He placed the waxy bits in a pile to one side, then inserted the tip of the scalpel between the cork and the bottleneck and began gently to cut around the edge. He wanted the cork to be as loose as he could make it before employing the corkscrew. When the circle had been completed, he put the scalpel aside and stopped just long enough to put the triumphal march from Aida on the Bose audio system; then, to its opening flourishes, he placed the mechanical corkscrew to the cork and began to turn the handle. There was a moment of resistance, followed by a smooth entry-so smooth that Darryl was afraid the cork was going to disintegrate, after all. But the corkscrew eventually made it all the way through, and its lateral wings began to rise as the cork came up and out in one sustained motion. There was even an audible pop as the cork broke entirely free.

Success, Darryl thought, as he bent down to inhale the first fumes of this vintage wine ... and immediately recoiled.

If he'd been wondering if the wine would still be even remotely drinkable, he would wonder no more. The odor was vile. He gave it a few seconds to dissipate, then, p.r.i.c.ked by curiosity, put his nose to the bottle again. It wasn't just a bad aroma-and it wasn't just wine that had long ago turned to vinegar. The scent was something else, and it was something that, to a biologist, was disturbingly familiar. His brow furrowed, and he opened a counter drawer to remove and prepare a clean slide.

"All right, mates," Calloway was saying in his manufactured Aussie accent, "I want you to listen carefully to what I'm about to say and do exactly what I tell you."

Suited up once more in the suffocating dive suit, and with Bill Lawson dressed just the same, Michael was not about to argue with anything. He just wanted to get into the water as quickly as possible.

"You've got dual tanks today, but that still gives you a max- max, I say-of ninety minutes. And given the exertion of sawing through submarine ice, probably a fair bit less than that. Any difficulty with the saw, and you come up, p.r.o.nto! Got that?"

Michael and Lawson nodded.

"That means, any tear in your suit, no matter how small, and you come straight up. Any tear in your skin-anything that leaks blood-and you come up even faster. We've seen leopard seals around the dive hut today, and you know they're not your friends."

Michael did know-the Weddels were frisky but harmless; their close cousins, distinguishable by their large reptilian heads, were not. A Weddell would play with you, but a leopard, with its immense curving mouth, would bite.

"If you have to, defend yourselves with the ice saws."

Each of them had been equipped with a fifty-two-inch-long Nils Master ice saw; it wasn't necessarily the most precise ice-cutting instrument, but with its wing-nut design and razor-sharp teeth, angled inward like a shark's, nothing could cut through underwater ice faster.

"Michael, you know where you're going, right? So you'll go down first and lead the way. Bill, you take the net and salvage line and follow."

Michael was nodding the whole time while he inched in his fins toward the beckoning ice hole. A cool bloom seemed to rise up off it and into the overheated dive hut, and he noted that its diameter had been enlarged.

"That's it then, mates," Calloway said, slapping Michael on the shoulder to indicate it was time to go. "Masks on, feet in the deep freeze."

Michael sat at the edge of the hole, then slipped down the icy funnel and into the sea. He didn't have to go in search of the sunken chest; an earlier dive team had already gone down and retrieved it, and he'd seen a team of huskies dragging it back on a sledge toward the base camp. A big guy named Danzig was mushing them, and as he pa.s.sed Michael, he raised one hand in salute. Word had quickly spread around the compound that Michael had made a pretty unusual find, and even if the ice princess didn't turn up, his stock had definitely risen.

Michael knew that she was going to turn up.

After orienting himself in the water, and waiting for Lawson to take the plunge, Michael turned away from the dive and safety holes and swam off toward the glacier wall that appeared in the distance. Much as he regretted it, he did not have his camera with him; Murphy had forbidden it. "I don't want you mucking around with photography down there," he'd said. "You have limited time, and if you're right about what you saw"-he still hadn't been willing entirely to concede the point-"you're going to have your hands full helping Bill to cut through all that ice." With his saw in one hand and a flashlight in the other, Michael propelled himself through the water like a seal, undulating his body and working his fins for all they were worth. Still, it was harder work, and more time-consuming than he thought, just to reach the glacier. It was difficult to gauge distances underwater, and especially so there, where the ice cap cast a pall over everything. Once in a while, a break in the ice might let some direct rays of sunlight penetrate the depths, creating a shaft of gold aimed straight at the black and benthic regions below, but otherwise the ocean water was a very pale and clear blue, like an early-morning sky in summer.

