Blood and Ice

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Sinclair bent low over the wooden bunk where Eleanor lay. Though she was snugly wrapped in his greatcoat and buried under every blanket and sheet he could lay his hands on, her teeth still chattered and her breath fogged in the dank, freezing air. By the flickering light of the oil lamp, he could see that her eyes were rolling up under her lids, and her face was as white and cold as the ice that had surrounded the ship for weeks.

With his own numb hand, he stroked her brow, brushing a wisp of her dark brown hair away from her eyes. The skin felt as lifeless and implacable as the blade of a sword, but underneath it he could still detect the slow coursing of her blood. She would live, somehow, but he would have to see to her needs, and soon. There was no way around it, anymore; he would have to leave the cabin and go below to the stores.

“Rest,” he said, gently, “and I will be back before you know I've gone.”

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