A minute or so later, her head resting on Aria’s thigh, she said when her breath had returned, ‘Sorry. That was a bit greedy. I couldn’t wait.’

  ‘That is all right. Your elbow is on my hair.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Friday moved.

  Aria sat up. ‘That was extremely nice, thank you. You are very skilled.’

  ‘I was a bit worried. You know, that girls might do things differently in New Zealand.’

  Grinning, Aria said, ‘No, it is more or less the same.’ She cupped Friday’s face with a hand and kissed her lingeringly. ‘But perhaps we are a little different. Shall I show you?’

  ‘Oh, yes please.’

  At midday, Aria looked at the clock again and let out a squawk of alarm. ‘Bugger! I must go. My mother will have everyone out looking for me by now!’ She slid off the bed, scrambled into her drawers, and put on her boots. Stepping into her dress, she held her hair out of the way and asked, ‘Will you close the buttons, please?’

  While her fingers were busy, Friday said, ‘When do you go back to New Zealand?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  Friday’s heart felt squeezed and for a second she couldn’t breathe, which was silly as she’d known Aria’s visit to Sydney was only for a week or so. ‘So soon?’ she said.

  ‘I know. I am sorry. You could come to New Zealand to visit me,’ Aria said. ‘Not to my home in the Bay of Islands, my mother would not allow that, but we could meet somewhere else.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m a convict.’ Tears stung Friday’s eyes. ‘I can’t leave Sydney.’

  Aria turned and took Friday’s hands. ‘Then I will see you the next time my mother and father come here for business.’

  ‘She’s not going to let you come back, though, is she?’ Friday said.

  ‘But I want to see you again.’

  ‘And I want to see you.’

  ‘Then I will try, Friday. I will try as hard as I can.’

  Aria glanced at the shingle above the shop door announcing in gold lettering Adam and Sarah Green Fine Jewellery, and touched her mother’s arm.

  ‘This is it,’ she said in Maori.

  ‘And they have the best prices?’ Mahuika asked.

  ‘And best quality,’ Aria said, though she didn’t know if that were true or not. Neither did she care. The expedition to buy jewellery was a ruse, but one she knew her mother wouldn’t be able to resist, despite still being angry at her for disappearing this morning. She’d said she’d been bored and had gone for a walk in Hyde Park. Her mother hadn’t believed her, but there was nothing to be done about it by the time she’d returned.

  ‘Who recommended this jeweller to you?’ Mahuika asked.

  ‘A lady I met walking in the park. A very fine lady. You would have approved of her, Mother,’ Aria said, getting in a dig at her mother’s snobbery.

  Mahuika scowled, but Aria could see she was tempted. No one, in fact, had recommended the shop — Friday had merely mentioned that her friend, Sarah, had been assigned here and had married the jeweller, Adam Green.

  They went in. Behind the counter stood the girl whom Aria had seen in the draper’s with Friday — Sarah, presumably. She was small (but almost all Pakeha women were), dark and quite attractive in a sleek sort of way, with clever eyes.

  ‘Good morning, ladies. How may I help you?’

  If she’d recognised her, Aria thought, she wasn’t letting on. Perhaps Friday had told her Mahuika didn’t like her. If so, that would be very useful.

  ‘Good morning,’ Mahuika said, switching to English. ‘We would like to look at gold. Chains and earrings, I think.’

  ‘And perhaps some bangles,’ Aria said.

  ‘Are you considering eighteen or twenty-two carat?’

  ‘What do you recommend?’ Aria asked.

  ‘Eighteen carat is more durable than twenty-two. It’s harder and won’t scratch as badly. I’d recommend eighteen carat for a bangle and probably for a neck chain, particularly if you were considering wearing a pendant with it. Twenty-two carat is suitable for earrings, however.’

  ‘Show us some bangles in eighteen carat, then,’ Mahuika said, ‘wide, not narrow. A selection of long chains also in eighteen carat, and some drop earrings in twenty-two carat. I do not like the short ones that sit close to the ear.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Sarah opened the hatch in the counter and unlocked a display cabinet containing bangles and bracelets. She removed a tray, relocked the cabinet and moved to the one containing chains.

  ‘I will take that tray if you like,’ Aria volunteered.

