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Before departing for Africa, she had left explicit instructions with the higher-level employees at “Aronnax, Merchant” -- and paid a significant retainer to her feisty Parisian lawyer -- to ensure that the business continued smoothly during her absence. She expected to be gone as long as a year, given the lengthy sea voyage around Africa and back.

Now, as they stood together in the open sunshine, Caroline withdrew a wooden flute from her small traveling bag. “The pianoforte was too large to bring aboard, but I could not bear to be away from my music for so long.”

Nemo knew that her exuberant compositions had begun to draw attention back in Ile Feydeau. During a dinner party, Caroline’s mother had a pianist play one of the works found in her old room, and some local musicians had begun to suspect that the “mystery composer” might actually be living somewhere in Nantes. Caroline had considered the Africa trip an excellent excuse to remove herself from France for a while.

Now, with the wind thumping the sails above and the foaming waves applauding against the hull, Caroline toyed with melodies on her flute, letting her eyes fall closed as the music grew more complex, flowing out of her.

Nemo leaned against the railing, smiling with contentment. The sailors paused in their chores to listen. Dr. Fergusson came up on deck, then clapped his hands when she was finished. Surprised, Caroline looked at her unexpected audience. Nemo complimented her with his warm expression instead of words. Fergusson nodded his vigorous appreciation. “That was lovely, Madame.”

“I call it --” she caught herself. “It’s called ‘Siren Song.’”

“Written by the French composer Passepartout, of course,” Nemo added.

“Ah, yes. I’ve heard of the man,” Fergusson said, wearing a serious expression.

#

Later that afternoon, Caroline looked out at the sea, listening to the hum of rigging ropes overhead. She drew a deep breath of salt air, then turned to Nemo. “I’ve always heard the call of the sea, André, but now I understand it better.” She gripped the deck rail and faced the ocean-filled horizon. “There’s so much more to the world than . . . Nantes.”

“And I’ll show some of it to you.”

She strolled with him down the deck toward a patch of shade under the mizzen mast. “You must understand, André, that my options have been limited by the noose of social expectations. Even as a young man, you could do as you pleased and sign aboard a sailing ship. But I am a young woman. I had no such choices available. The only goal expected of me was to get married and stay at home. My parents even chose my husband for me. I have to pretend not to be the composer of the music I play in my own house.”

Now her cornflower blue eyes flashed with anger. “But I want to do things, too! I want to accomplish whatever I can dream, just as you have. I want to be the first woman to cross Africa. That is an admirable goal, is it not?”

Nemo laughed. He looked at her beautiful face, saw the determination there. “Most certainly.”

#

The ship put in at Zanzibar, a large island off the eastern shore of Africa south of the equator. The island was a staging point, a kingdom ruled by Sultan Seyyid Said, who had consolidated an empire spanning Oman and Zanzibar and Tanzania. More than a decade ago, the old but powerful man had been forced to request English assistance to keep his kingdom.

Zanzibar was now a British protectorate, with a large fort and barracks in the middle of the island’s main city. Britain’s stated purpose was to put an end to the heinous practice of human slavery (of which Zanzibar was a willing participant), but years had passed, and the slave trade from Zanzibar to the West Indies and the Americas had not declined.

As the ship tied up at the dock in mid-afternoon, Dr. Fergusson came to greet Nemo and Caroline. He wore formal evening clothes, a stovepipe hat, and black coat, the very picture of a dapper Englishman. “Allow me to escort you into the