Where the Dead Wait E-Book

Ally Wilkes

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 623

Beschreibung

The Terror meets Yellowjackets as a disgraced Arctic explorer sets out on a voyage to track down his former crewmate, only to be confronted by the ghosts of his cannibalistic past; from the Bram Stoker Award nominated author of All the White Spaces. Perfect for fans of Michelle Paver and Stephen Graham Jones. William Day should be an acclaimed Arctic explorer. But after a failed expedition to find the fabled Open Polar Sea, in which his men only survived by eating their comrades, he returned in disgrace. A cannibal. A murderer. Thirteen years later, his second-in-command, Jesse Stevens, has gone missing in the same waters. Perhaps this is Day's chance to restore his tarnished reputation by bringing Stevens – the man who's haunted his whole life – back home. But when the rescue mission into the frozen wastes becomes an uncanny journey into his own past, Day must face up to the things he's done. Aboard ship, Day must also contend with unwanted passengers: a reporter obsessively digging up the truth about the first expedition, and Stevens's wife, a spiritualist whose séances both fascinate and frighten. Following a trail of cryptic messages, gaunt bodies, and old bones, their search becomes more and more unnerving, as it becomes clear that – for Day – the restless dead are never far behind.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Then

1

2

3

4

5

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

About the Author

“Beautiful, brilliant, writing about good men (and bad) facing the unimaginable. I was swallowed whole by Ally Wilkes’ terrifying story of Arctic survival. Dare I say it’s better than Dan Simmons’ The Terror?” Alma Katsu, author of The Fervor and The Hunger

“Where the Dead Wait is a full-body plunge into nineteenth-century seafaring, Arctic survival, and the frigid darkness of the human psyche, in a setting as frostbitten and dread-inducing as the ghosts that haunt it. I was moved by Captain Day’s inner war of longing and regret, and rewarded by the beautiful, immersive prose. With her second polar outing, Wilkes stakes her claim as the new ice-master of horror fiction.” Luke Dumas, author of A History of Fear

“Chillingly, thrillingly existential, packed with heartache and dread. Where the Dead Wait is a Conradian trek into an Arctic heart of darkness, where the past is (literally) present, and the present marches us inch by inch towards our shared, unspeakable fate.” Nat Cassidy, author of Mary: An Awakening of Terror and Nestlings

“An ice-cold brew of cannibalism and ghoulish horror served up by an author with a visceral feel for the extremes of polar exploration. Powerful stuff indeed!” Michelle Paver, author of Dark Matter and Thin Air

“Ally Wilkes weaves polar adventure and gothic horror together with wonderfully chilling results. The pages are full of creeping dread and malevolence that will linger with you long after you close the book!” Christopher Golden, New York Times bestselling author of Road Of Bones and All Hallows

“Harrowing and clawing with the iciest fingernails. The only thing harder to escape than the bloodthirsty sea is the longing and regret. Where the Dead Wait proves that the frozen nightmare is the domain of Ally Wilkes; we’re just left to survive it.” Hailey Piper, Bram Stoker® Award-winning author of Queen of Teeth

“With All the White Spaces, Ally Wilkes chilled readers to the bone, and now with Where the Dead Wait, she sucks the very marrow out from them. Hallucinatory, haunting, and hunger-panged, this frostbitten novel gnawed away at my very sanity and I loved every nibble of it.” Clay McLeod Chapman, author of Ghost Eaters and What Kind of Mother

Also by Ally Wilkes and available from Titan Books

All the White Spaces

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Where the Dead Wait

Print edition ISBN: 9781803367545

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803367552

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: January 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Ally Wilkes 2023

Ally Wilkes asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For all our past selves

Although this story’s particular Arctic setting is fictional, the effects of European expeditions and colonial expansion are real and felt to this day. I acknowledge the Arctic as the ancestral homelands of the Inuit Peoples; I pay my respect to the lessons of resilience of these lands and Peoples, both past and present.

I desire the company of a man who could sympathize with me; whose eyes would reply to mine.

—MARY SHELLEY, FRANKENSTEIN

THEN

Camp Hope, the Arctic Archipelago

AUGUST 31, 1869

Who can bring a clean thingout of an unclean? No one.

THE SMELL HITS DAY IN THE FACE.

Crouching in the hut’s narrow entrance, he tries not to heave. He can’t afford to bring anything up: his last meal was boiled boots and lichen, supplementing the last of their rations. He presses a hand against his mouth. Grimy, his skin shriveled and yellowed, it looks more like a claw. All the fat has melted off him; even kneeling hurts. He’s only twenty-four, but might as well be four-and-seventy. He knows he won’t see another summer.

Day takes a deep breath. With his mouth covered, the smell is stronger, separates out into its component parts. Blubber, clinging to his nostrils. Urine, from the rusting can next to him—a latrine for those men too weak to make it outside. Sweat, layered deeper and deeper until it’s something meaty. He pinches his nose, but now the smell comes in over his dry tongue and swollen gums, and he can almost taste it, like chewing on a week-old piece of liver.

It’s cold, he thinks dully, it shouldn’t smell.

Late summer in the Arctic, the temperature hovering around freezing, today’s noonday sun staring down at them like a hole cut out of the sky.

This is a terrible place.

He squints. His eyes adjust to the gloom as his knees continue screaming. They all crawl around in here; there isn’t enough space to stand. Nine faces look at him, pale and ghostly, eyes too large, huddled in their sleeping bags. The stillness is awful.

“What is it, Captain?”

William Day, now leader of the Reckoning expedition—not that he wanted it—crouches in the entrance to Camp Hope, and surveys his meager kingdom. The ceiling is the overturned hull of an eighteen-foot whaleboat, greenish and damp with condensation, and the walls are oars packed tight with boulders, moss, anything they could pry from the frozen ground with fingers and nails. Their sleeping bags are stacked in two lines facing each other, like galley slaves. A quiet sucking sound as someone wriggles their feet, disturbing the muddy surface, and their neighbor curses as the cold soup trickles slowly down the incline towards him.

It almost makes Day long for a good hard frost.

Almost.

“Captain?”

The speaker is young Tom Sheppard, and his concern sounds perfectly genuine. When Day finds him in the dark, Sheppard’s got his journal clutched to his chest; he’d nursed it under his clothing all the way from the ship, taking it out each evening to cross the pages with a dense tight hand. There’s a stubby pencil tucked behind his ear: Sheppard sometimes licks the tip with a pink tongue, not particularly caring where it’s been. He’s younger even than Day, barely into his twenties, all long lean legs, and had begged by post for a place on this expedition. Day can imagine him on the deck of an ironclad warship, the air redolent with gunpowder, sun on his face. Scribbling his appeal, touchingly expressing his faith in the Open Polar C.

