Reverend Johnson allowed Anne to suffer for a week before he told her that she would not be flogged for her fraud against his wife. She accepted his words without comment, relieved yet not wishing to be beside him for a moment longer that was necessary. She had barely tolerated him before. Now she loathed him more than she could have articulated, if, indeed, she had somebody to articulate it to. Without Mary's companionship, Anne had isolated herself from the rest of the camp. She worked, she ate and she slept. She endured the other duties of life inside the camp and she shrank from any unnecessary interaction. It was the only way she could survive.

The weeks wore on into months. Anne lost track, only noticing the day of rest as a break to the monotony of life in New South Wales. Even that caused her pain, serving to remind her of the bond shared by Reverend Johnson and his wife in which she had no role. It was weak-willed, she knew, but the more she tried to drive Mary from her mind, the more she lingered. And, yet, Anne had been true to her word. She had maintained distance from Mary, however it wounded her to merely watch from afar. That was her fate and she grew used to it. She could not force herself to forget, nor could she prevent her eyes searching for Mary in the settlement every moment of the day. Whenever she located her, though, she was disappointed to find her gaze unreciprocated. It was vain of her to hope for forgiveness, yet she yearned nonetheless. And so the days wore on with unremitting regularity and Anne sought sanctuary in her deepest fantasies, the life she could never live and the love she could never receive.

It was Sunday and the camp was quiet. Convicts were enjoying their one day of rest, conserving the energy sapped by the heat and dwindling rations in their tents following attendance at church. Anne could not bear to be amongst them so she repaired to the beach and the place where she could best indulge her desires - the spot where she had sat in the darkness with Mary. Expecting to be left alone, she was thus surprised when a figure thumped down beside her on the sand.

'James?' she questioned, glancing over her shoulder for the ever-present Private Buckley. She had shunned contact with both since Tommy Barrett's hanging, though for her it was more disinclination to involve herself than the visceral hatred which had enveloped the rest of the settlement.

'Do you wish me to move?' James asked.

She turned her attention back to him, noting his exhaustion. 'No,' she murmured.

'Thank you,' he said with unmistakable gratitude. After several minutes of staring into the ocean, he continued, 'You look miserable, Anne.'

'Are we not all miserable?' she returned.

'You are the only person I am able to ask why,' he said. Then he smiled wryly. 'Except Buckley. I am growing to like Buckley. We talk. Who do you talk to, Anne?'

'I have no need to talk.'

'That is a lie,' James replied. 'You may talk to me, if you wish. I have no one to share your secrets with, after all.'

'That is true,' she said. For a few moments she ruminated on the possibility then, before her mind was altered, she queried, 'Do you still love Elizabeth?'

James flinched and inclined his head. 'I do.'

'Despite the fact that she cannot bear you?'

'I love her enough to endure that.' He paused. 'Are you in love, Anne?'

'Yes,' she whispered.

For the first time in many months, there was a flicker of fascination on his worn features. 'Is it a convict?' he questioned. 'A soldier?'

'Neither,' she said.

'That is rather cryptic,' he said then he crossed his arms. 'Please tell me it is not the Governor or Captain Collins.'

She smiled. 'It is not.'

'That leaves Reverend Johnson,' remarked James.

Shivering, Anne said, 'Not the reverend, no.'

There was nothing but confusion on his face for several seconds until he chuckled. 'Now I understand.'

His mirth startled her. 'Are you not surprised?' she queried. 'Disgusted?'

'I have known of it in the past,' he answered.

'I had not,' she muttered. 'Is it not . . .'

Sighing, he dug his heels into the sand. 'Look at us, Anne. We are marooned, in a new world far away from England. None of us are the same people who made the journey. I was a pickpocket,' he went on. 'I am now a friendless hangman doomed to watch the woman I love used by soldiers.'

'How do you suffer that?' she asked quietly. It was something that tormented her, the image of Mary and her husband trying to conceive the baby she was desperate for. The idea revolted Anne, yet she could not banish it from her mind.

'I suffer it because I must,' James said. 'I cannot blame her for her hatred. I hope one day she may forgive me. I pray,' he added in a softer voice, 'that she may yet grow to love me.' He took a deep, shuddering breath and glanced to her. 'And what of you, Anne? What do you wish for?'

'Her,' she murmured. 'Every day from dawn to dusk and all through the night.'

He watched her with a small smile on his face. 'We are not so different, you and I.'

Meeting his gaze, she said, 'Perhaps not.'

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes. Anne would concede that being near to another person was not as vexing as it might have been, though that may just be because James was as miserable as she was. They were similar, she would certainly admit that, and James needed a friend as much as she. However, she was mindful that association with him could antagonise her fellow convicts. One of her abiding desires in this land was to survive. That was the only thing apart from Mary she cared about and fraternising with James could jeopardise that.

Eventually, their peace was disturbed. Anne heard Buckley speak to someone and braced herself for what she assumed would be an altercation. James stiffened too then he peered over his shoulder and jumped to his feet. Anne followed his gaze then leapt up too, startled to see Mary in such close proximity after weeks of attempting to study her from afar.

'Mrs Johnson,' she said with a petrified look towards James.

He merely bowed. 'I shall not impose upon your hospitality further, Anne. Thank you for your kindness.'

With that, he returned to Buckley and the pair departed. Anne's heart was hammering in her chest. If she had doubted the veracity of her affection for Mary, this encounter would have put such fears to bed. She looked back to the reverend's wife, wondering what she would see on her face. It was primarily intrigue, she realised, tinged with something akin perhaps to anxiety. Although she was adept at reading people, Anne could not be sure in this instant whether she was reading what she desired to see in Mary's countenance. All she was certain of was that Mary was scrutinising her intensely. It was a test, perhaps, and one she was anxious to pass.