And his glove was leaking-not a lot, not so much to be dangerous, but enough to make things uncomfortable already. The glove was the one noncontiguous part of the suit, and as such, no matter how tightly you tried to seal it, there could be a certain amount of penetration. The linings underneath it absorbed the moisture as it leaked in, eventually bringing it to body temperature, but in the meantime it was a numbingly cold reminder of just what a hostile climate he was traveling in.

He slowed up in the water and turned to make sure Lawson- the ever-cheerful Boy Scout leader-was still with him. He could see his face mask glittering in the water, the sharp tip of his ice saw, and the salvage line playing out behind him; it was tied to his harness and tethered up top to a 200-hp winch behind the dive hut. The line, normally used for dredging up oil barrels and sunken wreckage, had two thousand yards on it and could withstand a couple thousand pounds of weight. Michael turned around again and continued toward the glacier. As it loomed above him, and below, he felt a note of hesitation, even fear, that he had not felt the first time. Then, he had been unaware of what the ice held. Now, he not only knew, but he was there to steal it. The walls of ice seemed more defensive now, like the walls of a fortress erected by some ancient G.o.d of sea and ice, and Michael felt like a soldier about to try to breach them.

There was even a low murmur of noise, a crackling and grinding, from the ice itself. He hadn't noticed it before. But the immense glacier was moving, it was always moving, though so slowly it could not be seen, and only seldom heard. Michael drew closer to the wall, and now he knew that the hard part was about to begin. The wall was vast, and finding the body was a question not only of longitude but of lat.i.tude. He could roughly gauge the section of wall where he had seen it, but at what depth? He would have to travel both up and down the wall, and that could take time. He motioned at one large area with his arm, and indicated to Lawson that he should begin to scout the glacier there. Michael himself moved thirty yards off, and to orient himself took one long look back at what was called the down line-it extended from the safety hole, far, far away, and there were colored pennants attached to it for better visibility. He tried to recall if this was the angle he'd had on it the day before. But he couldn't remember at all. He had been so shocked that he'd just paddled away backwards, in a burst of bubbles and flapping fins.

What he did remember was the quality of the light, and that, he decided, would be his best clue. The weather today was much like the day before, and the unchanging sunlight-if he could just remember how bright, or dim, it had been when he discovered the body-could steer him in the right direction. The water and the light was not the pristine blue that he was inhabiting now, so he deflated his suit and allowed himself to sink, staying close to the wall, a dozen yards or so. He swept the flashlight across its rough mottled surface in even strokes, back and forth, while looking for anything- a fissure in the rock, an unusual formation-that might trigger a memory. But so far, he saw nothing.

What he did notice was the creeping cold, colder than the water even a little ways off. The iceberg gave off a freezing breath that made him have to wipe his mask with the back of one glove. It also made him wonder what it could possibly be like to be a captive of that ice for decades, even centuries. To be absorbed, suspended, immobilized-like one of Darryl's specimens floating in a jar of formaldehyde-forever. Lifeless, but immaculately preserved. Dead, but not gone.

And he thought then of Kristin, lying perfectly still in her hospital bed in Tacoma.

He raked the tip of the saw against the glacier, and slivers of ice immediately came loose, like the skin curling off a potato. Another drop or two of frigid water seeped into his glove.

He went lower still, and the light grew dimmer, more like the quality of the light that he recalled. He swam from one side to the other of a wide swath, gradually working his way down, until something in the ice looked different-a spot where it didn't sparkle quite so brightly in the concentrated beam-and he went straight for it.

The closer he got, the darker and colder the water became, but his heart was beating fast. He waved his arms and fins slowly to keep his position, and surveyed the wall. There was indeed something buried here (there had been moments, though he confessed them to no one, when he, too, had wondered if he'd imagined it all) and he quickly waved his flashlight beam at Lawson, still a considerable distance above him, to catch his attention. Then he swam even closer, peered in at the ice ... and saw her face staring out at him.