Day stares at him. Wonders how he could have been so wrong: about a man, about the Open Polar Sea. About everything.

There’s a shuffling in the entrance tunnel. Bent double, like a bear rooting out its prey, First Lieutenant Jesse Stevens pushes his way into the stinking warmth. Day can smell the cold on him, the unrelenting dark chill of the ice, and the men in the nearest sleeping bag sniff the air like bloodhounds. They’re all animals here.

“You have to tell them,” Stevens says. He has a very pointed nose, and the Cupid’s bow of his lips has never been disturbed by swelling gums. Scurvy tore through their party back on the ship: now starvation is the nearest cause of death, though it’s truthfully hard to distinguish the two. But Stevens’s mouth has never bled, and in the dim light of the single blubber lamp he still looks handsome: golden hair and thick red-tinged beard. The angel on Day’s shoulder.

Day finds himself shaking his head.

There’s a murmur from the men; a small sound of interest, at the two of them in disagreement, and Stevens gives him a look. He doesn’t say it out loud, but Day can hear as clearly as if he’d shouted. They don’t need words, the two of them.

If you won’t do it, I will.

“What is it?” Sheppard says again, in his lilting southern accent. His eyes are wide and apparently guileless, but then, they all have wide eyes now. Skin retreats, hollows out, as their bodies consume themselves. Sheppard looks between Day and Stevens, then back again. A mute expression of horror as he appreciates the danger he’s in.

Day puts down the bundle he carries. He notices, with some interest, that he’s trembling. “Second Lieutenant Tom Sheppard. You’re under arrest.”

A sharp intake of breath.

“What?”

“You heard him,” Stevens says softly, from his position just behind Day.

Day’s hands shake as he pulls back the cloth, displaying the contents of the bundle they’d found concealed by the creek. A few pieces of hardtack, dried to the texture of a raisin and the hardness of a cannonball; Day estimates—as dispassionately as possible, trying to swallow down the rush of saliva—that this represents the daily ration for four or five men, depending on how carefully it’s broken up. A Virginia tobacco tin, filled with fuel alcohol. The sealskin cloth itself, when they’ve been chewing anything they can get their hands on, anything that will keep mouth and teeth busy, when the rations are so meager as not to be worth the name.

Men crane their necks to look at these treasures, because that’s what they are: treasures. It’s nearly a year since they left the ship.

If Sheppard were merely hoarding, Day might have been able to find a way to show mercy. He could maybe have confined him to his sleeping bag, like poor Blackman near his end, lashed in tight as the delirium of scurvy made him babble, sing snatches of hymns, and bend his wrists back at the joints, crab-like and pained.

But that kindly narrative is no longer possible. In the dim light of Camp Hope, the gleaming copper handful of rifle cartridges tells all. They make a chinking sound in Day’s shaking hands.

“You’re under arrest for theft and attempted desertion—”

“You dirty bastard—” one of the men bellows, and tries to crawl from his sleeping bag to launch himself at Sheppard. Kicking and thrashing, the struggling man has to climb over several others, and there’s a shriek of pain, a horrible stink, as he crosses Campbell, whose feet are badly frostbitten. A hubbub of raised voices. Coughs and splutters. Shadows dancing around the walls.

Sheppard doesn’t move, his mouth hanging open in a perfect circle of surprise, making him look almost unbearably young.

His attacker bares his remaining teeth, clenches his fist laboriously. Day doubts he has the strength to do any real damage, but it’s the principle of the thing. Now, more than ever—today, more than ever, with what Day knows is up on that grave-ridge—discipline is important.

There’s a sharp taste in his throat when he thinks of the grave-ridge, and once again he has to fight the urge to heave.

“Have Sheppard separated,” Day says to Stevens.

His second-in-command nods.

*   *   *

They go out to execute young Tom Sheppard later in the evening, well before civil twilight falls. It’s nearly all the same in the Arctic summer, where daylight never truly relents, but Day wanted to give Sheppard time to make peace with his god.

He doesn’t see how such a thing would be possible, himself: there’s no god at Cape Verdant. Ewing, sensitive Ewing, sometimes leads them in bleating prayer, but they have only one Bible left. All the others have long since been torn up for kindling. Nearly every single verse in that lonely Bible has been underlined, pages thumbed translucent with greasy fingers, and someone has ripped out the book of Job, so beloved by their dead Captain Talbot. Sheppard leaves the Bible behind when Day and the other officers come to fetch him; places his hand flat on its cover for a moment, as if trying to absorb some—comfort? Absolution? Day doesn’t know.

The grave-ridge looms, watchful, above their camp: the overturned boat and red tent sit in its long horseshoe shadow, protected from the gales blowing in across the frozen water. The signal flag flaps in the hollow breeze.

They haven’t bothered to tie up their prisoner—there’s nowhere to go from this rocky little semicircle of land. Miles of featureless gravel cliffs to the west; ice to the north, east, and south, shining like a shattered mirror. It seems to rotate like a puzzle whenever you turn your back. Look, to the east: a berg shaped like a bear. Now it’s turned to face south. Now it’s crept back on itself. Now it’s sunk out of existence. You can make it into anything, anything the mind can conjure.

Visibility in the channel ends after a few hundred yards, and the haze never seems to lift entirely, not for pounding sun nor howling winds. Day thinks there’s never been anywhere more cut off, more profoundly distant from all human civilization, than Cape Verdant. Even the name is a lie. The ground is hard black rock, sharp enough to cut their hands.

This land is savage. Here all savagery dwells.

Perhaps Sheppard hasn’t run because he hopes Day will relent; hopes his inexperienced acting commander will stumble over the limits of his own authority (can he have a man executed?) or, more likely, can’t bring himself to bury yet another body. Day isn’t a hard man, after all.

But hope—the word has become something they spit, sneer, imbue with all the irony of dying men.

Day swallows. The exertion of climbing the shallow ridge has him bent nearly double. Up here, the peaceless wind tugs at his tattered clothing, scours the dirt and shrapnel away from the row of graves. He steers the party until they’re out of sight. He feels, rather than sees, Penn’s brass buttons winking through their thin covering of gravel. The dead are always watching; reminding him of their presence. As if he could forget.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want any of this.

“I will—” He coughs. “I will read the order.” He pulls it out. His own handwriting looks like a swarm of ants, barely recognizable.

