Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

Eleanor grasped only some of this, her knowledge of foreign affairs-and even geography-being slight; her education had been limited to a few years at a local academy for girls, where the emphasis was on etiquette and deportment rather than more intellectual matters. But still, she could see the eagerness and the enthusiasm with which her male company were looking forward to the prospect of battle, and she marveled at their bravery. Frenchie had removed from his pocket a silver cigarette case, on which was emblazoned the emblem of the 17th Light Brigade. It was a Death's Head, and beneath the crossed bones were unfurled the words, “Or Glory.” It was passed from hand to hand, and when Eleanor received it, she instinctively recoiled and gave it quickly on to Sinclair.

A platter of cheeses, then sweets, were served, along with what was surely the third-or was it the fourth? — bottle of champagne. Eleanor just remembered hearing the popping of several corks over the course of the meal, and when Sinclair offered to fill her glass again, she placed a hand over it.

“No, thank you. I'm afraid it's already gone to my head.”

“Perhaps you'd like to take some air?”

“Yes,” she said, “that would probably be well advised.”

But when they excused themselves and stepped to the portico door, they could see that the rain had finally arrived. The pavement was wet and shining in the light of the gas lamps, and as Eleanor looked on, a pair of gentlemen in top hats and black capes bolted from a hansom cab and up the steps of the equally grand clubhouse across the street.

“These houses are quite beautiful,” she said, craning her neck to see the facade of the Longchamps. There were great rounded columns, made of a cream-colored limestone, and an exquisitely carved bas-relief of a Greek god, or perhaps an emperor, above the imposing double doors.

“I suppose you're right,” Sinclair said, affecting nonchalance. “I'm so accustomed to it, I hardly see it anymore.”

“But others do.”

He lighted a cigarette and gazed out at the rain. A weary dray horse, drawing a wagon of beer kegs, slowly clip-clopped by, the wheels rumbling over the wet cobblestones. He blew out a puff of smoke, then, struck by inspiration, said, “Would you like to see more?”

Eleanor wasn't sure what he was proposing. “I didn't bring an umbrella, but if you-”

“No, I meant more of the clubhouse.”

But Eleanor knew it wasn't allowed.

“There's a quite marvelous tapestry, a Gobelins, in the main hall, and the billiards room is the best in Pall Mall.”

Seeing her uncertainty, he said, leaning close with a mischievous smile, “Oh, yes, I see your natural reluctance, and it is quite forbidden. But that's why it will be such fun.”

Would it? All day long Eleanor had felt like she'd passed through the looking glass and was moving in a realm she didn't fully understand, and this was just one more instance of it.

“Come on,” he said, taking her hand like a child inviting another to play. “I know a way.”

Before she knew it, they had reentered the club, passed back down the corridor from the stranger's coffee-room, then crept up a back stairs that she suspected only the servants were to use. Sinclair inched a door open, then put a finger to his lips as two men in white tie, holding brandy snifters, ambled by.

“Not even if the Admiralty ordered you to?” one asked, and the other said, “Particularly if the Admiralty ordered it,” and they both chuckled.

Once they'd gone, Sinclair opened the door wider and escorted Eleanor through. She was standing at one end of a narrow mezzanine, overlooking a vast entry hall with alternating white and black marble tiles. A dual staircase swept up on either side, and at its apex hung a huge antique tapestry, depicting a stag hunt. It was faded, but must have once been done in brilliant purples and blues; a ragged gold fringe lined its edges.

“It's Belgian,” Sinclair whispered, “and quite old.”

Still clutching her hand-no one had ever held it so long, or so possessively, and she still did not know how she should have responded to such conduct-he drew her on, offering her a glimpse of a cardroom, where several men were so focused on their game that none so much as looked up at the opening of the door; a sumptuous library with satinwood bookcases standing twelve feet high, all lined with leather-bound books; a trophy room with various silver plates and cups and a veritable menagerie of stuffed animal heads staring off, glassy-eyed, into eternity. Three or four times they had to duck into alcoves or behind closed doors to avoid being seen by a passing servant or member of the club, and on one such occasion Sinclair whispered to her, “That buffoon with the belly is called Fitzroy I've thrashed him once, but I fear I shall have to do it again.”

When Fitzroy had passed, stifling a belch with the back of his hand, Sinclair drew her out of hiding again. “This way,” he said. “Just one more.”

They were on the third story, and she could hear a hard but unfamiliar clacking sound, as Sinclair led her up a narrow, carpeted stair, and into a velvet-curtained recess. He held his finger to his lips again, then, finally releasing her hand, parted the curtains a few inches.

They were standing on a tiny balcony, with an elaborately scrolled black iron rail; below them there were half a dozen billiards tables, spread like a deep green lawn across the wainscoted gallery. Just two of the tables were in play, and the men at one were only in their shirtsleeves, their suspenders hanging down; Eleanor blushed at the sight. One of the players stroked a white ball and it rolled smoothly across the table, striking a red ball, before gently nestling against the bumper.

“Well played,” his opponent said.

“If only life were a billiards table,” the first one replied, pausing to rub something on the end of the stick.

“Ah, but it is. Weren't you told?”

“Must have been on furlough that day.”

“Like most,” the first one said with a laugh.

Was this how men talked, Eleanor thought? Was this how they conducted themselves in private? She was both fascinated and embarrassed; she wasn't supposed to be there, she wasn't meant to see, or hear, any of this. Though she didn't dare speak, for fear of being overheard, she looked at Sinclair. He turned toward her, and in the confines of the balcony, concealed behind the barely parted curtains, she could feel the intensity of his gaze. She lowered her own eyes-why had she allowed herself to drink that second glass of champagne; her head still felt light from it-but then she felt his finger touching her chin, raising it, and she allowed her face to rise. He was bending toward her; she was aware chiefly of his pale moustache. And then, though she was sure she had given him no improper encouragement, his lips were touching hers… and she did not resist. Her own eyes closed, she could not have said why, and for several seconds time seemed to stop altogether-everything seemed to stop-and it was only when a victorious whoop went up from one of the billiards players below-”That's the game, Reynolds!”-that she took a half step back, her lips tingling, her face on fire, to look again at the young lieutenant.

December 8. 10:00 a.m.

“Not possible, not possible, not possible,” Murphy was saying as he strode down the corridor and into his cluttered office in the administration module. Michael was close behind, with Darryl lending support.

“It's not only possible,” Michael insisted yet again, “I saw it, with my own eyes. Right in front of me!”

Murphy turned around and said, in a tone meant to convey sympathetic concern, “Look, this was your first time diving in polar waters, right?”