'Are you well, Anne?' questioned Mary.

Her eyes flicked automatically back towards the camp, searching for a suit of black. 'Is everything . . .'

Mary grasped her meaning. 'My husband is in a meeting. My presence was not required.'

'Oh.' Anne did not know what else to say. Her senses were drinking in every aspect of Mary's appearance, from her tired yet tanned face down to the swell of her breasts which Anne immediately detected and traced to their root cause. 'Can I help, Mrs Johnson?' she asked after a lengthy pause.

Gesturing to the sand, Mary said, 'May I join you?'

'Of course,' she murmured, returning to her seat on the sand. She wondered if Mary recognised this spot, whether she realised she deliberately sat here to remind her of their last conversation. She glanced to her right as Mary sat beside her, desire coiling with anxiety in her stomach. Although she warned herself to be wary, she could not help her unbidden reaction to Mary's presence.

'You look ill, Anne,' Mary said following several moments of silence.

'I am not,' she replied. 'I am suffering no more than anybody else here, and less than some. I am fortunate in some respects.'

Mary was gazing at her, a glimmer of affection in her eyes which Anne had thought long spent. 'You are hungry.'

Anne couldn't contain her chuckle. 'That does not distinguish me in New South Wales.'

Reaching into a pocket sewn into her dress, Mary withdrew a handkerchief folded around something soft. She pressed it into Anne's hands, their fingers brushing. 'Take this,' she said.

'What is it?' Anne questioned, glancing up with a frown on her face.

'Only a little fish from my breakfast,' Mary replied.

Though her stomach ached at the prospect of more food, Anne handed the parcel back. 'I do not want it.'

Mary's forehead creased. 'You are hungry,' she repeated.

'Yes,' she conceded, 'but I cannot take your food.'

'I wish you to have it,' returned Mary, pushing it into her hands again. This time she rested her palm over the handkerchief, making it impossible for Anne to reject the gift. In truth, her mind was too occupied at the unexpected contact to argue coherently.

'I do not understand,' she said finally. 'You have not spoken to me for weeks and yet you seek me out to offer me food.'

'That we have not spoken does not mean I have not thought of you often.' Mary blinked and withdrew her hand.

Anne immediately felt the loss and looked back into the ocean to steady her thoughts, keenly aware that she should have prepared for this unanticipated meeting in her mind. In truth, the fantasies she had lost herself in had been too potent, too intricate. They may have been her key to survival in the weeks since their estrangement but they brought a flush to her cheeks now.

'Thank you,' she said, recognising that Mary's comment required a response. 'You have often been in my thoughts.'

There was a pause before Mary said, 'You have not spoken of what –'

'No,' Anne cut in. From nowhere, a ball of heat swelled in her stomach. She wrapped her hands around the handkerchief, feeling the fish inside buckle under the pressure. Turning to face Mary properly, she said, 'If this is a reward for saying nothing then I truly do not want it. I promised you I would not speak of it and I shall hold to that until the day I die.'

Mary stared at her, as if trying to fathom a puzzle. 'I do not understand,' she said at length. 'I have been dwelling on your words the last time we spoke. Do you remember that night?'

'I remember every word,' Anne returned.

'Your candour unsettled me,' said Mary, dipping her eyes to the handkerchief still on Anne's lap. 'It is true that you have nothing more to gain from my friendship. Even if I were foolish enough to allow myself to be duped again, my husband would never countenance you accompanying us back to England. You know that.'

'I do,' she murmured.

Mary swallowed and pressed her index finger into the slither of sand between them. 'And yet you wish us to be friends?'

'Yes,' Anne said, a tremble in her voice.

Her attention was fixed on Mary's bowed head, as though looking away would shatter their connection. She remembered all too well the hours they'd spent together not far from this spot, Mary trying to teach her to read. Had she really once lifted her head and questioned if she could come to her that night? It all seemed so distant, so golden. Anne's reply had been unhesitating, yet that had been before she truly accepted her feelings. It was that night more than anything, listening to Mary speak to her lost children, which solidified her emotions. The tearful recounting of the reverend's alteration in attitude from the first dead baby to the last had touched her deeply. She had said nothing at the time but she had felt much. She had ached to reach out and comfort Mary but she had dared not.

'Mrs Johnson,' she said quietly.

Mary's head lifted immediately, confusion swimming in her beautiful eyes. Perhaps there was a part of her that still expected to be duped, even as she sought her out in this way. That detail, Anne realised with a shiver, was highly important. Last time they had been brought together by fate. Today, Mary had not only wanted to speak to her but she had brought food with her, in strict contravention of the rules. The hope that had flickered in her chest during their last meeting so long ago now roared into a fire and, this time, it was not merely chaste friendship it burned for.

'Yes?' Mary prompted.

Anne met her gaze once more. 'I have longed for your forgiveness,' she answered. 'I have thought of little else. Because I promised to leave you alone, I have been unable to speak freely but that does not mean I have not felt the distance between us and regretted it.'

Searching her face, Mary eventually nodded. 'It is better my husband does not know of this.'

'I understand,' said Anne instantly. She could not help the smile that bloomed on her lips and, to her delight, it was mirrored on Mary's face. For a moment they looked at each other then Anne glanced down to her lap bashfully. 'Thank you for the fish,' she added.

'You are welcome,' returned Mary before standing. 'I must go.'

Anne cast her eyes upwards slowly. 'Yes.'

When she turned to leave Anne could not help but watch her progress across the beach. It was breathtaking and, with the sudden realisation that Mary's olive branch may mean more that even the bearer allowed, Anne was left reeling alone on the sands. Though she mitigated the sensation slightly by devouring the fish, her mind was more active than ever throughout the lengthy day of rest and into the night.