“Second Lieutenant Thomas Sheppard, trusted with our only firearm, has been found stealing food and ammunition. Those taken together show he intends to abandon his colleagues to their deaths . . .” Day moistens his wind-chapped lips. “Abandon his colleagues to their deaths by starvation. These actions display a wickedness”—his voice drops—“and treachery that cannot be tolerated. Sheppard is therefore to be shot today, as we have no sure means to confine him.”

Sheppard continues to stare up at him, trusting. Day wishes he’d look away. Sees, in his mind’s eye, Sheppard’s hand lingering on that Bible, fingertips pressed lightly on the cover.

“This is necessary for the expedition to survive. After the death of Captain Nicholas Talbot, I, William Day, give this order.”

It’s the day after their rations finally ran out. He’d consulted with the doctor, with their scratched-off calendar, to get the date as accurate as possible. Keeping a record is the bread and butter of any officer; this scrap of paper will explain what happened here, whether or not it will ever be read by another living being. It shows he had good reason, legitimate reason, to execute Sheppard. The paper feels commensurately heavy. It’s precious.

Day looks around. They have only one working rifle, the one Sheppard usually wears. Normally there’d be some anonymity for executions: several guns, one loaded, allowing each man to comfort himself with the thought that the fatal bullet came from another. But what are they going to do—get out knives, up here in the open air, and take him to ground like prey?

“Stand still,” Stevens says, gently. Stevens is a good shot, good at everything to which he turns his hand. He’d volunteered. Day had noted, with leaden humor, that it wasn’t as if there were any chance of missing. Stevens had shrugged, pale eyes narrowing.

Day realizes now that Stevens thinks Sheppard might run. The sun shines down on them, makes Day’s skin itch.

“I didn’t do it,” Sheppard says suddenly. He seems to come to his senses, recognize where he is: out on the grave-ridge, surrounded by the emaciated officers who’d survived the Reckoning.

They shouldn’t have left the ship, Day thinks, with a clarity that startles him.

Sheppard must be freezing, because he hadn’t put his mittens on after relinquishing that Bible, but it hardly matters now. He turns around, looks Day in the eye. “Please! I didn’t. You have to believe me!”

Day won’t look away. He won’t. Sheppard deserves this much.

“Did you find it, Captain?” Sheppard says urgently. “Captain—the things they’re saying I stole—it wasn’t you, was it? I’ve been set up—Stevens—”

Stevens steps forward, rifle raised. The expression on his face is almost unreadable.

But Day knows him better than anyone.

*   *   *

Their grim duty complete, the execution party crawls back inside the overturned boat of Camp Hope. They’ll have to bury Sheppard in the morning; he’s been left to freeze, up where the clouds are starting to blow out sleet. He’s just a body now.

“Camp No-Hope,” Campbell mutters, his gaze feverish. “I’m going to die in here.”

Campbell hasn’t been out of his sleeping bag in nearly a week, not even to use the latrine tin, his system torpid on their diet of mostly inedible things. The smell from his bag tells them his legs are likely lost; the doctor says operating in these conditions will kill him from lockjaw.

“They’re gonna murder me,” Campbell mutters. “Kill me and eat me. Dead weight, I’ve heard them saying it. I’ve heard ’em.”

He doesn’t specify who—but conversations are broken off as the execution party returns. Sheppard had been very popular amongst the men, sometimes conducting careful “interviews” that seemed to consist largely of noting down their favorite songs, meals, girls. Any distraction was welcome. He’d also trained with their Native hunters, now long gone and much missed, along with all the larger game. He’d brought in an Arctic fox here, a hare there: Day had joined the others in insisting Sheppard must have the largest portions, their chewy little hearts. Still barely a mouthful. But they had to keep his strength up.

“I won’t let you down,” Sheppard had said quietly to Day, with all the earnestness of youth. Day feels ancient by comparison, warped and stretched like refractions in ice. “I won’t let us starve.”

But now James, who used to share Sheppard’s sleeping bag, is bartering his way out of that sodden sheepskin and into the relative comfort of buffalo. Sheppard’s possessions have become the camp’s new currency. Every man for himself.

Stevens nudges Day. He doesn’t need to speak.

Day knows he should insist Sheppard’s diary is located and turned over. It’s expedition property and should be surrendered. But Sheppard lies unburied, and Day’s heart squeezes. He can’t bring himself to do it.

Stevens gives him a look that’s a whisker from insubordination, and sighs. Day’s thought of sharing his sleeping bag, yearned for it—curling in beside him for the heat, their bodies together making a semicolon, two separate but closely connected ideas. They’d done so back on the Reckoning, when it was so cold belowdecks that the thermometers froze, but he doesn’t know how it would look to the men.

“Captain,” the doctor says urgently, emerging from the canvas flap at the rear of the hut. The horrible ruin of his face, crisscrossed with scars, makes him look like a gargoyle half-eaten by weather.

Day crawls down the small gangway. Behind the flap, beside their stove, Paver lies dying, his eyelids sometimes fluttering as if struggling to wake from a dream. Day hopes he’s somewhere else entirely. He’s been given the liquid from the soup they made yesterday, lichen and the last of the crumbled biscuit, the consistency of thin snot.

It’s the day after their rations finally ran out.

“How long?”

“Tomorrow, maybe,” Doctor Nye says, taking off his broken glasses to polish them. It would be humorous—an affectation, they’re all so grubby—if it weren’t so pitiful. “His organs are shutting down.”

Paver feels boiling hot to the touch when Day loosens his collar, presses a hand to his throat. It’s probably an illusion.

“The others will die,” Nye says, and Day reads accusation in his tone. “We will all die.”

*   *   *

There’s still no sign of night, and the sky crowds in on them.

Day sends Stevens up onto the grave-ridge with Jackson; now, he supposes, Second Lieutenant Jackson. Normally no one leaves the hut after dinner—which tonight is just tea dust; they can hardly spare the fuel to boil water—and they settle down to discuss food, maddeningly, right down to the drinks and desserts, conjuring five-course meals from the air. Raisin pudding with condensed milk. Hot rum and lemon punch. There’s a hallucinatory realness to it.

But this evening, trying not to listen, trying not to let it gnaw at him, Day had caught snatches of whispered conversation.

“Someone will be held responsible—”

“Another few weeks, and then, and then, if no one comes—”

They suspect that this is a closed season: Lancaster Sound is blocked to the whaling fleets by the same ice they can see off Cape Verdant. And so rescue is unlikely to come, and they will continue to dwindle, far from civilization, in a state of pure savagery. Not even the Bible can save them now.

When Stevens returns from the grave-ridge, he has a glint to his sharp eyes. Jackson, on the other hand, looks sick; pale, greenish. Day meets them outside, where he’s been pacing and looking up at that teeming sky, whispering curses.

“Is it done?”

