Blood and Ice

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

December 26, 11:20 a.m.

“Under assumed names,” Sinclair was saying. “We always traveled under assumed names, and changed them with some regularity. It became a game of sorts, choosing who we would be called in San Remo, or in Marseilles, or wherever it was we stayed after that.”

Lawson was transfixed, and Sinclair had taken some pains to relate the more dramatic episodes from their journey-the midnight rides through mountain gorges, the narrow escapes from suspicious authorities, the high-stakes card play that had generally paid for their travels. But he had carefully skirted the more appalling aspects-most notably the constant quest for a fresh supply of blood. Certainly no need to go into that. And time was running short, anyway. In a couple of hours, the watch would change, and the more-wary Franklin would come back on duty. If Sinclair was to make his move, and gain the maximum amount of time before anyone had discovered his escape, he had to act now.

“From Marseilles, we continued west. In Seville, Eleanor fell ill, and I thought the sea air might revive her, so we traveled to a small town on the Gulf of Cadiz. Its name escapes me, but if I heard it again…”

“Was it Ayamonte?” Lawson said, consulting the atlas.

“No, that wasn't it,” Sinclair said. “It was something longer. And it was on the way up the coast, toward Lisbon.”

“Isla Cristina?”

“No,” Sinclair said, tilting his head to one side, as if straining to remember. “But I do believe that if I saw it there…”

Holding the book open to the correct page, Lawson got up from the crate and came toward Sinclair-who readied himself.

He laid the book across Sinclair's lap, and before he was able to stand back again, Sinclair said, in his most innocent tone, “Where exactly are we on this map?”

“Right here,” Lawson said, pointing to a yellow line that he had traced across the page, and while his eyes were trained on the book, Sinclair lifted the beer bottle he had been concealing and cracked him smartly across the back of the skull.

Lawson went down onto his knees, but if Sinclair was hoping for him to be knocked out cold, he was disappointed. That damned kerchief must have interfered. He cracked him again, and the bottle smashed, leaving a bloody gash, but Lawson was still conscious and trying to crawl away. Sinclair had to act quickly; his chain was fastened to the pipe on the wall and he had only a few feet of slack. Looping his cuffed hands over Lawson's head, he dragged him backwards toward the cot; fortunately, the man was sufficiently dazed by the blow that he could not put up much of a fight. Sinclair tightened the cuffs around his windpipe and pulled up. Lawson's hands went to the metal around his throat and he tried desperately to claw it away, but Sinclair only leaned back harder, holding on and choking him until his feet-in the boots that Sinclair had been admiring-stopped scrabbling at the floor and his hands dropped limply to his sides. Even then, Sinclair held on for several seconds more, just for good measure, before easing up on the cuffs and letting Lawson's head loll forward.

The atlas, oddly, had remained open on his lap the whole time.

As the body slumped to the floor, Sinclair pushed the book away, and knelt. He put his ear to the chest and heard the heart still pumping; he had been in this position before, and for a moment the terrible urge to take advantage of the moment rose up in him like a blood tide. But he had neither the time, nor the desire, to kill the man. He put his mouth to Lawson's, and blew into it, just as the seamen had done with the soldiers who had drowned in the botched landing at Calamita Bay. Then he pushed down gently on the abdomen until he saw it rise, then fall, then rise again. Before Lawson could come to again, Sinclair rifled through his pockets and dug out the keys to the shackles. It was tricky work, undoing them all, especially as Sinclair's own heart was already beating faster at the prospect of freedom, new boots… and finding Eleanor.

December 26, 11:30 a.m.

“Are you trying to dissuade me?” Eleanor asked, looking into Michael's eyes.

“No, of course not,” he said, inching his chair closer to the bedside where she sat, and clutching her hands more firmly. “It's just that there's a risk involved-a considerable risk-and I'm afraid for you.”

She was deeply touched by his concern, but her life, for so long, had been nothing but risk and mortal danger that this was nothing new. She lifted one hand up and placed it against his cheek. “The choice is mine, and I accept it. If I'm going to live on, I don't want it to be in the shadows anymore. I want a life I'm not ashamed of. Can you understand that?”

She could see that he did understand, but he looked, if anything, more apprehensive than she felt herself. After all that she had been through, over such a span of time, even death held no great fear for her. With everything she had ever known-her family, her friends-already gone, how much lonelier could her life become?

And as for Sinclair… even if they were reunited, what would become of them? All that they could really do-she knew this in her very bones-was share their own profound loneliness and isolation from the rest of humanity.

“Should I go and get Darryl and Charlotte then?” Michael asked, and she nodded her agreement.

Michael left, and Eleanor remained, to sort through a tumult of emotions. Despite herself, she recognized that some sense of hope, of redemption, had been rekindled in her. And though she was reluctant to admit it, she knew it had something to do with the way that Michael Wilde looked at her.

And the way she found herself looking back.

