'Only that I wish you all success for tonight: for your brother's sake and mine, and indeed for all of us.'

'I will do what I can, Mr Halder.'

'I do not doubt it for a moment, Miss Lambert. If anyone could succeed in this delicate mission it is none other than you. Your brother has told us something of your story and I confess I am amazed. You are a woman of extraordinary talent, Miss Lambert – a genius in a way. Your performance so far has been so fine, so true, as not to be an impersonation at all. I would never have thought my eye, or my ear, could have been thus deceived – and that too, by a firangin, a Frenchwoman.'

'But I am none of those things, Mr Halder,' protested Paulette. 'There is nothing untrue about the person who stands here. Is it forbidden for a human being to manifest themselves in many different aspects?'

'Evidently not. I hope very much, Miss Lambert, that we will meet again somewhere, and in happier circumstances.'

'I hope so too, Mr Halder. And when we do, I trust you will call me Paulette – or Putli, as Jodu does. But should you wish to call me Pugli, that too is not an identity that I would disown.'

'And I, Miss Paulette, would ask you to call me Neel – except that if we do meet again, I suspect I will have had to change my name. But until then, in any event, I wish you farewell. And bon courage.'

And to you too. Bhalo thakben.

Paulette had no sooner sat down than she was summoned to the air duct by Jodu: Putli, it's time; you've got to change and get ready. Mamdoo-tindal's going to let you out in a few minutes.

At midnight, when his watch ended, Zachary changed into a set of dry clothes and fell into his bunk fully dressed – in a blow like this one, there was no knowing when he'd be needed on deck. Apart from the single storm-sail there was not a stitch aloft on the schooner's masts, but the wind was blowing so hard that the sound of this one square of cloth was like that of a massed chorus of sail. From the violence with which his bunk was pitching under him, Zachary knew, too, that the Ibis was being buffeted by waves of a good twenty feet or more. The swells were no longer surging over the bulwarks, but crashing down from above, like breakers pounding a beach, and when the water ran off the decks, it was with a sucking sound, like surf retreating down a slope of sand.

Twice, as he lay on his bunk, Zachary had heard an ominous creak, like that of a spar, or a mast, about to give way, and despite his intentions of getting a good rest, his senses were at a fine pitch of alertness, listening for further signs of damage. This was why the first hint of a knock at his door made him sit up. The cabin was dark, for Zachary had put out his lamp before he lay down; as he was tumbling out of his bunk, the schooner rolled to larboard, throwing him against the door: he would have crashed into it, face first, if he hadn't turned sideways and used his shoulder to soften the impact.

As the schooner was righting itself, he called out: 'Who is it?' Receiving no answer, he pulled the door open.

Steward Pinto had left a single lamp glowing in the cuddy, and by the light of the dim, flickering flame he saw a lascar standing at the door, with his dripping oilskins draped over his arm. He was a wiry, boyish fellow with a bandanna around his head. Zachary didn't recognize him, for his face was in shadow.

'Who're you?' he said. 'What're you doing here?'

Before Zachary could finish, the schooner listed to starboard, sending both of them stumbling into the cabin. As they were wrestling to regain their footing, the door slammed shut and the deck tilted again. All of a sudden, Zachary found himself lying on his bunk, with the lascar beside him. Then, out of the darkness, a whisper made itself heard that all but froze his blood. 'Mr Reid… Mr Reid… please…'

The voice was distantly familiar, but in a way that was profoundly unnerving, in the manner of something so far removed from its proper circumstance that it could only be an unnatural version of itself. Zachary's voice died in his throat and his skin began to prickle as the whispering continued. 'Mr Reid, it is I, Paulette Lambert…'

'What was that?' Zachary would not have been in the least surprised if the presence beside him had disappeared or dematerialized – for what else could it be but a conjuration of his own imaginings? – but this possibility was quickly dismissed, for the voice now repeated its earlier claim: 'Please, Mr Reid… believe me, it is I, Paulette Lambert.'

'Impossible!'

'Believe me, Mr Reid,' the voice continued in the darkness. 'It is true. I pray you will not be angered, but you should know I have been aboard since the commencement of the voyage – in the 'tween-deck, among the women.'

'No!' Zachary pushed himself sideways, moving as far from her as the bunk would allow. 'I was there when the coolies boarded. I'd'a known.'

'But it is true, Mr Reid. I came aboard with the migrants. It was because of my sari that you did not reconnaisse me.'

He knew now, from her voice, that it really was Paulette – and it occurred to him that surely he ought to be glad to have her there, beside him. But no more than any other sailor did he care to be boarded in the smoke: he had never liked to be taken by surprise, and he found himself growing embarrassed as he considered how ridiculous he must have looked a minute or two ago.

'Well, Miss Lambert,' he said, stiffly. 'If it is you, you've certainly succeeded in making quite a dupe of me.'

'Such was not my intention, Mr Reid. I assure you.'

'May I ask,' he said, trying to recover his lost composure, 'which one you were – which of the women, that is?'

'Yes, for sure, Mr Reid,' she said eagerly. 'You have seen me many times, but perhaps without noticing: I was often on deck, doing the washing.' The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she sensed that she'd said too much already – but a mounting nervousness made it impossible for her to stop. 'This very shirt you are wearing now, Mr Reid, I washed it, this and all your…'

'… dirty linen? Is that what you were going to say?' Zachary was mortified now, and his cheeks began to burn. 'Pray tell me, Miss Lambert,' he said, 'what was it for, all this trickery and deceit? Just to show me up for a fool?'

Paulette was stung by the sharpness of his tone. 'You are much mistaken, Mr Reid,' she said, 'if you imagine that you are the cause of my presence on board. Believe me, it was solely for myself that I did what I have done. It was imperatif for me to leave Calcutta – you know full well the reasons. This was my only means of escape and what I did was no different from what my grand-aunt, Madame Commerson, would have done.'

'Your grand-aunt, Miss Lambert?' said Zachary acidly. 'Why, you have outdone her by far! Indeed you have proved yourself the equal of any chameleon. You have so perfected the arts of impersonation that I should not doubt they have become the very core of your soul.'

Paulette could not understand how this encounter, in which she had invested so much hope and emotion, had turned into such an ugly fencing match. But nor was she one to back down in the face of a challenge. Her response sprang from her lips before she could bite it back: 'Oh, Mr Reid! You allow me more credit than is my due. If I have any equal in impersonation, surely it is none other than yourself?'

Despite the howling of the wind and the crash of the waves outside, there was a strange stillness in the cabin now. Zachary swallowed once, and then cleared his throat: 'So you know?' If his imposture had been announced from the truck of the mainmast, he could not have felt more exposed, more completely a charlatan than he did then.