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no time but got to work. She wiped the facings with a shred of damp cloth, brushed the hat, sewed the sole of the boot with stout thread, and moved two less visible buttons from below the collar to the stomacher of the coat. When she had done all she could she put everything on and examined her soldier-self in the glass.
    She had had no great confidence in the uniform fitting well, but in this she did a disservice to the tailor, whose experienced eye had guessed her dimensions fairly accurately. One thing he had not guessed, though, was the form of her body beneath Richard’s clothes. She could barely see the swell of her breasts under the brave buttons, nor the curve of her hips below the fall of the skirted coat, but she was not taking any further chances. She had fooled the cooper and the ensigns, but she could not risk discovery.
    She took everything off again bar the shirt and settled down on the bed with her needle and thread. She made a long bandeau to tie tightly around her breasts like a bandage. She then quilted her waistcoat about the waist to thicken it slightly and further de-emphasise her bosom. Then there was the problem of her money. Besides the guinea from the army she had a full purse of silver from Kavanagh’s. But as it was forbidden by the customs men to take more than five shillings from the country she had to think of a way to conceal the money – she had no notion of how much it might cost in drinks and bribes to find Richard and she was not going to risk penury. She hit upon the idea that she could solve two problems in one; she made a purse stitched on to a long broad hammock of fabric that she could hang between her legs. It was lamplight before she’d finished, and by the light of one poor candle she tried the entire uniform on again. She took the looking glass from the wall and perused her reflection from all angles, much satisfied with her new masculine outline. Her purse made a subtle swelling at her groin which, she hoped, would convince others that she had what she lacked. She walked to the window and looked out at the ships, a silver fleet in the dark blue night, a new moon making a shimmering path between herself and Kit, leading to the horizon. And beyond that? Where was she bound?
    Suddenly afraid, Kit shed her new skin, and stood naked in the patch of moonlight, peeled and white and original. She ran her hands over her body, her woman’s body, shivering slightly as she grazed her bone-white breasts and buttocks, caressing the curves that were henceforth to be covered. This is what she was beneath the ugly bulky clothes, the clothes that flattened her here and fattened her there. This is what she would always be. She would always be Kit underneath. Something crumpled below her foot like a leaf – it was her tally of the days without Richard. It stood at forty, forty days and forty nights. She crumpled the paper and set it on the nightstand. Enough of the wilderness. That Kit was gone – leave her there wandering among the thorns.
    She washed from head to foot with the water from the basin – for who knew when she would wash again? She pulled on one of the new Holland shirts over her damp red hair, settled into bed and huffed the candle out. But before she settled herself she took her new dagger, silver in the moonlight, and, keeping her left hand clear of the coverlet, made a small cut across the back of her hand. For a blade that cuts you once can never harm you again.
    As she lay down to sleep the words of ‘Arthur McBride’ came once again, unwanted and unbidden, to her mind. The sounds and bustle of the dock rumbled outside in counterpoint to the sharp sweet cries of the seagulls.
    The rowdy recruits seemed in no hurry to be abed; she could hear singing from downstairs and shouts from the wharfside, and their carousing and the scampering words of the song kept her awake for the greater part of the night. Dead eyed and heavy limbed, she rose just before dawn to don her new