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would do was kiss her nose, say that a working schooner was no place to raise a child, and tell her that he loved her.
    Bodie stretched, climbed out of her rope nest, sharpened her claws on the back of Rian’s leg and wandered off across the deck.
    Rian rubbed absently at the scratches, then raised his spyglass and swept his gaze across the sparkling, deep blue harbour.
    ‘Can you see him?’ Kitty asked.
    ‘No. I would have thought he’d be out here like a robber’s dog the minute he spotted our ensign.’ Rian lowered the glass, gazed for a minute longer towards the red brick and white stone warehouses and sheds crowding the shoreline of Sydney Cove, squinted, raised the glass again and swore. Then he shouted for Hawk.
    Hawk appeared a moment later, and Rian handed him the spyglass. ‘Someone’s coming out. Is it him, do you think?’
    ‘No, that is not Kinghazel,’ Hawk answered eventually. ‘Too skinny.’
    Rian looked again at the rowboat that had been launched from the wharf in front of the customs house and was now moving steadily towards them. ‘Drop anchor!’ he called to Ropata over his shoulder. Almost immediately, the anchor chain rattled furiously as it paid out.
    ‘Perhaps he’s been watching his diet,’ Kitty suggested.
    ‘I doubt it. That man is as much a glutton as he is a prick,’ Rian replied. He frowned, and the three of them leaned on the rail in silence to wait as the rowboat drew closer and closer.
    Kitty felt a bubble of unease form in the pit of her stomach. Walter Kinghazel was the customs and excise man who had arrested Rian in 1840 for failing to pay duty on a shipment of alcohol and tobacco. Unknown to Kitty, Rian hadn’t paid it, but, believing that the receipts had simply been lost, she had risked her own freedom to obtain counterfeit receipts from a master forger incarcerated in Hyde Park Barracks, a very unpleasant piece of work named Avery Bannerman. The forged receiptshad been presented in court and the charges dropped, but Kitty knew she would not have been able to secure those documents if it hadn’t been for Daniel Royce, a young soldier at the barracks who had turned a blind eye at a crucial moment.
    Rian had walked free, but Walter Kinghazel had known damn well that Rian hadn’t paid any duty, receipts or no, and everyone on board the Katipo was sure he would have another attempt at bringing Rian to justice the very next time they showed their faces in Sydney. Their cargo was completely licit this time, and they had had to return so they could take Wai home, but still they were very uneasy; Walter Kinghazel was a powerful and notoriously malicious man.
    When the rowboat was no more than a furlong away, Rian raised the glass again. ‘It’s definitely not Kinghazel. But it’s someone in the Queen’s uniform.’
    A minute later, whoever was in the boat set down his oars and took up a loudhailer.
    ‘Ahoy the schooner! Customs and excise preparing to board!’
    ‘Shite,’ Rian said.
    When the rowboat bumped against the Katipo ’s hull, Rian dropped the rope ladder over the side and waited until an unfamiliar face appeared at the rail. The man stepped onto the deck and adjusted his hat, which had come adrift during his ascent.
    ‘Good morning. Bartholomew Nixon, customs and excise. Ma’am,’ he said, nodding to Kitty and offering Rian his hand.
    Rian shook it. ‘Captain Rian Farrell, at your service.’
    ‘Captain, I need to inspect your vessel in accordance with—’
    Rian waved the end of Mr Nixon’s sentence away. ‘Yes, we’re familiar with all that. What’s happened to Walter Kinghazel?’
    Nixon, a tallish man with red hair and fair, freckly skin that obviously wasn’t taking to the harsh antipodean sun, paused fora moment. Then he said flatly, ‘Mr Kinghazel is deceased.’
    Rian tried to keep the elation out of his voice. ‘Deceased? That’s dreadful, Mr Nixon. I’m astonished.’
    Mr Nixon regarded Rian thoughtfully. ‘I’m sure you are,