But it was-and it was not-what he remembered. He had remembered a look of utter horror on her face, eyes wide and mouth shaped in a scream ... but that was not what she looked like now. Although it was impossible-and he knew he would never try to explain this part of it to Murphy O'Connor-her eyes were level, and her mouth composed. She looked not like a person in extremis, but instead like someone in the midst of a mildly troubling dream. Someone who would soon awaken.

Lawson swam down toward him, the salvage line trailing behind, and when he, too, saw the face in the ice, he held still in the water, taking it in. All along, Michael knew Lawson had been secretly dubious, wanting to believe what Michael had said but well aware of the tricks that deep-sea diving can play on the mind. But this was no trick, and now he would know that for sure. If they were going to extricate her, they would have to get to work fast-there were at least several inches of ice covering her, and covering whatever else there might be clinging close behind her.

Lawson placed his saw against the ice, about five or six feet down, and indicated that he would be cutting laterally there. He lifted the tip of Michael's saw, and made a horizontal cutting motion about three inches above the woman's head. The plan was to leave just enough leeway to be safe, but no more than that-a block of ice with a body inside was going to weigh a ton as it was.

Michael tucked his flashlight back into its belt loop and let the jagged teeth of the saw bite into the ice. He drew the blade toward him, like drawing the bow on a violin, and a thin groove opened. He pushed it back and the groove deepened, translucent slivers of ice peeling away. It would be a long job, but the saw seemed up to it. The hard part was making sure that he kept his body, and his fins in particular, angled away from Lawson, who was working below.

It was also important to keep his eyes on the deepening groove and not let them stray to the face in the ice. Looking at her could make his blood run cold, and the iron chain wrapped around her neck was the stuff of nightmares. He tried to regulate his breathing and listen not to his own thoughts but to the hissing of the regulator, and the occasional groan or sputter from the ice. It crossed his mind, in the strange way that he knew humans anthropomorphized everything, that the glacier was in pain, that it could feel the bite of the saw cutting into it, that it was fighting to hold on to its frozen prize.

But it would not win. Michael made steady progress up top, and when he felt that he'd gone deep enough, he turned to making a vertical incision. Gradually, both he and Bill were cutting a box around the figure, and around the other shape-also human, or something else entirely?-that lurked behind. Michael saw Lawson check his dive watch, then hold up a hand with bulky fingers spread, twice, to indicate that they should cut away whatever else they could for ten more minutes. After that, it would be up to the winch to do the rest.

Lawson removed a dagger-sharp piton from his harness kit, and with steady blows drove it into the back of the ice block they'd been carving. Then he drove several more. The idea was simply to create enough of a fracture plane behind the block that a sudden and powerful tug would tear the whole piece loose. When he had the pitons in, he unfurled the net, wrapped it as best he could around the chopped block, and secured it with several more pieces of Alpine hardware-the same sort that Michael routinely used on mountain climbs. When that was done, and he had clamped all the hardware to the unbreakable salvage line, he gave the line three hard tugs, waited, then gave it three more.

Michael and Lawson back-paddled a few yards off and waited for the winch to kick in. The first thing they saw was the salvage line, which had shown almost no slack, suddenly straighten out like an arrow; Michael could hear a high-tension thrumming in the water, and a second or two later, he saw the ice block budge. It inched forward, then stopped; he could hear the cracking and grinding of the ice. It was like sliding a block out of a gigantic pyramid, and he suddenly had a terrible vision of the whole ice wall crumbling down around him. He moved farther back and inflated his suit to rise a few yards higher in the water.

The winch must have pulled again, because the ice block came forward on one side, then the other, almost like a penguin waddling across snow. Again, it stopped, still clinging precariously to its frozen perch, before issuing a mighty agonized groan and toppling forward, away from the iceberg, and swinging free above the bottomless sea. Lawson quickly swam toward it, and even as the winch began to haul it up and toward the dive hole, he attached himself like a limpet and knotted the back portion of the net for added safety. Michael, stunned, was quickly left behind, as he watched the block of ice, the size and shape of a big refrigerator, drifting away, with Lawson holding on and hitching a ride. The glove on Michael's left hand was leaking again, leaving his wrist feeling like an ice-cold iron bracelet had been bound around it. His air tank beeped a warning, and with his ice saw at the ready in case of a leopard seal attack, he followed the trail of bubbles up from the depths and toward the bluer waters above.

