Page 98 of Valour

32

IN WHICH THERE IS SHARP-SHOOTING AND A DIFFICULT DECISION

1st January 1916, Patience Camp, Weddell Sea

“We need a break. Look at that,” Hester said, gesturing to the broken floes that lay ahead. The midnight sun hung in the misty sky, illuminating it all. “It’s been seven days of man-hauling those lifeboats and we’ve only travelled, what?”

“Seven and a half miles,” Septimus said, shaking his head, their hands entwined as they looked out over the impassable ice.

The days were long and difficult, physically exhausting, and to keep morale high was mentally draining too. They were aiming for the edge of the pack ice, aiming for the waters they could launch their lifeboats into and sail for land.

During the long, relentless days of physical work, Hester looked forward to the night-time skiing trips with Septimus, when they would scope out the next day’s route and lay little flags to follow on their way back to the sleeping crews. She longed for the peace, longed to have him to herself, like they were the only two people in the world. It took her back to days on the open sea, salt in the creases of her face, wind blowing through her hair.

She leant into him. “The crews are almost at breaking point. And we still need to go back for the last two boats. Let’s make camp here and wait for the ice to harden. We have food to hang on a little longer.”

“Not much longer, though. Ten days of flour left. And I’m surprised no one has gotten scurvy yet.” He wrapped an arm around her, the weight of him settling something in her.

The tether to him was strong and bright, right there in her chest. She could feel him always, and if she gave a little tug on that tether, he would tug back. It was comforting to be linked in that way. Strange, but comforting.

“We could send out more hunting parties,” Hester said. “Last night I had a dream I was eating dog food and loved every mouthful of it.”

Septimus wrinkled his nose.

She brought a biscuit out of her pocket, picked some fluff from it, then nibbled the edge. He looked at it longingly.

“Want some?” she asked.

“I’m fine. You have it.”

“Now you’re being chivalrous. Here.” She broke it in half and gave him the larger part.

“Thank you.” He took it. “I had a dream a few nights ago that I was eating bread and butter. A big stack of it.”

“Mmm. Bread and butter.” She rolled the stale biscuit crumbs around in her mouth, swallowing with difficulty. “I’d give my right arm for bread and butter. Say, what’s your favourite food?”

His jaw worked, chewing the biscuit, and he coughed when he tried to swallow it. “I don’t know. Maybe rare beef, or oysters. You?”

Hester laughed, bent over at the waist. A vision of being trapped in a cellar over a year ago came to her, of a plate she had kicked across the room. He thought he’d given her the most wonderful food, and she’d thought he was trying to poison her.

“What’s so funny about that?” he asked.

She patted his shoulder. “I just realised how long you’ve been head over heels for me.”

He rolled his eyes. “What’s your favourite food, then?”

“Chocolate cake. Favourite colour?”

“I’ve never really thought about it. Blue?”

“Mine’s green. If you could be any animal, what would you be?”

“Why are you interrogating me?”

“It’s a game we play on the Val—” She fell quiet, kicking the end of her ski into the snow. He pulled her into his chest so hard that she stumbled in the ski bindings and almost toppled them both over. She gripped him tightly and closed her eyes. The wound still cut deep. But she couldn’t let the pain out. Couldn’t let Orcus find them.

“I’ve got you,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I’ve got you.”

2nd April 1916, Patience Camp