A few minutes later, the door to the sick bay opened again, and this time Michael was accompanied by the others. Darryl, with his red hair sticking up like the comb on a rooster, was carrying a clear bag of fluid and Charlotte had a tray with several items on it-cotton balls, needles, alcohol, and a kind of bandage that conveniently adhered to the skin. Eleanor had seen the tray several times and knew the protocols by heart.

Charlotte took the chair that Michael had vacated and put the tray on the bed. Eleanor rolled up the billowing sleeve of her dress and watched as Charlotte applied the rubber tourniquet.

“Michael told you about the dangers of touching ice?” Darryl said, as Charlotte filled the syringe, an unusually large one, from the bag.

“Several times.”

“Good. Great,” he said, nervously. “And you might feel a certain flushing at first, from the sudden glycoprotein overload-it's a highly concentrated solution-but I think it should pass pretty quickly.”

Charlotte shot him a glance and swabbed a spot on Eleanor's forearm.

“I am prepared for anything,” Eleanor said. “And I have complete faith in my doctor.”

Which was true. After her initial shock, she had come to respect Dr. Barnes for her bold but friendly nature, and her reassuring bedside manner. That was something Eleanor had seen in Florence Nightingale, too-an ability to reach out to any patient and communicate a sense of calm and caring. Of course, in her own day, no one like Charlotte could ever have become a doctor-even if her sex had not barred her, her color most certainly would have done- but in this modern world that Eleanor might be about to join, many unimagined things were clearly possible.

The prick of the needle was barely noticeable, but the immediate effects of the fluid entering her veins was pronounced. Far from feeling flushed, she experienced a strange cooling sensation, like the trickle of a mountain stream running just beneath her skin. She shivered, and Charlotte looked up at her while still holding the syringe and said, “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Eleanor said. “I think so.” But was she? What would happen when the chill, which she could feel creeping up her arm, descended upon her heart?

“What are you feeling?” Darryl asked, and Michael, speechless, simply knelt by the edge of the bed, studying her face.

“It's like nothing I've ever felt before,” Eleanor replied. “A bit, perhaps, like stepping into a cool bath.”

Beads of sweat-a cold sweat-dotted her brow as Charlotte withdrew the needle and hastily swabbed the puncture wound. “Maybe you should lie down,” Charlotte said, dropping the syringe on the tray and helping Eleanor to rest her head back on the pillow.

The room was swimming around her, and she tried closing her eyes, but that only made it worse. Opening them again, she saw Michael hovering above her, and she focused her gaze on his face. He had taken her hand, and she could feel the nervous sweat from his palm dampening her own.

Charlotte and Darryl stood behind him, also looking anxious, and Eleanor was moved that she had already been able to find three such friends in this strange and alien place. It bolstered both her hope and her incentive to live. Perhaps the loneliness that she had felt from the moment that she and Sinclair had absconded from the Barrack Hospital in Turkey might not be her permanent lot, after all. Perhaps there was an alternative. The internal chill had spread across her shoulders and into her breast, like the petals of a night flower blooming beneath her skin. She shivered again, and Michael quickly fetched a blanket from the closet and tucked it around her. She was inevitably reminded of the voyage aboard the Coventry, the ill-fated trip that had ultimately brought her to the Southern Pole, and the night that Sinclair had bundled her in every blanket and coat he could find… before he was attacked by the crew.

Before she, too, was dragged from the bunk and wrapped in a chain on the rolling deck.

A warm compress was placed over her eyes, and as she lay there, she wondered under what circumstances she might emerge- if she emerged at all-from this untried experiment.

Drawing Darryl toward the door, Michael whispered, “What's happening to her? Is there something we should do?”

“I'm not sure there's anything we can do at this point,” Darryl replied. “The injection should take some time-a half hour, maybe an hour? — before fully circulating in her bloodstream and taking effect. We'll know better then.”

Charlotte stepped to the bedside and took her pulse. “It's a bit fast,” she reported, “but strong.” Then she slipped a blood-pressure cuff around Eleanor's upper arm, inflated it, and watched as the LED numbers flashed. Eventually, they settled at 185 over 120, which even Michael knew was too high.

“We'll have to bring that down, if it doesn't come down on its own,” she said, putting the stethoscope to Eleanor's chest and checking her heartbeat. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Light-headed,” Eleanor said.

Charlotte nodded, pursing her lips. “Just try to relax,” she said, removing the blood-pressure cuff. “And rest.”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice already fading, “Dr. Barnes.”

“Call me Charlotte. I think we're on a first-name basis by now, honey.” Slipping a call button under her hand, she said, “If you need me, just press this. I'll be right next door.”

Charlotte took the tray from the bed and herded them all from the room. Michael took one look back and saw Eleanor, the white compress draped across her eyes, her long brown hair brushing the rim of the ivory brooch.

“Come on,” Charlotte murmured. “I'm sure she'll be all right.”

But Michael detected a certain lack of conviction.

“Maybe I should keep watch,” he suggested.

“You've got packing to do. Get to it.”