Stevens gives a single nod. Day would rather have Stevens by his side than a thousand other men. He’s golden, from his hair to his hard-edged glitter; his value. Day couldn’t have done this without him.

“It wasn’t hard to cut,” Stevens says quietly.

Sheppard hadn’t yet grown cold.

Someone will be held responsible.

1

NOW

I: LOST

LONDON, JANUARY 5, 1882

THE RELENTLESS SYMMETRY OF THE ADMIRALTY building had always given Day a headache. Columns rose regularly, disappeared in orderly and predictable lines like soldiers, and square ceilings pressed down on him, a stone sky, like being buried under the earth. Looking to his right, he saw a set of mirrors marching off into the distance, reflecting him into eternity—unbroken, undistorted. A hundred perfect William Days, as if he’d come back from the Arctic shining and whole. He looked away quickly. He almost preferred the spitting, hissing rain outside, although this wasn’t proper weather, merely the suggestion of it.

They’d been expecting him. He didn’t dare hope this was a good thing. Some Admiralty man might have guffawed, slapped his thigh with mean glee: “Do you know who’s come forwards about the Stevens rescue? Do you know? Who does he think he is?”

Day rubbed his forehead, surreptitiously tried to get some of the rain out of his hat. Water pooled around his uncomfortable chair, his coat dripping like a shipwrecked mariner. Fitting, because—on his return from America all those years before—he had indeed been marooned; not on a distant island, or some foreign shore, but in his family’s three-story house in Russell Square. Although he had cause to be grateful that his father and supercilious older brother had somehow managed to pass on without him, and he’d never want for anything—although that idea almost made him laugh—it meant he’d live alone until the end of his days. Alone, but not quite forgotten.

And now he’d washed up back at the Admiralty again.

Sitting even more upright, Day fixed his eyes on the green door leading to the private offices. Change came creakingly slow, and everything was still as he remembered it from that rather cursory “investigation” years ago. The Reckoning expedition had never quite been under conventional Admiralty command, hence no court-martial, and no one had wanted indecent things to be made public; he supposed he was one of those indecent things.

Turning his hands over, he inspected them for cleanliness. Neat fingernails. His hands were soft. He would be forty in a few years, and his mid-brown hair was streaked firmly with licks of gray at his temples. His face was an honest one, people said, when they wanted to be kind. An ugly scar on the back of his left hand made him self-conscious; there were only so many situations in which one could wear gloves indoors. People always assumed it was something dramatic. He was quick to disabuse them: said it was an accident in the rigging as a midshipman, and they looked disappointed.

He wasn’t—quite—the monster people said he was.

But he’d always known, even back then, that William Day could never be fully exonerated. Not in the eyes of the public, or the press, or God. It would be madness to try. He could see them now, just as clearly as before: all those whisperers in uniform, elbowing one another when they saw him, falling silent as he passed through these echoing halls.

Murderer. Cannibal.

The green door opened, and a man left in high temper; he was very pale, with high well-bred cheekbones, a swoop of mahogany hair, and a face like curdled milk. Another, older, followed him by walking stick and determination, upper lip and chin covered with badgery whiskers. “It’s hardly to be borne,” the younger hissed. “Him? Hopkins has overstepped himself this time, the Arctic Council will—”

“Oh, the council will, will it?” the old man said with coolness. “The council has nothing to do with it. Let them sort this new disaster out themselves.”

They broke off, abruptly, when they saw Day sitting there, back pressed against the wall as if he were trying to disappear. “Excuse me,” he said.

The pale man made a strangled noise and grabbed his companion by the arm, ushering him quickly and roughly around the corner, out of sight. Day heard them speaking to each other in hushed voices, and swallowed. He’d seen the widening eyes, the flicker of contemptuous recognition: the moment he was judged instantly on the basis of the worst things he might ever have done.

Lieutenant Day of the Reckoning.

Or, as the papers insisted on calling it, the Reckoning disaster. His likeness had been passed around the illustrated news, a monster with beard and wild hair. Desperate and emaciated, they said, and it was utterly true: desperation was the natural state of Cape Verdant.

Day sighed. Who did he think he was? Stevens, his former second-in-command, had left civilization and disappeared once again into the frozen north. He, at least, still believed in the Open Polar Sea. But only two years of provisions, for an expedition three years lost—despite Stevens’s winking insistence that they could fend for themselves, Day knew the idea of such a large party surviving on hunting was ludicrous. The crew of the Arctic Fox would by now be on short rations, shortening rations, maybe no rations at all.

Day, more than anyone, knew what that was like.

“Mr. Day.” A face appeared. “Captain William Hopkins.” The stranger offered his hand. He had eyes set close together, like some small carnivorous animal, all sleek fur and pointed nose. “Won’t you come in? I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

The room beyond the green door was dimly lit, a fire in the grate, rain tap-tapping half-heartedly against the windowpanes. By the fireplace, twin high-backed armchairs in olive velvet, and a low table covered with correspondence and newspaper cuttings. The room looked disordered, but Day immediately had the impression that its occupant knew where to lay his hands on every single scrap of paper.

“Sit, please,” Hopkins said. Although the sky outside was too lazy to snow, the room was warm; Day could feel the heat start to suffocate him. A large chart table displayed the official map of the Northwest Passage, and Hopkins bumped into it, with an air of annoyance, on his way to the liquor cabinet.

Day accepted a whisky. Hopkins sat opposite. Up close, he was even younger than Day had first appreciated. But something about him appealed. He seemed like the rare kind of person who got things done.

“I had hoped to speak with the First Lord,” Day said delicately.

Hopkins frowned. “But he’s busy, busy. You know. Resources. Egypt.”

Day took a sip of whisky. He rarely drank, and it sat like acid inside him, in the tight hard knot of disappointment that had been building since he’d reached the Admiralty. Of course there were resource issues. Of course he’d come for nothing, and Stevens would be abandoned to his fate. Just another lost Arctic expedition, an American one at that.

Another act of vast indifference by the machine of British bureaucracy.

“If there’s another time, perhaps—”

“Not at all. I’m the one who answered you, Mr. Day. Needs must.”

Needs must—and the other half of the saying, when the devil drives. It reminded Day so strongly of Jesse Stevens that he found a prickling sensation running down his spine.

“The Stevens business is a concern of mine. Here—take a look.” Hopkins leaned forwards, perched on one bony buttock, and plucked something from the pile of papers between them. With a creeping sense of humiliation, one that made sweat gather under his arms, Day recognized some of those newspaper cuttings.