From below, the ice block looked like a crystal ornament, something that might twinkle on a Christmas tree, as it sailed back up out of the void and into the living world ... carrying its strange and petrified cargo.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

August 8, 1854 SINCLAIR SAT HIGH ASTRIDE HIS HORSE, Ajax, in full uniform and regalia, his peaked black helmet, modeled on that of the Polish lancers, at a slight tilt to provide some protection from the glare of the sun. A dozen other lancers were in a neat line to either side of him, and all the way across the drill field-a distance of no less than several hundred yards-an equally perfect line of cavalrymen were arrayed, also in everything from glittering gold epaulettes to ta.s.seled sword knots. Sinclair knew, as did they all, that they were often mocked as dandies because of the richness of their apparel- mandated by their commanding officer-but he was also confident that if they were ever fortunate enough to see battle, they would prove that they were much more than that.

The horses pawed the patchy ground, apprehensive about what was coming; all morning, the 17th had been doing lance exercises and circling-the-haunches drills, requiring close formation and precision riding. But now the lances had been discarded, and when the cornet sounded, the riders were to engage in mock, hand-to-hand combat, using blunted wooden swords. Sinclair wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, then dried his hand on the chestnut mane of his horse. Ajax had been with him since he was a colt, first at the family's country estate in Hawton, then in the regimental stables in London. As a result, there was a rapport between the horse and rider that the other soldiers could only envy. While the others were struggling to teach their mounts the most basic commands and maneuvers, Sinclair had perfect control of his own and could-sometimes with a gentle twitch on the reins, sometimes with just a word-make the horse do his bidding.

The trumpeter stepped up on one of the fence rails, raised the gleaming instrument to his lips, and played, three times in rapid succession, the rousing line that called the cavalry to charge. The horses whinnied and neighed, and Winslow's mare, directly to Sinclair's right, raised his head and forelegs, nearly throwing Winslow off altogether.

Sinclair, like the others, drew his wooden sword in one swift, almost silent motion and raising his right arm straight, shouted, "On!" to Ajax, while nipping at the horse's flanks with the jangling spurs. The horse burst forward like a racer on the Ascot track and the ground thundered as the entire line of cavalry rushed to meet the line coming at them. Somewhere in the opposing force, Le Maitre and Rutherford were riding, but the dun-colored horse coming most directly at Sinclair was ridden by Sergeant Hatch, a superb horseman in his own right and a veteran of the India campaigns. Hatch held the reins down low, a sign of confidence in his ability to control his mount, and his saber was held steadily aloft. He would pa.s.s, Sinclair judged, to his left, which meant they would be exchanging blows while pivoting in their saddles.

Sinclair held his legs tight to the sides of the horse as the turf exploded under the horses' hooves, and now he could even make out Hatch's face-the man was grinning, showing off his white teeth and thick moustache, in a face made permanently tan by years in the Punjab sun. The commanding officers, most of whom had never seen combat, often disdained the "India men"-men who had not been able to purchase higher commissions and who had actually served in the Gwalior Campaign, or fought alongside the Bengal Light Cavalry in battles at Punniar or Ferozeshah-but to Sinclair it was an admirable, and enviable, thing. To have seen combat! To have engaged, and killed, an enemy soldier! What could be grander than that?

Hatch was bearing down on him now-with all the joy of a veteran soldier about to teach a neophyte, in gold braid and cherry-colored trousers, a lesson or two about the manly art of war. He screamed, "Huzzah!" as their horses nearly collided, and his wooden sword whirled in the air. Sinclair's went up to meet it, but the force of the blow made his sword and his arm, too, shudder all the way to the shoulder. The clatter of the wood caused the horses to whinny and buck in fear, but Sinclair was able to keep control of Ajax using the pressure of his own legs and one firm hand on the reins. Hatch's horse bared its teeth, as if it, too, had lessons to teach, and Ajax pulled his head away. Hatch leaned back in his saddle and aimed another blow, this time his blade sliding down the length of Sinclair's sword with a deadly scratching noise, stopping just short of the handle guard.

