name. Says she's waiting for someone, that she's meant to be hiding."

"Hiding, eh?" The woman beckoned the little girl closer. "What you hiding from, then, child?"

But the little girl wouldn't say, just shook her head.

"Where are her folks?"

"I don't think she's got none," said Will. "Not so as I can figure. She was hiding when I found her."

"That right, child? You alone?"

The little girl considered this question and decided it was better to agree than to speak of the Auth.o.r.ess. She nodded.

"Well, well, then. Little thing like you, all alone on the seas." Ma shook her head and jostled the crying baby. "That your case? Bring it here, then, and let Ma take a little look-see."

The little girl watched as Ma unhooked the latches and lifted the top. Pushed aside the book of fairy tales and the second new dress to reveal the envelope below. Ma slid her finger beneath the seal and opened it. Plucked a small pile of paper from within.

Will's eyes widened. "Banknotes." He glanced towards the little girl. "What should we do with her, Ma? Tell the porter?"

Ma stuffed the banknotes back inside the envelope, folded it into thirds, and tucked it down the front of her dress. "Not much point telling anyone on board," she said finally, "not that I can see. She'll stay with us till we get to the other side of the world, then we'll find out who's waiting for her. See how they'd like to thank us for our troubles." She'd smiled then, and dark s.p.a.ces had appeared between her teeth.

The little girl didn't have much to do with Ma, and for that she was glad. Ma was kept busy with the babies, one of whom seemed always to be attached to her front. They were suckling, or so Will said, though the little girl had never heard of such a thing. Not in people, anyway; she'd seen the baby animals suckling on the estate farms. Those babies were like a pair of little piglets, doing little else but squealing and drinking and fattening. And while the babies kept their ma busy, the others looked out for themselves. They were used to it, Will told her, for they had to do so at home. They came from a place called Bolton and when there were no babies to tend their mother worked in a cotton factory, all the day long. That's why she coughed so much. The little girl understood: her mother was also unwell, though she didn't cough the way Ma did.

In the evenings there was a spot where the little girl and the others would sit, listening to the music coming from above and the sound of feet sliding across shiny floors. That's what they were doing now, sitting in a darkened nook listening. In the beginning, the little girl had wanted to go and see, but the other children had only laughed and said the upper decks weren't for the likes of them. That this s.p.a.ce at the bottom of the crew ladder was as close as they were likely to get to the toffs' deck.

The little girl had been silent; she'd never come across rules like those before. At home, with one exception, she was allowed to go where she pleased. The only place she was forbidden was the maze that led to the Auth.o.r.ess's cottage. But this wasn't the same and she'd found it difficult to understand what the boy meant. The likes of them? Children? Perhaps the upper deck was a place where children were not allowed.

Not that she wanted to go up there tonight. She felt tired, had felt that way for days. The sort of weariness that made her legs seem as heavy as forest logs and doubled the height of the stairs. She was dizzy, too, and her breath was hot when it pa.s.sed her lips.

"Come on," said Will, tiring of the music. "Let's go look for land."

A scramble and they were all on their feet. The little girl pulled herself up and tried to catch her balance. Will and Sally and the others were talking, laughing, their voices swirling around her. She tried to make sense of what they were saying, felt her legs shivering, her ears ringing.

Will's face was suddenly close to hers, his voice loud. "What's the matter? Are you all right?"

She opened her mouth to answer, and as she did so her knees buckled and she began to fall. The last thing she saw before her head hit the wooden step was the bright, full moon, shimmering in the sky above.

THE LITTLE girl opened her eyes. A man was standing above her, serious-looking, with b.u.mpy cheeks and gray eyes. His expression remained unchanged as he moved closer and plucked a small flat paddle from his shirt pocket. "Open." girl opened her eyes. A man was standing above her, serious-looking, with b.u.mpy cheeks and gray eyes. His expression remained unchanged as he moved closer and plucked a small flat paddle from his shirt pocket. "Open."

Before she knew what was happening, the paddle was on her tongue and he was inspecting her mouth.

"Yes," he said. "Fine." He withdrew the paddle and straightened his waistcoat. "Breathe."

She did so and he nodded. "She's fine," he said again. He signaled to a younger man with straw-colored hair whom the little girl recognized from when she'd woken earlier. "There's a live one here. For G.o.d's sake get her out of the sickbay before that changes."

"But, sir," said the other man, puffing, "this is the one what hit her head when she fainted. Surely she should rest a bit-"

"We don't have sufficient beds for resting, she can rest when she's back in her cabin."

"I'm not sure where she belongs."