They came back in iron caskets! shrieked the headlines. Just six caskets, sealed for repatriation, to hide decomposition and—the rest. The separation of spirit and body, played out in ruthless and gruesome detail. All those other lives extinguished in the Arctic, left behind without a trace.

Hopkins, like everyone else, had heard the very worst about him.

The velvet cushions exhaled as Hopkins handed something to Day, with arched eyebrow, and sat back again. But it wasn’t what he’d expected: letters, addressed in a feminine hand to the First Lord. It felt wrong to be handling someone else’s correspondence.

For the sake of the debt which at least one of your countrymen owes my husband—

Day’s wrists prickled. He tried to put it down to the heat of the room, but there was something about that scrawling hand, and its vehement message. A debt.

Shame.

“I don’t suppose you ever met Mrs. Stevens?”

Day shook his head, swallowing the sour taste in his mouth. “They married after I’d left America.”

After he’d fled back to England to escape the reporters and the rumors and that horrible nickname, the one that followed him everywhere. He hadn’t even been invited to the wedding; there was no place for William Day at the feast. He found it hard to imagine Stevens married. Hard to imagine him anywhere but at Day’s own side.

“People say, don’t they, that he’s a great man. But you can imagine how indifferent the council has been, after that . . . Passage business.”

He wouldn’t say the name of Sir John Franklin out loud, and Day supposed he knew why: two ships lost, hundreds of men, nearly as many search parties, and all the Admiralty had got out of it was that line on the map, showing a wavering ice-filled strait, never seen passable. Quite useless to the plans of empire.

Hopkins refilled Day’s glass. “Mrs. Stevens”—a small snort at the name, as if the title were reserved for those of a loftier character—“is determined that her husband is still alive. Tell me, Mr. Day—do you believe the same?”

That was, after all, why he was here, in the third winter of Stevens’s expedition. Day couldn’t believe—refused to believe—that Stevens was dead. The man would have found a way to survive. He might be chewing on frozen blubber with the Natives. He might be manning the darkness of an ice-locked ship, hunting rats in the hold, small deer. He might even be eating his own boots. But he was alive. The north couldn’t kill that ceaseless, searching ambition.

And Day would know when Stevens died.

How could he not?

“Yes, absolutely,” Day said without hesitation.

“Good.” Hopkins unfolded his arms. “Good. Because you’re going to find him.”

Day stared at him, a small, uncomfortable flame of hope sparking into life.

“You’ve saved us the bother of asking.” Hopkins leaned forwards. “Myself—I’d have expected you to come begging before now.” It stung, and Day took a swallow of whisky to cover it. “You have no supporters, no—let’s be candid—no prospect of ever returning to service.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I’ve located a ship. On behalf of backers who wish to keep their interest in Stevens . . . confidential. The council disapproves? Well, I’m not a member of that council. And the Admiralty has no more appetite for the north—not after the Passage, and then you.”

Day flinched at the callous economy of it. Two unconscionable disasters, one after another. Franklin and his one hundred and thirty-four men. William Day and his Reckoning. They’d both ended up gnawing on human bones, the last desperate resource.

A polite euphemism for cannibalism.

“Not an Admiralty ship,” Hopkins was saying. “A small expedition, crewed by whalers, and the Navy will loan you a handful of officers. But it hasn’t come cheap. If something were to happen, I would expect every effort to be made for the ship’s preservation. That should be paramount.” He paused, scowling. “Not abandoned, or sunk, or lost—hmm?”

The rain rapped on the windowpane.

“You were lucky you escaped court-martial the last time—but, I suppose, what was there to say? It must have been damned hard to watch.” Hopkins said this last with an air of grudging sympathy, captain to captain, as if inviting confidences. “No wonder the others never spoke of it.”

Losing one’s ship was always thought to be the worst disaster.

Day found his gaze going to the painting behind Hopkins’s head. It showed a storm-tossed sea of ice, lit with unforgiving slashes of gray and white. A ship’s splintered masts reached to the sky, and the mouth of the deep was opening. As the light shimmered, and the rain beat down outside, he could suddenly hear the waves crashing; the ice gnawing, crunching; the creak of her timbers. A dying ship, singing her death song, as loud as the silence following her end.

“I’ve read your statement,” Hopkins was saying, a glint in his eye. “Lost? As if she was yours to lose.” He steepled his fingers. “She took a nip. She went down.”

Day swallowed. Nodded his queasy agreement.

“You’ll lose no more ships. I’ve put a great deal of my influence behind this.”

The mask of genial, conversational diligence slid off. The eyes of the creature sitting in the chair were the half-glimpsed flares of distant cannon, and sweat trickled down Day’s back. Hopkins’s gaze was the simultaneous indifference and greed of empire. He might sit here beside his fire and receive a butcher’s bill featuring scurvy, frostbite, debility, pneumonia, or any one of the horrible ways to die in the Arctic. He’d receive it without blinking. He cared about his reputation, which was all.

“Do you understand?”

Day swallowed. “Yes.” Vividly, he thought.

“I’ve turned down the rest of the contenders, you’ll be pleased to hear,” Hopkins said, easy again. “You know the man, after all. You know how he thinks.”

Day looked away quickly. Did anyone really know Jesse Stevens, he wanted to say.

But this—a new command. A new purpose. It was like being dragged back from beyond the veil; like having new life beaten, painfully, into him. The rain knocked on the windowpanes, and the grandfather clock in the waiting room started to chime. The answering thud in Day’s chest, the tightness around his ribs, make him press a fist to his sternum. His body, at least, knew that failure would be synonymous with death.

“To the details.” Hopkins stood. “You’ll sail via Greenland this coming season. Investigate those reports from the whaling ships. Look for cairns—wreckage. We might as well assume Stevens is retreading your own disastrous route—”

“Not mine.” His mouth was dry.

“I’m sorry?”

“It wasn’t my route. Captain Talbot commanded the Reckoning, until his death at God-Saves Harbor. I was his fourth lieutenant. Nothing more.”

“Of course, I forget.” Hopkins obviously hadn’t. He looked amused.

On the chart table, there was Baffin Bay, the once-fertile whaling grounds off west Greenland. Lancaster Sound opened to the west, and through that sound, bobbing about in a treacherous expanse of ice, was Beechey Island: the site of the Franklin relics. Then Talbot’s Channel, named for their own doomed expedition, headed north and west towards—what?

Talbot had thought he’d known. He’d been wrong.

“I did my best!” Day said. “When scurvy took all the other officers, the ship was . . . she was lost.” He twisted his hands together, his heart pounding.

A pause.

“I took command, and led the men overland and through the ice, for nearly three hundred miles, to—”

Shame squeezed his throat.

