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behind them and headed toward the mountains. The snow-covered summits and the endless grassland of the Canterbury Plains that stretched out like a sea had fascinated her ever since her arrival in her new homeland. She could still clearly remember the day she had come over the Bridle Path between the harbor town of Lyttelton and the city of Christchurch—on a horse instead of a mule, which the other London ladies she had come with on the
Dublin
were riding. She still remembered how that had vexed her father-in-law. Yet her cob mare, Igraine, had brought her safely through the landscape, which had seemed so cold, rocky, and inhospitable that one wanderer had compared it to the “hills of hell.” But then they had reached the highest point, and in the flatland before them lay Christchurch and the Canterbury Plains. The land where she belonged.
    Gwyneira held the reins loosely as she told her granddaughter about her first encounter with this country. Kura let the words bounce offher with no comment whatsoever. Only the mention of the “hills of hell” seemed to register. It reminded her of the ballad “The Daemon Lover,” and she even began to hum the song.
    As Gwyneira listened, she wondered which branch of the family Kura had inherited her extraordinary musical talent from. Certainly not from the Silkhams, Gwyneira’s family. Though Gwyneira’s sisters had played the piano with more enthusiasm than she had, they had not done so with any greater skill. Her first husband had possessed considerably more talent. Lucas Warden had been an aesthete who played the piano beautifully. But he had surely gotten that from his mother, and Kura was not related to her by blood.
    Gwyneira preferred not to think any more about the convoluted relations within the Warden family. It was probably Marama alone, the Maori singer, who had passed on her talent to Kura. It was Gwyneira’s own fault for having bought the girl that confounded piano after having given away Lucas’s instrument years before. Otherwise, Kura might have limited herself to the traditional instruments and music of the Maori.

    The trip to Queenstown lasted several days, and the travelers almost always managed to find nightly lodging at one farm or another. Gwyneira knew just about every sheep breeder in the area, but even strangers were generally taken in hospitably. Many farms lay in seclusion on rarely traveled paths, and the owners were excited about every visitor who brought news or carried mail—which the O’Kay Warehouse’s drivers, who had taken this route for years, did.
    The travelers had almost reached Otago when, in the open country, they had no other choice but to make camp in the covered wagons. Gwyneira tried to make an adventure out of it in an attempt to draw Kura out; up to that point, she had mostly sat glumly next to Gwyneira, seeming to hear nothing except the melodies in her head.
    “James and I often lay awake during nights like this and listen to the birds. Listen, that’s a kea. You only hear those here in the mountains as they don’t come as far as Kiward Station.”
    “In Europe there are supposed to be birds that can really sing,” Kura remarked in her melodic voice, which was reminiscent of her mother’s. But where Marama’s voice sounded light and sweet, Kura’s was full and velvety. “Real melodies, Miss Witherspoon says.”
    Gwyneira nodded. “Yes, I remember them. Nightingales and larks… they sound lovely, really. We could buy a record with bird sounds. You could play it on your gramophone.” The gramophone had been Gwyneira’s present to Kura the Christmas before.
    “I’d rather hear them out in nature,” Kura sighed. “And I would rather travel to England to learn to sing than to Queenstown. I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do there.”
    Gwyneira took the girl in her arms. In truth, Kura had not liked that for years, but here, in the grand lonesomeness beneath the stars, even she was more