“Bye, Son—Bye, Mer—”
They were outside before he could finish. Already the light was beginning to wane, and a fresh fog bank glowed silver-yellow to the west—the beams from several Gannet airships roving through the mist, probably searching for a vessel in distress. The gas lighter and his dependable old bulldog made their way up the seafront, illuminating the tall streetlamps one by one, while a convoy of steam-powered cars flying Suffragette banners and honking their horns clattered by, making the dog bark like crazy.
By the time Meredith and her sister took their seats on the half-empty tram, Parnell had shut up shop. He stood outside the front door wearing his beige duffel, leather gloves and bowler hat, and upturned his collar to help ward off the chill. A dully dressed young woman with a broken boot heel limped toward him up the pavement. When she saw him, she waved madly and quickened her pace. He waved back, sprinted into her arms and lifted her as high as he could, spinning her round and round, to her immense delight.
Meredith swallowed self-consciously, trying to suppress the surprising ache that swelled inside her. She looked to Sonja, who was also watching the blissful couple. The ensuing silence they shared on the tram ride home seemed to echo unspoken truths between them. Hard to put a finger on, the inklings had been there these past couple of years but never quite so telling, nor so eloquent of feeling. A sad, constricting feeling.
They were close as sisters, yes—they had each other. But there was perhaps something missing after all, something that gaped and would continue to widen between them no matter how much they railed against the world. Maybe it was because they railed against the world, everything society insisted they should be. But one thing she felt for certain: the strokes of an inevitable countdown had begun—exactly when she didn’t know. It was one they both felt, tacitly, but could never share. For it was beyond siblings, beyond family, beyond any casual expression.
It was a yearning.
Before today, she’d never been jealous of Parnell.
Chapter Four
Lubbers
The first lightning stuttered through thick, heavy clouds far to the south, somewhere in the vicinity of Lake Windermere, as Derek trudged over sleet-mushed meadowland at the head of the fifth year girls’ school outing. The orienteering session had taken far longer than expected, owing to Mrs. Prescott’s needlessly convoluted course and the far too generous spacing of posts the girls, paired together without any real experience of map-reading, had had to find. Not one pair had completed the course, though the McEwan girl and her partner, Carice Rijkaard, had come closest, missing only one of the checkpoints. The girls were all fagged, damp and miserable after the hike, and to top it off Mrs. Prescott had lambasted their slovenly performance—a completely uncalled for dressing-down, in Derek’s opinion.
As the assistant biology teacher at South Hampshire Grammar, he knew most of the faculty pretty well. While Mrs. Prescott possessed formidable leadership abilities as Deputy Head, she also had a tendency to push her staff and students beyond their limits in terms of homework and performance, as though she were on a ceaseless character-building crusade for the entire school. No one could quibble with the exam results—SHG’s ranked among the highest in the country—but nor could it be said the staff room was a particularly pleasant place to be. Competition between departments, too much paperwork, rigid curriculums, a clear division between the Prescott acolytes and those who simply put their heads down and got on with the job, churning out obedient, studious, clever, untouched souls year after year for a mediocre salary; frankly he was glad to be leaving.
“How far now, Auric?” Eustace Challender, Deputy Head of Political Education and at thirty-two the second youngest male teacher at SHG after Derek, strolled ahead, arm-in-arm with his wife Wilhelmina, an arts and crafts teacher. Neither of them looked Derek in the eye.
“Just over the next rise,” Derek replied.
“About time, I reckon.”
“I beg your pardon?” Derek almost crushed the compass in his hand in frustration.
“No more navigating hiccups, pray?”
“No, let’s hope not...” You fat, pompous arse. Let’s see you do any better. Eustace had barely done a hand’s turn these past two days, but loved lecturing others on the importance of teamwork—oh, how he loved to lecture. A loud, obese market vendor of a man, he epitomised everything Derek disliked about the Prescott lickspittles, from his Yes, ma’am, no ma’am, three bags full ma’am demeanour whenever she addressed him, to his bullying nature in the classroom.