“To somewhere you couldn’t cross forty miles of water,” Hopkins said darkly. “While Jesse Stevens somehow made it out.”

Day realized he’d been shouting. He didn’t dare look at Hopkins. He picked up his whisky glass, hoping to hide the tremor in his hands. “If anyone is to be blamed for what happened—”

“Then it shouldn’t be you,” Hopkins said softly. “I see.” He smiled slightly.

They both knew what the papers said, though.

Day took a deep breath, held it in abeyance. It had been twelve years, three months, and eleven days since he’d left Camp Hope: the overturned boat, the hideous flapping butcher’s tent. The grave-ridge. He’d left his reputation on the grave-ridge.

“They mean to eat me!” Campbell had shrieked in those picture-post illustrations. “They mean to kill and eat me tho’ I’m very much alive!”

A story to chill all hearts, with a sick man slaughtered like cattle by the very commander who ought to have protected him. And its conclusion: William Day, a monster.

“How you must have waited, for a chance to undo the stain,” Hopkins said softly. A pause. “You will go, won’t you.”

“Yes. Yes, I—I’m very grateful.” Day felt it coming up from his chest, a slow tingling warmth that burned as it rose. “Captain Hopkins. I’m very grateful.”

The rain drummed on.

“Good. Your command comes with caveats, though,” Hopkins said abruptly. “You won’t like who you’re taking with you.”

Day stared. “I beg your pardon?”

Hopkins handed him a newspaper. Day’s heart sank at the masthead, then sank further at the photograph, dropping right into his polished boots.

The woman in the picture was not attractive, exactly: she had thick dark hair inclined towards waves, sternly center parted, and a rounded face. Striking, that was the word, but Day was no connoisseur of female beauty. One hand resting on a polished and grinning skull, she stared at the camera through deep-set eyes.

Olive Emeline Stevens, one of America’s most famous spirit mediums, although after marriage she’d confined her talents to more private sittings; it was even said she’d hand-picked men to watch over her husband in the Arctic. He made out an engraving on the wall behind her: “out of the animal’s darkness into the angel’s marvelous light.”

Day had seen enough of that animal darkness to desperately wish such a thing might be possible.

Hopkins tapped the photograph. Day’s thoughts went, vexingly, to their little cabin on the Reckoning: Jesse Stevens crammed in beside him on the horsehair mattress, boots beating out a lazy rhythm on the ship’s wooden backbones. Stevens was no husband, Day thought. Whatever else he was—

“Yes, I know.” Hopkins waved away his objections. “The Arctic is no place for the gentle sex, despite any custom of the whaling captains. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that they’d be glad to leave their wives behind?”

That wasn’t what Day had been going to say: if his face had worn horror, it had been the image of Stevens, casual in his bed, that had crowded into his mind; the accompanying warmth crawling up his spine, making his clothes too tight and too hot.

“And Mrs. Stevens says she’s used to adventure. I daresay she has a cohort of invisible Native spirit guides” (another snort) “to defend her honor. You can deposit her on the depot ship at the first hint of danger. She needn’t go anywhere you don’t want her. She needn’t necessarily see wherever you find her husband.”

The Admiralty man paused, delicately. “In whatever—conditions—you eventually find him.”

*   *   *

The waiting room was empty.

Day put his back to the green door, and exhaled. He’d been in there for hours. It had seemed like a lifetime—but then, he supposed, it had taken their Savior three days to be raised from the tomb.

He was to come back tomorrow, Hopkins had said sharply, and the day after. Things would be done properly this time. They’d already come to loggerheads over the naval lists, Hopkins continuously circling back to a certain Joseph Adams Lee, with his grandfather (that badger-haired gentleman) on the Arctic Council. “Given I’ve expended significant capital—and political goodwill—on this venture, I was hoping he’d be the natural choice for your second-in-command.” Drumming his fingers. Day remembered well his encounter with Lee the younger: the pinched white face, the look of disapproval, that boiling pit of shame. He could read Hopkins’s annoyance in the bounce of his neatly clad knee.

Day rubbed his jaw, hardly able to believe that he’d got away with any of it.

Outside, the rain had stopped, and a grim illumination filtered through the windows, cracked open to let in the chill air of London winter. A moth battered against the pane, attracted to the light but unable to find its way out; Day knew what it was like to be doomed to batter endlessly against something cold and hard. A boy was shouting at the gates, hawking newspapers.

Day felt his empty stomach clench. He’d been very careful not to be seen.

“Horrible end in the ice!” the boy was yelling. “The Reckoning lost!”

No. Had he heard that right?

His head felt full of hull-cracking pressure at the idea people might be talking about him already. Stevens was a hero, after all, and William Day just a joke to any giggling urchin who—growling, beast-like—pretended to gnaw ravenously at his own limbs. Day’s neighbors in Russell Square would be sitting down to their papers, pipes in hand, glancing nervously at their flocked wallpaper. How thin and fragile, those walls separating them from a monster. Civilization from desperation.

He stared up at the portraits, trying to work up the courage to step out; he gave Jane, Lady Franklin, a look of sympathy. She didn’t belong here, either—who had she been, before her husband was lost? Then she’d turned up at every meeting of the Arctic Council, been politely laughed out of countless rooms of white-haired explorers. Launched increasingly frantic appeals for Lord Franklin’s rescue. She must have suffered greatly.

He knew how she felt.

A breath of sharp air made him glance behind himself. The mirrors reflected the window, and in the dim light of late afternoon, the hundred perfect Days had vanished. The room was shadowy. A grandfather clock beat the time, perfect and unrelenting, malicious, every second taking the Stevens expedition further from his reach.

Lady Jane’s eyes were a kind of warning.

The painting on the opposite wall was a romantic view of a group of fur-clad Arctic Highlanders—Natives from the far north of Greenland, past Cape York. The light from their fire flickered on ruddy faces, picked an opening in the ice out of darkness. But sidling into the corner of the painting, insinuating himself into the scene, peering over their shoulders—

Stevens was back.

He never walked through walls, or rattled chains, or did anything Day associated with ghosts. Stevens was still alive, after all; their connection unsevered. This Stevens was hazy and indistinct, appearing only in glimpses: in paintings, in photographs, in mirrors. Anywhere you might find a reflection. Ghostly, yes, but not a ghost. Which was fitting, because Stevens had never—to Day’s knowledge, and despite his spirit-medium wife—believed the slightest bit in ghosts, or an afterlife, or anything of the kind.