The horses b.u.mped sides, like rolling battleships, and parted. But Hatch wheeled around behind, and as Sinclair twisted in his seat, the saber flew again; Sinclair ducked and felt the top of his helmet knocked askew. The strap suddenly jerked off his chin, and the hat tumbled down into the melee of hooves. Hatch's horse trotted in front of Ajax, and Hatch himself taunted Sinclair by tapping the tip of his sword on the baldric from which his opponent's empty scabbard hung.

"Dance, my Russian bear," Hatch said, pretending to treat him like their foreign foe. "Dance!"

But Sinclair was in no mood for jokes, or ridicule. While all around him, other soldiers wheeled and clashed and battled, he touched his spurs to Ajax's left flank, and the horse moved forward; without his helmet on, Sinclair could actually see better, and as Hatch prepared for Sinclair to come to his right, Sinclair tugged on the reins and Ajax immediately altered his course. Sinclair swung his sword, and Hatch had just enough time to fend off the blow. But rather than drawing back, Sinclair struck again, the blow glancing off the edge of Hatch's saber and nearly taking off the man's nose. The dun-colored horse neighed and kicked out. Hatch reared back in his saddle, virtually standing in his stirrups, to get out of reach of another swing, and when Sinclair had pa.s.sed, he drove his horse headfirst into Ajax's flanks. Before the horse could turn, or Sinclair could right himself in the saddle, Hatch had looped his reins on his pommel and with his hand now free reached out and grabbed Sinclair by the fur collar of his pelisse, dragging him off his horse altogether. Sinclair slid down the horse's flanks, his equipment clanking, his shoulder harness slipping loose, and thumped down onto the broken soil, rolling free as nimbly as he could of the flying hooves all around him. There was dirt in his mouth, and the remnants of his helmet were crushed flat.

The bugler sounded an end to the conflict, and as the combatants separated, some laughing, others licking their imagined wounds, Sinclair looked around; three or four other men were also lying in the dirt, one with a b.l.o.o.d.y or broken nose, another with a gash in his leg from a caught spur. All looked less than pleased with themselves. As Sinclair struggled onto all fours-his cherry trousers sporting a great hole in one knee-he saw a pair of black boots striding up and saw a gnarled, brown hand extended.

"You can't always expect your enemy to fight fair," Sergeant Hatch said, helping to lift Sinclair off the ground. He bent down, picked up the black brim of Sinclair's helmet, knocked the dust off it, and ceremoniously handed what was left of it to him. "But that was a fine bit of riding-you held your horse well."

"Not well enough, apparently."

Hatch laughed, and though he was probably no more than eight or nine years older than Sinclair, his face folded itself into a thousand tiny brown lines, reminding Sinclair of a parchment map, and making it very hard for Sinclair to hold a grudge.

"We India men," he said, boldly appropriating what was generally considered a slur, "are so used to fighting scoundrels that we've learned to fight like 'em." He paused, and the smile left his face. "Which is why you must, too."

Sinclair was mildly surprised-he was so unaccustomed to hearing anything but the most high-minded sentiments about warfare, espoused by officers drawn from the aristocracy and whose battle experience was generally nil, that to listen to such advice seemed almost treasonous in itself. War was regarded as a courtly game, played by an elaborate set of rules that all gentlemen adhered to, whatever the cost. But here was this battle-hardened veteran, telling him that it was a struggle with brutes who would just as soon manhandle you off your horse than engage in proper swordplay As they led their mounts off the field, Sergeant Hatch offered a few more pointers on the most recent theory of equitation, presented by Captain Nolan of the 15th Hussars-"If your horse kicks at the spur, it's a sign your weight is too far forward; if he capers, it means the weight is too much on the haunches"-and they were waiting in file to pa.s.s through the gate when a rider, Corporal Cobb, the flanks of his horse streaming with sweat, charged up to the fence, waving a sheaf of papers at the lancers.

"They've come!" he shouted, his horse rearing back on his hind legs. "The orders from the War Office!"

The men stopped in their tracks.

The corporal gained control of his mount, then rising in his saddle to make himself better seen and heard, announced that "By order of Lord Raglan, Commander in Chief of the British Army of the East, the 17th Duke of Cambridge's Own Lancers shall depart on the tenth of August, aboard Her Majesty's Ships Neptune and Henry Wilson, for the port of Constantinople; there, under the supervisory command of Lieutenant-General, Lord Lucan, they shall aid in the taking of Sebastopol."