His father had worked in the Leviacrum tower, but despite a burning desire to follow in his footsteps, Eustace had not demonstrated a comparable flair for the sciences. This had made him bitter and jealous of those who did get accepted, including Derek, whose Leviacrum apprenticeship would begin in the next semester. A rather prestigious situation, too, in Professor Coleman’s revered, secretive human biology department. A Newton’s Trust bronze medal would be Derek’s on completion of the three-year apprenticeship, which would open all sorts of doors within the establishment—potentially limitless promotion prospects.
If only he weren’t so ambivalent about the placement. For his family, it was the highest honour an Auric had received in a long time, and they were immensely proud of him. He would accept the position for that reason alone, even if his own personal proclivities chafed against the unwholesome rumours that persisted in most Leviacrum matters, particularly its corruption of the justice system to further its own ambitions. Powerful stuff, much of it unsubstantiated, yet if the old adage was true about there being no smoke without fire, the whole of London ought to be ablaze.
The gossip followed him everywhere he went—street corners, pubs, prize fights, the social club, even on school outings with sheltered young women. Sonja McEwan had let slip more than a few risqué condemnations of the empire, much to her classmates’ annoyance. Impressive girl, proud and full of vinegar. But she was the least popular student in her class for that reason. And if the objections of one schoolgirl could stir up such a hornet’s nest—Mrs. Prescott and the Challenders had already discussed sending a letter to her father about her unsavoury remarks—what would happen if the nation’s bottled-up rancour found a militant outlet? Perhaps sponsored by the Coalition forces from abroad? Politically speaking, by joining the Leviacrum, he might be walking into a gunpowder magazine with a lit cigarette.
The first spits of sleet gave way to heavy snowflakes. In minutes, the entire hillside was a whiteout, soft and eerie.
“Stay close, girls,” Mrs. Prescott bellowed back over the vague path. She slung the rucksack from her shoulder, retrieved a length of climbing rope and passed it back through the party. “I want you all to hold on to this line and follow the girl in front of you. Walk single file, help your partner, and no one is to let go under any circumstances. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mrs. Prescott.”
“We should reach the coaches shortly. Mr. Auric has it in hand. Then we will all be able to get warm with a cup of hot soup before the drive back to Keswick. Now I want no idlers and no complaints. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Mrs. Prescott.”
For a hefty woman in her late fifties, she was remarkably nimble and had more energy than many people half her age. But her face was not a healthy colour—deep red, almost purple as she wheezed by, handing Derek the end of the rope.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
Several gasps later, she gave a rapid nod, faced scrunched, mouth agape. “Yes, I’m—whuwh—I shall be glad to have a sit down.”
“Why don’t you take a few minutes?” Derek placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she bent, hands on thighs, to recover her breath. “There’s no wind yet, it isn’t all that cold. And here, let me take that.” He tugged at her rucksack strap until she shrugged it off for him.
“What’s the matter, Miss? Have you got a stitch?”
“Quiet, McEwan. Get back in line!” Wilhelmina Challender yelled.
Derek glanced over his shoulder at Sonja McEwan. She was muffled like an Inuit, fleeced trousers tucked into her Wellingtons, the hood of her kagool pulled back out of her eyes, revealing a smooth, attractive, young-looking face steamed pink by her exertions. Of the dozen or so who could see Mrs. Prescott’s discomfort, she was the only one who had stepped out of line to enquire after her.
“We should get her to the coaches as soon as possible.” Eustace ducked beside his poorly superior, draping her arm over his shoulders, ready to lift her. “Auric, help me out, man.”
“We should leave her to rest a minute.” Derek then addressed Mrs. Prescott, “Your colour is not good. I’d rather you stay here awhile and recuperate than risk over-exerting yourself further. If it’s your heart, walking on so soon could trigger an attack.”
The poor woman could hardly draw breath, let alone answer. Derek caught her as she teetered to one side. “Look here, Challender, she’s about to faint. Let go of her, and you see the girls safely back to camp.” He nodded Eustace ahead, in the direction they’d been going. “I’ll stay with her while she recovers. You have your compass?”
“Yes, but—”
“Keep to a north-northeast heading. It shouldn’t be more than half a mile from here.”