The light of that campfire picked out his bright hair, though, a thousand miles from foggy London, and Day hugged his own elbows, a yawning in the pit of his stomach. Stevens was holding up a limp body: an Arctic fox. Its tongue lolled, its eyes glassy, a shocking amount of blood smeared over its muzzle and up Stevens’s outstretched arm. His gray eyes were gleaming, pink dots in his cheeks, a wide smile of triumph splitting his face. He looked healthy and whole, utterly at home; of course he did, in his north. He was carrying Sheppard’s rifle on his back.

*   *   *

It was the first time Stevens had gone hunting. A few days before he’d been sent into the ice-crammed channel to fetch help. Day had thought—no, he’d known—he’d been sending Stevens out to his death. He’d wrestled with it. He’d begged Fate itself to do something, do anything, to save him from having to make that choice. To prevent him from sacrificing Stevens, the thing he loved most, to the vanishing chance of rescue.

Stevens had lived, though, and brought the whalers. In making that choice, Day had succeeded only in creating his own shining double. The burnished side of the Cape Verdant coin. Maybe that was why some part of Stevens had stalked Day the last twelve years.

“Come home,” it seemed to say, as the ice glittered deadly and the blood crawled down. “Will. Come home.”

*   *   *

Pain sometimes helped. Day pressed his nails hard into his palms, making little half-moons. Stevens winked at him, and Day’s heart pounded in his chest. He was getting older now, but this version of Stevens never did. He was handsome and in the prime of his youth forever. The public loved Stevens, as they hated Day, and he obliged by doing the same himself.

With a rush of blood in his ears, Day realized he couldn’t do it—he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t fail again, whether or not it would mean death.

There were other sorts of death, after all, more bitter to the soul.

Hang Stevens. He couldn’t compare.

From outside, the shouts still came. “Deliverer of Cape Verdant—now lost hisself!” Laughter. This would be a good place to sell newspapers today.

Deliverer of Cape Verdant. Day ground his teeth.

After his journey through the ice, First Lieutenant Jesse Stevens had been the only survivor of a relief party that had originally numbered three. Recovered alone, he’d fallen to his knees in front of Jeremiah Nathaniel—an otherwise cautious whaling captain, who’d taken a very great gamble by being in Lancaster Sound so late in the season—and begged him to save his wretched comrades back on land.

“I cannot tell to what desperate measures they may now have sunk! Or what wickedness! Those poor souls!”

Deliverer of Cape Verdant.

It stung more than expected. Day had lost everything up there. His reputation. His self-respect. The only home he’d ever really known: the Reckoning, golden-tinted, creaking around him like a lullaby. Sometimes he thought he’d wake one day back in his cabin, and find that the years had vanished, Talbot was still in command, and Stevens was leaning in the doorway to taunt him gently for sleeping late. A gilded age.

Sometimes he felt he’d never really left.

Stubbornly, he looked back at the painting, where a shimmering and out-of-place Stevens held up his Arctic fox, bright-eyed and golden-haired. Looking like an illustration from a picture book, tempting and daring in equal measure. The discoverer, perhaps, of that Open Polar Sea, and its fabled shores; its people living in noble savagery, waiting for Stevens to come.

Day would have to walk into the throng outside, naked and defenseless as a skinned hare. His own name rang in his ears, that nickname given by the newspapers, and he sighed, feeling the weight of it in his stomach like a stone.

Eat-Em-Fresh Day.

II: SHE WHO ASKS THE SPIRITS

GREENLAND, JUNE 18, 1882

THEY HAD THEIR FIRST SIGHT OF GODHAVN WHEN THE clouds parted during Sunday service, its tabletop mountain shimmering on the horizon under a cloth of snow.

The Resolution had been blessed with clean sailing on their journey across the Atlantic and up the Greenland coast. To be on deck again—seeing the scudding clouds, hearing the waves, feeling the wind against his skin—was, to Day, a blessing. No ghosts lingered; no bloodstained former lieutenant showed his face. He looked up at the sky each night, at the beautiful distant stars, and almost felt like praying.

His congregation of whalers seemed able to smell land, though, shuffling their feet and looking around surreptitiously as the service came to an end. Day caught the horrified look of his second-in-command—“Pay attention!”—then his guilty glance up at the bridge.

Twenty-three and sandy-haired, eyes hidden behind spectacles, Peters looked like he’d just stepped out of a Cheapside clerking office for a steak-and-kidney pie. Day had chosen Peters as his second over everyone else in the naval lists, although he was a perfect nobody: a perfect nobody with excellent scores on his examinations.

“No one could be more admiring of your fortitude, the hardships you endured, than I,” he’d promised when accepting the post, in a hand soft and persistent, little flicks like dark wings.

“I would do anything in your service, anything at all you required—”

Day nodded at Peters, and shut his Bible. The book had been a gift from Second Lieutenant Jackson, who’d joined a missionary order after being hauled off their little scrap of rock, and promptly perished somewhere snakes slithered and malaria beat its fevered drum. God had abandoned them, Day knew, when good-tempered, red-faced Nicholas Talbot had finally died, scurvy-riddled and delirious.

But looking around on this fresh morning, he could almost believe otherwise. Kittiwakes and skuas made their throaty cries around the Resolution’s masts, and the thin howl of dogs carried on the wind. Sails billowed and crackled above, the sun unsetting.

The Resolution was a steam yacht, capable of being sailed by a skeleton crew, and to Day’s eyes she looked rather skeletal herself, lacking in beauty and human characteristics. She was all staircases, low ceilings, and darkened companionways, sunlight wending down from deck then disappearing again. From her cavernous boiler, pipes ran through the main living quarters, creating little pockets of sound; exhalations; tapping. But Day had rested the back of his hand against his cabin wall, and found his lips tugged upwards by the unexpected warmth.

Their depot ship was just one amongst many dark blots on the gleaming sea ahead; the whaling fleet at harbor. The prospect of meeting that ship made Day pause, push his shoulders back, try to roll some of the tension from his neck. He wasn’t sure he was quite ready. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready.

Dr. Valle approached the bridge, and Day smiled. “Everything in place?”

Valle scowled, beaky nose seeming to become even more pointed. Then he stamped his way up the bridge stairs, uninvited, folding his arms emphatically. “It is. Captain.”

Day gave him a sidelong look. “You don’t have to—”

Henri de Valle might have been the closest thing Day had to an old friend. On the expedition or . . . anywhere.

*   *   *

They’d met on their first week on the Reckoning. A much younger Day had turned a corner belowdecks and slammed straight into the doctor, clattering specimen jars to the floor: Valle had planned to study the effects of moss and other mean vegetation on scurvy. “Ah,” Valle said with a long-suffering sigh. “Well, I suppose you’ll come with me tomorrow to fetch more, young—”

“Day. Fourth Lieutenant Day.”