  ‘Thank you,’ Sarah said.

  As Sarah handed it to her, Aria said under her breath, ‘I have something for Friday.’

  Sarah gave the smallest of nods and opened the next cabinet.

  Soon there were five trays on the counter, and Mahuika, laden with gold, was busy admiring herself in the looking glass.

  ‘Have you decided on a bangle, Aria?’ she asked, apparently unable to tear her gaze from her own glittering reflection.

  Aria made a pretence of dithering. ‘I cannot make up my mind.’ She slid a snake-quick hand into a pocket, passed Sarah a small, cloth-wrapped parcel, and mouthed, ‘Christmas.’ Sarah took it and popped it into a drawer.

  Mahuika turned around. ‘I wish to purchase these earrings, and these three chains.’

  ‘And I would like this,’ Aria said, indicating the first bangle she’d tried on.

  As Mahuika counted out her money, Sarah found velvet-covered presentation boxes for the jewellery.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mahuika said, slipping the boxes into her reticule.

  Aria caught Sarah’s gaze and held it briefly. ‘Yes, thank you very much.’

  Friday was in a particularly foul mood, and her behaviour was only making Harrie’s headache worse. She and Leo had been working all afternoon on Friday’s phoenix, now half completed, and she’d complained the entire time about not being able to drink. Leo didn’t allow alcohol during a session, and she’d grizzled and sworn and bitched since midday. It was now almost six o’clock and Harrie, close to tears from the exhaustion of bending over Friday’s back and concentrating so hard, felt like slapping her, only she didn’t have the energy. She wished Leo had started her on something smaller, but she would have been too nervous to practise on anyone else but Friday, who of course wanted an enormous tattoo.

  The design began on Friday’s shoulders and ended on one thigh. The bird’s outstretched wings spread across Friday’s back, the tip of the left wing touching her left shoulder blade, the head on her right shoulder blade, and the tip of the right wing extending beneath her right arm to brush her breast. The long, full feathers of the tail swept down the left side of her back, flicked out at her waist and curved across her right buttock, the longest tail feather ending at the top of the back of her thigh. Between the bird’s head and left wing hovered Harrie’s trademark bat. The entire outline had been completed, the individual feathers of the body and wings coloured red, green and blue, and now they were colouring the tail feathers orange and red. It would be stunning when it was finished — it was fabulous now — but today Harrie had had enough. Mostly of Friday.

  ‘I think we’ll call it a day,’ Leo said, looking over Harrie’s shoulder.

  ‘Thank God,’ Friday grumbled. ‘I’m going to die if I don’t get a fucking drink. It is my day off, you know.’

  ‘You didn’t have to lie here all afternoon bitching and moaning,’ Leo said. ‘You could quite easily have gone somewhere else and done that.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t. I had an appointment here. It’s not my fault you’ve got a stupid rule about not drinking.’

  The rule never bothered you before, Harrie thought. In fact, Friday usually loved being tattooed. She got so relaxed she might as well be drunk. ‘What is the matter?’ she asked as she applied salve to the freshly inked areas. ‘You’ve been really horrible today.’

  ‘Nothing’s the matter.’

  Harrie and Leo exchanged exasperated glances.

  ‘Is it because your friend’s gone back home?’ Harrie said. Sarah had told her Friday had made a new friend, though also that she was worried Friday would be upset now that the girl had returned to New Zealand.

  Sliding off the tattoo bench, Friday tugged down her shift and closed the waistband on her skirt. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Sarah.’

  ‘What else did she say?’

  ‘Nothing. Just that. Oh! I just realised,’ Harrie said. ‘Was it that girl, Aria? The one who came here?’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ Friday muttered. Ferreting around in her reticule for a hip flask of gin, she waved it at Leo. ‘Can I drink now?’

  ‘You can do what you like now Harrie’s finished.’

  ‘Friday?’ Harrie persisted. ‘Is that why you’re upset?’

  ‘It might be.’ Friday took an enormous swig and let out a reverberating burp. ‘Well, I’m off to the pub. Me and Molly are getting on the jar.’

  ‘Good,’ Leo said to her retreating back. ‘And don’t come back until you’re in a better mood.’