“W-what about you?” Eustace held off his wife tugging at his arm.
“We’ll be fine as long as the wind doesn’t get up.” I hope.
Eustace thought for a moment, then raised his chin. “Right, ladies, it’s quick-to and follow your leader, no dawdling. Mrs. Prescott has had a nasty turn, and Mr. Auric is going to look after her until she’s ready to walk again. We need to get you lot back safely before the weather worsens.”
“You should carry her.” Again, the McEwan girl had spoken her mind out of turn.
“Let’s leave the big decisions to the grown-ups if you don’t mind, thank you very much. Now, watch your footing—it’s awful slippery downhill on this virgin white.” Eustace whispered something to his wife. She eyed Derek with concern before creeping to the back of the line, to watch the rear for stragglers. “All right, off we go.”
Mrs. Prescott’s breathing softened as she lay in his arms, shivering, wide-gazing at the frosted heather lining a peat bog to their left. No sooner had the girls begun to file past in their colourful array of macks and Wellingtons, gawping down at their stricken mistress whose wrath they’d feared more than death itself mere minutes before, when one of them slipped on the mushy snow. She slapped the ground hard and groaned, rolling onto her side as she clutched her ankle.
“Sir, sir,” another girl shouted ahead to Eustace Challender. “McEwan’s gone over, sir. I think she’s twisted her ankle.”
True enough, when the flustered master of politics removed the fallen girl’s boot and touched her foot, she winced out loud. He lifted her to her feet, asked her to try walking on it a step or two, but she gave a cry of agony at the first pressure.
“It could be either sprained or broken,” Derek observed. “Look, she can stay here with me. You and Mrs. Challender get the girls to safety as quickly as possible. That’s our priority. Come back for us with a stretcher or a sleigh, whatever you can rig to carry Mrs. Prescott. I don’t think she’ll be doing any more walking today.”
A couple of the girls began to sob.
“Don’t worry,” he said to Sonja McEwan, “I’ll carry you on my shoulders if needs be.” Then to Eustace, “See you shortly, old chap. Don’t forget the stretcher.”
“Right-o. Won’t be long.” And off they went, this time at half pace, so as not to repeat the McEwan girl’s misfortune. Soon Derek could no longer see Wilhelmina’s slender silhouette through the greying snowfall.
“So how is she really, sir? I know she didn’t stumble or anything. I was watching.”
“McEwan?”
“It’s all right. Nothing you say can shock me, sir. Believe me, not after what I saw in Norway.”
“Eh? Oh, that’s right, you and your sister witnessed the wave—a lucky escape, that, and a great relief to us all.”
“Thank you for saying so, sir. Is Mrs. Prescott unconscious?”
He closed the Deputy Head’s eyes, then checked her carotid for a pulse. “She’s...had a mild attack, if I’m not mistaken. We’ll have to carry her back after all—just as you said.”
“Sir. I hope she pulls through.”
“Yes. Yes, me too.” After running the next several steps of the rescue through his mind—stretcher her to the coach, drive to Keswick, find out where the nearest doctor lived, drive her there directly—he let the sequence set at the back of his mind. Fretting never solved a thing. He turned his attention to his young companion instead, and her remarkable composure. “Your ankle? Does it still gall?”
“Um, no. It’s quite recovered.” She jiggled it, shaking the layer of snow off her stocking. “Perhaps the cold helped reduce the swelling.” Her warm, searching gaze seemed unsure as it touched his—not at all like Sonja McEwan, an uncompromising creature like none he’d encountered. Her guard was always up, her barbed retorts ever ready to fly at obnoxious classmates, but now Derek perceived something brittle and vulnerable, something deep, delicate behind the prickly frown. As though she let very few people in, but once in, they would be the luckiest, most fascinated, most fiercely defended people imaginable. Millimetres under that cherubic face, a truly striking young woman was about to emerge, and if she held onto that proud spirit, didn’t let the world’s venom in to fester, she had every chance of becoming a woman of rare beauty, in every sense.