The doctor rolled his eyes. "Then ask her, man."

The straw-haired fellow lowered his voice. "Sir, she's the one I was telling you about. Seems to have lost her memory. Must've happened when she fell."

The doctor peered down at the little girl. "What's your name?"

The little girl thought about this. She heard his words, understood what he was asking of her, but found she couldn't answer.

"Well?" said the man.

The little girl shook her head. "I don't know."

The doctor sighed, exasperated. "I don't have the time or the bed s.p.a.ce for this. Her fever's gone. By the smell of her she's from steerage."

"Aye, sir."

"Well? There must be someone there who'll claim her."

"Aye, sir, there's a lad outside, the one what brought her in the other day. Come to check on her just this minute, a brother, I should say."

The doctor peered around the door to look down at the boy. "Where are the parents?"

"The lad says his father's in Australia, sir."

"And the mother?"

The other man cleared his throat, leaned closer to the doctor. "Giving the fishes a feed somewhere near the Cape of Good Hope, most likely, sir. Lost her leaving port three days ago."

"Fever?"

"Aye."

The doctor furrowed his brow and sighed shortly. "Well, bring him in, then."

A young boy, skinny as a sapling, eyes as black as coal, was hoisted before him. "This girl belongs to you?" said the doctor.

"Yes, sir," said the boy. "That is, she-"

"Enough, I don't need life stories. Her fever's gone and the b.u.mp on her head's healed. She's not saying much at this point but no doubt she'll pipe up soon enough. It's most likely attention-seeking, knowing what happened to your mother. That's how it is sometimes, especially with children."

"But, sir-"

"That's enough. Take her away." He turned to the crewman. "Give the bed to someone else."

THE LITTLE girl was sitting by the rails, watching the water. White-tipped peaks of blue, rippling beneath the wind's touch. The way was choppier than usual and she surrendered her body to the rolling motion. She felt odd, not ill exactly, just strange. As if a fine white mist had filled her head and settled, refusing to drift away. girl was sitting by the rails, watching the water. White-tipped peaks of blue, rippling beneath the wind's touch. The way was choppier than usual and she surrendered her body to the rolling motion. She felt odd, not ill exactly, just strange. As if a fine white mist had filled her head and settled, refusing to drift away.

It had been that way since she'd woken up in the sickbay, since the strange men had looked her over and sent her off with the boy. He'd taken her downstairs to a dark place full of bunks and mattresses and more people than she'd ever seen before.

"'Ere." A voice at her shoulder. It was the boy. "Don't forget your case, then."

"My case?" The little girl glanced at the proffered piece of white leather luggage.

"Cor!" said the boy, looking at her strangely. "You really have gone bonkers, I thought you was just pretending for that doctor fellow's sake. Don't tell me you don't even remember your own case? You've been guarding it with your life the whole trip, just about tore us apart if any of us so much as looked at it. Didn't want to upset your precious Auth.o.r.ess."

The strange word rustled between them and the little girl felt an odd p.r.i.c.kling beneath her skin. "Auth.o.r.ess?" she said.

But the boy didn't answer. "Land!" he called out, running to lean against the rails that ran around the deck. "There's land! Can you see it?"

The little girl came to stand by him, still clutching the handle of the small white suitcase. She glanced warily at his freckled nose, then turned to look in the direction of his pointed finger. Far in the distance she saw a strip of land, trees of palest green all the way along it.

"That's Australia," said the boy, eyes trained on the distant sh.o.r.e. "My pa's there waiting for us."

Australia, the little girl thought. Another word she didn't recognize.

"We're going to have a new life there, with our own house and everything, even a bit of land. That's what my pa says in his letters. He says we're going to work the land, build a new life for ourselves. And we will, too, even if Ma ain't with us no more." The last he said in a quieter voice. He fell silent for a moment before turning to the little girl and c.o.c.king his head towards the sh.o.r.e. "Is that where your pa is?"

The little girl thought about this. "My pa?"

The boy rolled his eyes. "Your dad," he said. "Fellow what belongs with your ma. You know, your pa."

"My pa," the little girl echoed, but the boy was no longer listening. He'd caught sight of one of his sisters and was running off, shouting about land being sighted.

The little girl nodded as he left, though she still wasn't sure what he meant. "My pa," she said uncertainly. "That's where my pa is."

The cry of "Land!" went around the deck and as people became busy all about her the little girl took the white suitcase to a spot by a pile of barrels, a nook to which she was unaccountably drawn. She sat down and opened the case, hoping to find some food. There was none, so she settled instead for the book of fairy tales lying on top of the other contents.

