Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

Eleanor glanced at Moira, who looked both thrilled and fearful-this day, for both of them, was taking so many unexpected turns that she herself began to feel as if she were riding a wild horse galloping off across the fields.

“Then right this way,” Rutherford declared, brushing out his muttonchops with the tips of his fingers, “for time and tide…”

“Wait for no man,” Moira piped up, always anxious to complete a saying, and Eleanor noted that Rutherford gave her an appreciative glance-a glance that lingered, most notably, on the glimpse of creamy bosom afforded by her unbuttoned bodice.

“Right you are, Miss Mulcahy” he said, offering her his arm. “May I escort you?”

Moira appeared flummoxed for a moment-a man of Rutherford's stature, wearing a pearl-gray cutaway coat, offering his arm to someone of her social position-but Eleanor gave her a discreet nudge and she slipped her hand onto his arm, and out they all went.

The coach was a brougham, with a family crest-a lion rampant on crossed shields-drawn by a sturdy pair of Shire horses with bay coats. Until that moment, Eleanor had been unsure of the world she had entered, but this-the family coach, the easy way the men all had with money (though her lieutenant, she guessed, was overly profligate with his)-decided the matter. Both she and Moira were swimming in waters way over their own heads.

The interior of the coach was upholstered in Morocco-finished leather, with its fine pebble grain, and stowed beneath the seats there were lap robes, also embroidered with the family crest. The footrests were of polished mahogany and the front wall-just behind where the coachman sat-housed a small window, like a trap, with a tasseled handle. And though the captain had assured them there would be plenty of room, there was not, what with Rutherford being such a large man and Moira possessing such an ample figure. Room also had to be made for Miss Wilson's striking hat. Sinclair, very courteously, offered to sit between Eleanor and Moira so that they might gaze through the open windows and enjoy the passing view.

They were traveling through a largely rustic landscape, the Ascot racecourse having been built, in 1711, on the fringes of Windsor Great Park, in a natural clearing close to the village of East Cote. The green fields were dotted with sheep and cows, and the farmers and their families, going about their chores, often paused to watch Captain Rutherford's impressive coach rumble by. A boy with a heavy pail in each hand stood stock-still, staring, and Eleanor could well imagine his awe; she had felt it herself, at the sight of such coaches going by, and wondered, as he was no doubt doing, what it was like to be inside of one… to be a wealthy landowner, or born aristocrat, who traveled, and lived, in such a manner. When her eyes met, for just an instant, with the dumbstruck boy's, she felt such a welter of emotion-at first she simply wanted to explain to him that she wasn't in fact one of those fortunate few, that she was merely a simple farm girl by birth, ordained to live a life much like his own-but then, a curious thing happened. She inclined her head slightly, as she imagined an aristocrat would do, and felt in her breast a thrill of delight, and pride, and deception. She felt the way she had when she'd worn a princess costume-as a little girl, at a country fair-and thought the townspeople had mistaken her for the genuine article.

“Winning always whets my appetite,” Sinclair declared. “What would you all say to a buffet supper at my club?”

Le Maitre-or Frenchie, as Eleanor now recalled-said, “Perhaps we should go to my club? Given certain circumstances, regarding Mr. Fitzroy,” he added, raising one eyebrow at Sinclair, who brushed it off.

“Pshaw! Nothing to fear from that quarter,” Sinclair said, even though Fitzroy had been demanding satisfaction ever since he'd been thrown through the brothel window. “What would you say to some cold meats, cheeses, and a much finer port than anything Frenchie's club could provide?”

Eleanor didn't know what to say-events were galloping on again, with her barely clinging to the reins.

When no one lodged an objection, Rutherford declared it a fine idea and rapped hard with his knuckles on the trap behind his head.

When it opened, and the coachman's head leaned down, Rutherford said, “Pall Mall-the Longchamps Club.”

The coachman nodded, the trap was closed, and the carriage wheels rattled loudly over a wooden bridge.

Eleanor, her shoulder pressed close against that of Lieutenant Copley sat back on the plush seat and wondered how this marvelous dream might end.

December 7, 8 a.m.

The first thing in the morning, as soon as he was dressed and before he'd even had his coffee, Michael checked on his baby skua, whom he'd named Ollie, after another unfortunate orphan, Oliver Twist.

It hadn't been easy deciding what to do with him (or her, as there was really no easy way to determine its gender at that point). But adult skuas were devious birds, and had a nasty way of preying on the weak-he'd seen a pair of them work to distract a penguin mother from her brood, just long enough for one of them to snap up a chick, drag it away, and rip it, screeching, limb from limb. They just might do the same with Ollie if the bird didn't grow a bit and get its wings.

But after consultation with several of the others at the base, including Darryl, Charlotte, and the two glaciologists Betty and Tina, it was decided that the best place for Ollie was in a protected environment, but still somewhere outdoors.

“If you raise him in here, he'll never be able to fend for himself,” Betty had said, and Tina had vigorously agreed. To Michael, with their blond hair braided into coils atop their heads, they looked like a pair of Valkyries.

“But if you kept him in the core bin behind our lab,” Tina had suggested, “he could have the best of both worlds.”

The core bin was a rough enclosure behind the glaciology module, where the ice cylinders that they had not yet had time to cut up and analyze were stacked like logs on a graduated metal rack.

“I just unloaded a crate of frozen plasma,” Charlotte said, “and we could use the empty box to give the little guy some cover.”

It was sounding more and more like a grammar-school class working together on a biology project.

Charlotte retrieved the crate and they tucked it into a corner of the enclosure, then Darryl went next door and brought back some dried herring strips he used to feed his own living menagerie. Even though he-she? — was clearly starving, the baby bird didn't immediately take the food. He seemed to be waiting for the bigger bird to descend from somewhere and peck him away. He'd already been programmed, as it were, to die.

“I think we're all standing too close,” Darryl said, and Charlotte agreed.

“Just leave the strips near the crate, and let's go in,” she said, with a shiver.

They had all gone back to their separate rooms, fallen into the uneasy sleep of people with no day or night to mark their time, and in the morning Michael had immediately gone to check on his ward.

The herring strips were gone, but had Ollie been the one to eat them? Looking around the frozen ground, where wisps of snow skidded around like wispy white feathers, he couldn't see Ollie either. He lifted his dark green eyeshades away from his face, knelt down, and peered into the back of the crate. Charlotte had left some of the wood shavings, used to cushion the plasma bags, inside the box, but snow and ice had already blown into it, too. He was just about to give up when he saw something black and shiny as a pebble tucked into the far corner. It was the bird's tiny unblinking eye, and now that he looked more carefully, he could make out the tiny gray-and-white fluff ball of its body. Curled up, the bird looked like a dirty snowball.