“Savages never get it, you know,” Valle told him the next day, as they clanked fully laden across the shore. “Scurvy. It’s a disease of exploration.”

One of the young Americans, also nominally assisting the doctor, had laughed at Day’s packhorse countenance. “You look—I’m sorry, sir,” he’d said teasingly, coming right up to him with a grin, so close that the sunlight had prickled at his long fine eyelashes.

Tom, he said his name was, not Thomas. Tom Sheppard.

“Fourth Lieutenant Day,” he’d stuttered in return. He’d wondered what it would feel like to be so utterly sure of your own charm.

He looked. He couldn’t stop looking.

Valle had been peeved. “If the two of you have quite finished . . .”

*   *   *

“Oh, no,” Valle said to him now, interrupting his queasy recollection. “Captain Day. My captain tells me I must give up my cabin for her, and so I do. My captain tells me to sleep in my own sick bay, as if I were some—sawbones.”

Valle sniffed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. He hadn’t gone all the way on the Reckoning: invalided off ship, in all probability Valle’s influenza had saved his life. His assistant, Nye, had taken his place, and lived to regret it. The papers said that Valle had been Reprieved from the Cannibal Crew.

Day folded his arms, feeling unreasonable. “She needs to sleep somewhere.”

Valle’s letter of complaint about the lodging situation had already been inserted in the official log. His objections were a matter of record—along with his weekly inspections of their health. No weakness, no nervous debility, would go undetected on this ship. Everything would be clean.

“It’s appalling,” the doctor said with feeling. “Some—woman! Meddling with things she doesn’t understand . . .”

Day made a noncommittal sound.

“. . . they say there’s no death!” Valle snorted. “No such thing! When any man who’s seen it, seen it up close, could tell you—”

Day looked at the deck.

“—and she claims to consort with spirits,” Valle finished, imbuing the word with more disgust than skepticism. As if the idea was personally offensive.

Day felt himself flush; he was glad the doctor didn’t yet have a stethoscope pressed to his chest. Even as captain, he wouldn’t be exempt from examination, and he tried not to feel the sense of intrusion—of unease.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice.”

Valle snorted, and gave Day a glance in which anger and sympathy were equally mingled, his eyebrows two unruly slashes of gray. Peters stumbled on deck below them, and that look of sympathy deepened. Peters had none of the verve one needed in a really good second-in-command, despite those fervent protestations in his letters. Stevens, Day thought, would have eaten him alive.

“She’d be far more comfortable there,” Valle said, nodding to the growing shape of the depot ship. “I have my doubts—”

“Shh!” Day lowered his voice. “They’re good men. Their master assured me of that.”

Day lacked sailing experience. Although captain in name, he’d be relying on his crew more than most. Their old whaling ship had gone down in the eastern Greenland Sea; Hopkins had found them, and their odd-eyed master—now Day’s ice-master—land-sick in Dundee. They were desperate to work in anything but whaling: in such a superstitious industry, they were deemed unlucky.

Day, though, had liked the idea of a crew who’d been touched by the ice.

He found himself looking at the Bible, Jackson’s Bible, discarded on the chart table. Whatsoever passes through the paths of the seas. Hopkins had his theories, of course, like all armchair explorers: based on currents and warm waters, isothermic gateways, miraculous polynyas. The world had launched countless expeditions based on the hope that they, too, could pass through into the Open Polar Sea: balmy and tropical and utterly mythical, encircled by its annulus of ice. And on its shores, perhaps, Stevens’s beloved race of noble savages: men living free without laws or encumbrance, the closest thing to gods.

Day shivered. It wasn’t like that: no, not at all.

*   *   *

Shouts; catcalls; as they came into harbor, men abandoned their work, climbing the rigging to get a better look at the quayside. Valle, who had barely moved from the bridge in the intervening hours, despite expressing increasing boredom, gave Day a pointed look.

“Away there!” came a voice from the shadows, and the ice-master appeared, men parting immediately to let him through. Roderick was a captain himself by right and respect; chosen by his own men as the most fitting replacement when their old captain died. He had one blue eye and one coppery, an air of perpetually squinting into the sun, and Day wouldn’t have liked to be on the wrong side of that glare.

On shore, a line of girls was walking down to the jetty, solemn as a funeral procession. Girls in boldly striped trousers, tucked into their jaunty over-the-knee sealskin boots. Someone beside him made a noise; Day didn’t see how the sight merited it. Some of the girls wore shawls or fur muffs over their hooded jackets, but on the whole they made for boyish silhouettes, with their hair pulled up neatly into scarf-wrapped topknots. Underneath, Day caught sight of round faces and dark eyes.

The leader of the group didn’t need to look where she was going—she made her way through the scree as sure-footed as a mountain dweller. A Native girl, Day thought. Half-Native, perhaps. There might well have been intermarriages in the time this trading outpost had clung to the Greenland rocks. Perhaps something worse: Day knew how men could be, without the restraint of civilization, or when they thought no one was watching.

It made him feel oddly guilty, although no one could accuse him of that particular harm—harm to girls. He caught one of the crew about to call out, and glared. “We do not,” he said firmly, “insult the ladies.”

He caught a snatch of conversation from the forecastle—some ladies these are—and turned to find the speaker.

Joseph Adams Lee, arms folded, gave him an impudent look, the sun flashing off the gold bars of his lieutenant’s epaulettes. His high, severe cheekbones looked as though someone had used a chisel to slice them out. He cast his eye over the women like someone inspecting goods on display.

Day swallowed. He had to choose to ignore it. In this respect, at least, Hopkins had got his revenge.

As they glided past the Louisa to take their place in harbor, Day gave their depot ship a sideways look. He knew her well. The old whaler was a hive of activity, riding low in the water: her oily hold was stuffed with split peas, dried cranberries, salt pork, mustard by the barrel; Day had perhaps overstocked. And there, on her fresh-scrubbed deck, was—

Nathaniel.

The Louisa’s captain, the only black captain Day had ever encountered, stood examining the Resolution as if it were bringing nothing but bad luck. In his memory, Day could see Nathaniel’s deep brown eyes, hard as two arrowheads dug out of a peat bog, as he surveyed Camp Hope; as he offered Day one dark-skinned hand to lift him up from the rocky ground. His rescuer.

Day had spent weeks aboard the Louisa learning how to eat again, how to walk again, how to think and feel again—he’d had plenty of time to see the tenderness behind Nathaniel’s flinty countenance, his ship’s instruments of death. A mixed crew, too: Nathaniel wasn’t exceedingly unusual for being black, and a captain, in the whalers’ iron-and-blubber world. Those men were hard, and valued competence more than all else.