But she’d just told him a bare-faced lie. The way she’d cried out in pain after putting weight on her ankle did not tally with such a quick and full recovery.
“So you wanted to stay behind with us? Tell me, are your classmates really that bad?” He threw her a wink.
She reciprocated, grinning. “Awful. You’ve no idea, sir.”
“And you faked that whole stunt, didn’t you.”
“One of my better efforts.” The flakes seemed to double in size as she slid her Wellington back on. “I reckon you’re about the only one on this expedition who knows what the word expedition really means.”
He grunted, unwilling to badmouth his senior colleagues to a student, even if he was fonder of said student than the rest of the faculty combined. He and Sonja had shared something of a rapport all year in his class, umpteen times in his office during lunch hours, but especially in the few minutes after class when she would stay behind to quiz him on the finer points of his lectures. Even here, in these brief minutes alone in a blizzard, something between them simply...clicked. Moved. Worked away inside him. Undeniably clockwork.
“Have you heard my father is planning his third adventure to Subterranea? I dare say he’ll not see snow like this for a good while. Quite toasty down there, by all accounts. Not that I envy him that, mind you—I’ve always thought it’s easier to ward off the cold than to keep cool in bloody heat. It’s all a matter of layers. You can always put more on, but there are only so many you can take off.”
He tilted his head in pensive amusement. “I believe you have a point there, McEwan. Now if only we had unlimited layers at our disposal here. ”
After prolonging a freezing breath, she blinked at him. “It’s getting colder, sir.” He hadn’t noticed. “Shouldn’t you carry her back if she isn’t for coming ‘round on her own?”
“Not yet. I’d as soon not risk it.”
“Sir.”
Five minutes passed, ten, without sign of Eustace. Gusts raked the top snow up into concentrated, busy dances, while jabbing through Derek as he crouched, nursing his unconscious patient. McEwan wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked back and forth beside him as she gazed out into the endless white. Soon the gusts were a constant, icy wind, the flakes indistinguishable from the hurtful cold stream battering him from the side. His ribcage fluttered, felt weightless, and even making fists with his toes became harder and harder. He shielded his eyes to gaze th
rough the blizzard—Eustace was not there—then glanced across to McEwan. Her nose was purple, her stray pale locks frozen stiff against her brow.
They’d waited long enough. It was time to move.
He nudged the redoubtable girl, did his best to hold an easy smile. “Come on, we’re heading back.” His voice barely registered through the whistling wind.
She uncrumpled to her feet, then helped him lift Mrs. Prescott—not necessary, but he esteemed her all the more for it. “W-what if Mr. Challender comes b-back after all and we m-miss him?”
“Can’t be helped.” Hauling the Deputy Head onto his shoulder took far more effort than he’d guessed, and his steps through the snow did not feel secure at all. With him having to concentrate so hard on his own passage, he couldn’t afford to let his young student out of his sight. It would be dark soon, and were she to lose her way in this blizzard, in these temperatures, he might never see her alive again. “McEwan, grab my coat and don’t let go. Whatever happens.”
She stuck her gloved hand into his jacket pocket and gripped the lining with her fist. A tiny, comfortable fist. Hunched beside him, she resembled an Arctic refugee trudging to a new home: no whining, no despair, all seasoned practicality. He thought of the many young women his mother had introduced him to these past several years, and how interchangeable most of them had been, how insubstantial. And of those that had appealed to him—the spirited, independent thinkers who wore their good looks with light regard—none had been much interested in him. They thought him passably handsome, yes, intelligent, and moneyed enough to grant him an audience, but he was also as reserved as they came, taciturn even, or as he’d overheard one lady say—a wayward marchioness he’d been deeply attracted to at the time—“about as marryable as a wet cod.” The words stung anew.
But how easily he could talk to Sonja McEwan, and she to him. Other girls in his class had crushes on him, that much was obvious, yet none had yet dared speak to him as an equal. This young woman had pluck. She didn’t fit in; her father’s reputation had seen to that. But more than that, she was smart as a whip, easily the equal of any student, boy or girl, in the school. And looks-wise, she was blossoming into a lovely example of English womanhood.
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