As the boat drew nearer to sh.o.r.e, and tiny dots in the distance became seagulls, she opened the book across her lap and gazed at the beautiful black-and-white sketch of a woman and a deer side by side in the clearing of a th.o.r.n.y forest. And somehow, though she could not read the words, the little girl realized that she knew this picture's tale. Of a young princess who traveled a great distance across the sea to find a precious, hidden item belonging to someone she dearly loved.

TWELVE.

OVER THE I INDIAN O OCEAN, 2005.

Ca.s.sANDRA leaned against the cold, rough plastic of the cabin and looked through the window, down to the vast blue ocean that covered the globe for as far as the eye could see. The very same ocean little Nell had traversed all those years before. leaned against the cold, rough plastic of the cabin and looked through the window, down to the vast blue ocean that covered the globe for as far as the eye could see. The very same ocean little Nell had traversed all those years before.

It was the first time Ca.s.sandra had been overseas. That is, she'd been to New Zealand once, and had visited Nick's family in Tasmania before they were married, but never further afield. She and Nick had talked about taking off to the UK for a few years: Nick would write music for British TV and there had to be plenty of work for art historians in Europe. But they hadn't made it and she'd buried the dream long ago, beneath the pile of others.

And now here she was, aboard a plane, by herself, flying to Europe. After she'd spoken with Ben at the antique center, after he'd given her the picture of the house, after she'd found the suitcase, it turned out there was room for little else in her mind. The mystery seemed to attach itself to her and she couldn't shake it off, even if she tried. To tell the truth, she didn't want to; she liked the constancy of preoccupation. She enjoyed wondering about Nell, this other Nell, the little girl whom she hadn't known.

It was true that even after she'd found the suitcase she hadn't intended to travel directly to the UK. It had seemed far more sensible to wait, to see how she felt in a month's time, maybe plan a trip for later. She couldn't just be jetting off to Cornwall on a whim. But then she'd had the dream, same as she'd been having on and off for a decade. She was standing in the middle of a field with nothing on the horizon in any direction. The dream had no sense of malevolence, just unendingness. Ordinary vegetation, nothing that excited the imagination, pale reedy gra.s.s, long enough to brush the ends of her fingers, and a light and constant breeze that kept it rustling.

In the beginning, years ago when the dream was new, she'd known she was looking for someone, that if she were only to walk in the right direction she would find them. But no matter how many times she'd dreamed the scene, she'd never seemed to manage it. One undulating hill would be replaced by another; she'd look away at the wrong moment; she'd suddenly wake up.

Gradually, over time, the dream had changed. So subtly, so slowly, she didn't notice it happening. It wasn't that the setting changed: physically all remained as ever. It was the feeling of the dream. The certainty that she would find what it was she sought just slipped away, until one night she knew there was nothing, no one waiting for her. That no matter how far she walked, how carefully she searched, how much she wanted to find the person she was looking for, she was alone...

Next morning the desolation had lingered, but Ca.s.sandra was used to its dull hangover and went about her life as usual. There was no sign that the day was to be anything other than ordinary, until she went to the nearby shopping center to buy bread for lunch and wound up pausing by the travel agency. Funny, she'd never really noticed it was there. Without quite knowing how or why, she found herself pushing open the door, standing on the sea-gra.s.s matting, a wall of consultants waiting for her to speak.

Ca.s.sandra remembered later feeling dull surprise at that point. It seemed she was a real person after all, a solid human being, moving in and out of the orbits of others. No matter that she so often felt herself to be living half a life, to be a half-light.

At home afterwards, she'd stood for a moment, replaying the morning's events, trying to isolate the instant in which her decision had been made. How she'd gone to the shops for bread and come back with an airline ticket. And then she went into Nell's room, pulled the suitcase back down from its hiding spot and took everything from inside. The book of fairy tales, the sketch with Eliza Makepeace Eliza Makepeace written on its back, the lined exercise book with Nell's handwriting scrawled across each page. written on its back, the lined exercise book with Nell's handwriting scrawled across each page.

She made herself a milky coffee and sat up in Nell's bed, doing her best to decipher the G.o.d-awful handwriting, transcribing it onto a clean pad of paper. Ca.s.sandra was reasonably good at unraveling handwritten notes from previous centuries-it went with the territory for a secondhand dealer-but old-fashioned writing was one thing, it had a pattern to it. Nell's hand was just messy. Purposely, perversely messy. To make matters worse, the notebook had suffered water damage at some point in its history. Pages were stuck together, wrinkled blotches were laced with mold, and to rush was to risk tearing the pages and forever obscuring the entries.