There was more to the announcement, and Cobb went on reading, but Sinclair could hear nothing of it over the cheers and hollering of his fellow dragoons. Many of the men threw their helmets into the air, others brandished their wooden swords; several shot off a round on their pistols, frightening the horses. Sinclair, too, felt his blood racing in his veins. This was it, at last! He was going to war. All the drilling, and training, and mucking about in the barracks, was finally going to come to something! He was going to go to the Crimea and help rescue Turkey from the depredations of the Czar. He thought of a cartoon he'd seen in the paper that morning-it showed the British lion in a bobby's hat, tapping the rampaging Russian bear on the shoulder with a nightstick and saying, "Now, now, I shall have no more of that!" He heard himself shouting, too, and saw Frenchie astride the fence, leading a dozen men in a raucous chorus of "Rule, Britannia, Britannia, rule the waves!" He turned to Sergeant Hatch to clap him on the back, but stopped short when he saw his face.

Unlike all the others around him, Hatch was not exulting. He did not look afraid, or reluctant in any way, but he did not look to be champing at the bit, either. He had a half smile on his lips as he surveyed the pandemonium around him, and in his eyes there was a serious, even faraway expression. It was almost as if he could see their destination, and perhaps their fate, in his mind's eye, and Sinclair's own spirits suddenly grew more sober. Still, he said, "It's a great day, Sergeant Hatch, is it not?" and Hatch nodded, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You'll never forget this day," he said, in a tone more solemn than it was jubilant.

"Bri-tons," Frenchie and his chorus were singing out, "never, never, never will be slaves!"

Another hand seized Sinclair by the elbow, and when he turned it was Rutherford, his muttonchops fairly bristling with the news. His face was red with shouting, and he could only shake Sinclair with delight.

"By G.o.d," he sputtered at last. "By G.o.d we'll show 'em a thing or two!"

And Sinclair immediately fell in with his mood. He turned away from Sergeant Hatch and threw himself again into the happy madness. He deliberately led Ajax off, holding tight to his reins; he wanted to slag off any doubts or hesitation. This was a time for celebration, for camaraderie, and he wanted no part of warnings or admonitions. Hatch had reminded him of a poem, by that fellow Coleridge, the one where the wedding guest is stopped by an ancient mariner, who insists on telling him a dire tale. Sinclair wanted no dire tales that day-he wanted the promise of glory and the opportunity of valor. And finally, it appeared, he would most certainly have them!

But the tenth of August was only two days away, and there would be a great deal to do in the time remaining. No doubt all their uniforms and weapons and tack would have to be organized, polished, cleaned, and inspected; their mounts would have to be readied for the long voyage aboard the navy frigates-or would the army commandeer a fleet of the new steamers, to make the trip in much less time?-and affairs in London, of any nature, would have to be wound up, too.

Which meant he must consider how to break the news to Eleanor. Indeed, he was due at her boardinghouse that afternoon. He had promised to take her to Hyde Park, where the Crystal Palace had so recently stood. He had hoped to make a day of it, having a stroll under the stately elms that filled the park, but unless he was sorely mistaken, his entire brigade would be confined to the barracks until their departure. He would have to make his exit right away and hope to be back again before he was missed in all the commotion.

He took Ajax to the stables and once he was in his stall, made sure to give him a double ration of oats and hay. Running his hand down the white blaze on his muzzle, he said, "Shall we cover ourselves in glory?" Ajax lowered his chestnut head as if a.s.senting. Sinclair patted him down with a cloth to wipe away the sweat from his strong, well-muscled neck, then left the stables by the rear gate, where he had less chance of being seen.

He'd have liked to change his shirt, or at least wash up a bit, but the risk of being forestalled was too great. He hurried to the Savoy Hotel, where he knew he'd find a hansom cab or two waiting; he hired the first one he spotted, and called out his destination while leaping into the seat. The coachman flicked his whip and the carriage took off through the busy, dirty streets at a brisk pace, while Sinclair caught the first deep breath he'd had since hearing the news and debated how he would relay it all to Eleanor. He'd hardly had time, for that matter, to digest it himself.

