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bustle to a minimum as the women held the short memorial for the girl they had known for such a short while.
    Good-bye, sweet girl, I wish I could have known you better so I could grieve for you as well as you deserve. Elisabeth looked out onto the vast midnight-blue ocean that Vivienne would soon become a part of. She drew in a deep breath and willed herself to be strong. Nicole needed her to be strong. Rose needed her to be strong. But as the sunburned sailor slid Vivienne’s shrouded body into the frigid waters, her strength failed her. The burning acid rose in her throat and she wanted nothing more than to give in to her grief. One diseased rat could kill this entire ship. One minor miscalculation with the food, and we could starve. Any one of us could follow in poor Vivienne’s wake.
    A vision of her father’s disapproving face flashed in her memory. You’re better than this, Elisabeth. You’ll survive this crossing, flourish in this New France, and die an old woman, warm in your bed. Just to spite your mother.
    When the service concluded, Elisabeth and Nicole convinced Rose to partake in supper that evening, though Geneviève was beyond persuasion.
    â€œAnother two months,” Rose said, looking down at her uneaten soup.
    â€œWe’ll manage,” Elisabeth said, eyeing the murky concoction. Though unpalatable, the soup was warm and rich, but each day the mixture would grow more and more watery as rations grew sparser. “Others have before us, and others will long after we’ve safely arrived on shore.”
    â€œI spoke with one of the crew. He says we’ve passed the worst,” Nicole volunteered. “So long as we don’t hit any more storms, he thinks we may arrive early.”
    â€œLot of good that did Vivienne,” Rose mumbled to her dinner plate. “I should have stayed up with her.”
    â€œDon’t blame yourself, Rose,” Elisabeth said. “You did what you could, as did I. A doctor might have helped, but maybe not. She was so ill, there was nothing left to do. She passed on knowing that we cared. Try to take solace in that.”
    â€œI promised to care for her,” Rose said. “I promised Sister Charité.”
    â€œRose, I nursed my father for weeks before he died,” Elisabeth said. “I know what you feel. I felt it, too. I still feel that gut-wrenching pain—the guilt—two months later. The only way I managed to forgive myself is by realizing that Papa would not want me to take the blame. Vivienne would feel the same.”
    â€œI didn’t realize you’d lost your father so recently,” said Rose. “I’m very sorry.”
    â€œAs am I,” Elisabeth said. “But I can hear his voice in my head: ‘It was just my time, ’Lisie. Have a good cry for me—I deserve that much—and move on.’ So that’s what I’m trying to do. As you must, also.”
    The others giggled at Elisabeth’s impersonation of her father’s jovial tone. Even Elisabeth smiled. It became less and less difficult to think of Papa without pain. However, thoughts of her mother still forced her anger to rise to the surface like a festering blister. The scoldings for her disinterest in running a house. The jibes at her size. The spiteful way she disregarded Elisabeth’s talent in the kitchen. Elisabeth hoped someday she would learn to reflect on her childhood with a sense of peace.
    â€œYour father sounds like he was a wonderful man,” said Nicole.
    â€œThe best of men,” Elisabeth agreed. “I miss him terribly. It’s silly, but I brought his favorite rolling pin with me. I knew he’d want me to keep it, so I tucked it in with my petticoats.” There was also a ridiculous handkerchief in her trunk that she tried not to dwell on.
    â€œMy maman sent me with a pearl brooch that belonged to her mother,” Nicole said. “And Papa made me a wooden bird to