  In response, Friday slammed the door.

  Harrie said, ‘She didn’t even say thank you.’

  Leo shrugged. ‘I’m glad to see the back of her. Foul-tempered witch.’

  ‘It’s really not like her to be so horrible. Honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with her,’ Harrie said as she went to fetch fresh cloths to clean her needles.

  ‘I think I might,’ Leo muttered. When Harrie returned he asked, ‘How’s the new lass working out at the Barretts’?’

  ‘Good. Her name’s Emma and she’s nice and very efficient, though I think Hannah’s trying her nerves a little. But Hannah tries everyone’s nerves.’

  ‘Assigned?’

  ‘No, she immigrated here. She only arrived last month.’

  ‘And Nora’s managed to convince George the lass’s pay’s coming out of my purse, not hers?’

  Harrie nodded. ‘We had to tell Emma she’s to pretend you’re paying her once a week, but I don’t think she cares as long as she gets her money. Mr Barrett keeps going on about what a clever deal Mrs Barrett did getting you to jemmy open your purse.’ Harrie made an apologetic face. ‘I’m very sorry, but he keeps saying you must be more stupid than you look.’

  Leo laughed. ‘I’m stupid?’

  Friday and Molly had been in the Fortune of War since seven o’clock and were both swattled. Friday had already thrown up once when she went outside for a wee — not because she’d drunk herself ill, but due to the sheer amount of ale and gin sloshing around in her belly. It had all rushed up and out when she’d bent over to lift her skirts before she’d squatted. How bloody annoying, and what a waste of money. But she had plenty of it in a little cloth purse shoved down the front of her bodice, so she soon filled up again, this time on gin and brandy, never mind the ale. She should have remembered that ale never sat too well in her stomach.

  The pub was small and crowded, with only one great table down the middle of the room, low stools and narrow ledges lining the two longest walls, and the serving counter at the far end. The windows were wide open in an attempt to let muggy, rain-tainted evening air into the stuffy interior. In a corner a trio of musicians jammed onto a tiny platform were bashing out tunes on a battered old military snare drum, a fiddle and a wooden flute. There was a severe shortage of seats, and for that reason Friday and Molly began the evening carrying their stools up to the counter so as not to lose them, but the drunker they got, the more complicated this became until eventually they ended up sitting on people’s laps.

  For the first time in the days since Aria had gone back to New Zealand, Friday felt the painful ache in her chest subside a little. She knew she’d been mean to Harrie and Leo this afternoon, but she couldn’t help it. Every time she’d opened her mouth, no matter what she’d intended to say, something nasty had come out. If Leo had let her drink, it mightn’t have been so bad, but he hadn’t. Even the lovely needles, normally so soothing, hadn’t helped.

  God almighty, what was she going to do? Getting mashed out of her head tonight was one thing, but even she knew she couldn’t stay drunk forever. Well, not this drunk. How was she going to live from day to day not knowing whether she’d ever see Aria again?

  The smelly, grope-handed cove whose knee she was sitting on shouted in her ear to shift her arse — he had to go out the back to pump ship. Hoping he’d lose his way and drown in the cesspit, Friday waved Molly over and they both squeezed into his space on the bench. Having grown sick of the inconvenience of traipsing up and down to the counter, they’d both bought bottles of spirits — gin for Friday and brandy for Molly. The bottles were now half empty. Friday’s face and mouth were growing numb, and she was fast reaching the point at which she knew she would switch from being an amiable drunk to a deeply unpleasant one.

  And, frankly, she was quite looking forward to it. She could do with a bloody good fight.

  Molly said, ‘Christ, it’s hot. I’m seeing double. Are you?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Friday closed one eye then opened it again. ‘Nearly.’

  ‘Maybe we should have had some supper.’

  Friday sneered. ‘What for? Just makes you take longer to get drunk.’

  ‘True.’ Molly took a long gulp from her bottle. ‘You working tomorrow?’

  ‘One till ten.’

  ‘Least you’ll get a lie in. I’m on at ten.’

  ‘Mrs H’ll bollocks you if you go to work mashed,’ Friday said.

  ‘Silly old bitch’ll bollocks me anyway.’

  Thinking she was about to fall backwards off the bench, Friday made a wild grab at the table. ‘Shit! What for?’

  ‘Leading you astray. ’Parantly it’s my fault you drink too much.’

  ‘Arse.’

  ‘Zackly.’

  A bleary-eyed woman sitting across the table leant in and said at the top of her fishwife’s voice, ‘Hey, you two are whores, aren’t yis?’

  Molly and Friday stared at her.

  ‘’Cos if you are, and I find out my Bill’s been with either of yis, I’ll scratch your bloody eyes out, I will!’

  ‘Oh, I remember Bill,’ Molly said. She turned to Friday. ‘Isn’t he the cove who reckons his wife’s minge stinks like a boatload of fish swum up it and died, and that’s why he has to pay to shag us?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Friday replied. ‘That’s what he told me, anyway.’

  ‘You bloody pair of sluts!’ the woman screeched. ‘I hope yis both get the pox and die!’ And to the noisy delight of everyone else at the table, she grabbed a tankard of ale and threw it over Molly.

  With her yellow-blonde hair plastered to her head, Molly shrieked, snatched up a pickle bowl and hurled it at the woman. Pickles went everywhere. The woman retaliated with a glass tumbler aimed at Friday, which missed and hit a man behind her.

  Bloody excellent, Friday thought. She leapt to her feet, used the bench to step up onto the table, bent down and hauled the open-mouthed woman to her feet. The crowd roared. Friday dragged the woman along the table, knocking over tankards and bottles and tumblers, then upended her and tipped her onto the floor. A man whose hand Friday had stamped on grabbed her ankle and yanked, sending her crashing to the ground, but a second later she was up again, swinging wildly.

  Cursing and wringing ale out of her hair, Molly slipped into the crowd.

  Then Friday glimpsed Rowie Harris, lurking near the door. She let out a roar of rage and launched herself towards her, knocking folk in all directions, and managed to grab the back of Rowie’s skirt as she tried to dart outside. Hauling her back in and dragging her round by her hair, she ducked as Rowie threw a punch. The blow glanced off the top of her head and she hit back, connecting solidly with Rowie’s face. Rowie screeched and her fingernails became cat’s claws and their hands were caught in each other’s hair and they kicked and bit and Friday managed to bash Rowie’s head against the doorjamb with a very satisfying crunch. Then Friday started to choke as someone hauled her backwards by her jacket collar, and she tried to hit out as, to her absolute fury, Rowie stumbled outside and escaped. Friday staggered, bounced off someone else, and used the momentum to throw another punch.

  At the other end of the room the publican had come out from behind the counter, having already sent someone to fetch the police. He was sick and tired of drunks smashing up his premises. Forcing his way through the crowd, he shouted in Friday’s face, ‘You’re banned! Get out!’

  ‘And you’re an arsehole!’ she shot back. ‘Get fucked!’

  Reluctantly, the publican signalled his barman for help. Between them they could drag her to the door and throw her out, but while the serving counter was unattended God only knew how much he would lose in stolen alcohol.

  Friday saw the barman coming — a cove with considerably more height and muscle than the publican — and turned to face him, teeth bared in a snarl, fists up. The crowd cheered her mettle, but also formed a solid wall barring her escape; they were thoroughly enjoying the spectacle, and didn’t want it to end. She let loose a punch but the publican blocked it and struck the side of her head with an open hand, and while she was blinking away stars, the barman twisted her arm up behind her back and marched her towards the door. The crowd booed heartily, while the publican raced back to the counter to salvage his stock.

  Friday’s ear burnt and there was a terrible ringing noise in her head, and now she really was seeing double. Her arm hurt like hell and she was being shoved so violently her feet were barely touching the ground. Where was Molly? Shite, now the bloody police were here. Mrs H was going to kill her.

  As a pair of constables hauled her down the steps, slippery now that the rain had started, she shouted over her shoulder, ‘Molly! Molly!’ A constable fumbled at her wrists with a set of manacles and she ducked her head and bit his hand.

  But Molly was inside, knocking back a bottle of brandy she’d pinched from behind the counter. Friday would be all right. She’d probably be taken to the Harrington Street watch house, and let out tomorrow morning when she’d sobered up. Or not. Either way, she could look after herself.