His father, the earl, would probably be pleased; it would place Sinclair out of reach of the gambling dens and music halls and other expensive amus.e.m.e.nts of London, and, if he didn't get his head blown off, return him to England with a reputation as a soldier instead of a wastrel. But ah, if only the earl knew where Sinclair was headed at present-to the humble quarters shared by a pair of impecunious nurses, on the top floor of a dilapidated boarding-house. It would make the old man shudder, that much Sinclair knew, and if he were to be completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that he derived a certain enjoyment from that fact. The earl had been forever parading one plain aristocratic lady after another past him, hoping that Sinclair would find one of them sufficiently enticing, but Sinclair was a man who had always known what he wanted, instantly, and what he wanted was Eleanor Ames. He'd known it the moment he saw her closing the hospital shutters.

When the cab arrived on Eleanor's street, Sinclair directed the driver to the boardinghouse, then tossed him some coins while stepping down. "If you wait, you'll have the fare back again!" he cried.

The front steps were cracked, and the vestibule door had no lock. As Sinclair entered, he could hear a dog forlornly barking behind one flimsy door and a man bellowing about something at the end of the front hall. There was a musty smell on the stairs, which grew worse as he ascended, and as there was only one small window on each landing, it also grew darker. His boots made the floorboards creak, and as he approached Eleanor and Moira's door, he saw some feeble sunlight spill into the narrow hall. Moira was holding the door open a few inches, waiting to see who it was, but once she had ascertained that it was Sinclair, she seemed to crane her neck to look behind him.

"Good afternoon," she said, the disappointment evident in her voice. "You've come all on your own, then?"

She must have been hoping he'd bring Captain Rutherford along; Sinclair knew that they had seen each other on several occasions, though he also knew that Moira set greater store by those meetings than did Rutherford.

"Eleanor's in the parlor."

From previous occasions, Sinclair knew that the parlor simply referred to the tiny portion of the room that faced the street, and which was separated from the remainder of the room by a modesty curtain concealing the bed that Eleanor and Moira had to share. Eleanor was standing by the window-had she been looking down, waiting to see him arrive?-in the new pale yellow frock that he had, after some cajoling, persuaded her to accept. Each time they'd met, she'd worn the same simple forest-green dress, and though it was becoming on her, he longed to see her in something more gay and stylish. Though he knew nothing of ladies' fashion, he did know that the bodice of the new dress was more generously cut, allowing for a glimpse of neck and shoulder, and the sleeves were not so puffed out as to obscure the line of her slender arms. He had been walking with Eleanor down Marylebone Street one afternoon, and he had seen her eye linger on the dress in the store window. He sent a messenger the next day to purchase it and deliver it to her at the hospital.

She turned toward him, blushing but pleased to let him see her in her new finery, and even in the sooty light of the London afternoon, she looked radiant. "I don't know how you knew," she said, gesturing at the dress. A border of white lace lay like new-fallen snow across her bosom.

"And we only had to take it in by an inch or two," Moira said, bustling about behind the curtain. "She's a regular dressmaker's form, this 'un." She reappeared, gathering a shawl around her ample shoulders and carrying a mesh sack. "I'm off to the market," she said, "and shan't be back for at least the half hour." She all but winked at them before closing the door behind her.

Sinclair and Eleanor stood alone, still somewhat awkwardly. Sinclair wanted to take her in his arms, and beautiful as the dress was, divest her of it as quickly as possible ... but he would not do that. Despite the inequality of their positions in society, he treated her as he would any of the wellborn young ladies that he met at the country-house b.a.l.l.s or formal dinners in the city. For his more base appet.i.tes, there was always the Salon d'Aphrodite.

But instead of coming to him, Eleanor remained where she was, studying his face. "I fear I haven't thanked you for the dress yet," she finally said. "It's a very beautiful present."

"On you, it is," Sinclair said.

"Would you like to sit down," she said, indicating the two hard-backed wooden chairs that filled the entire s.p.a.ce allotted for the parlor, "or shall we go out?"

"I'm afraid I haven't much time for either," he said, fidgeting in place. "Truth be told, I'm in breach of orders just being here."

At that confession, Eleanor's curiosity immediately turned to concern. She had already noted that he was full to bursting, with what she did not know, and she also observed that he was dressed in uniform, with dirt caked on his boots and his complexion ruddy with exertion.

Had he broken a military regulation of some kind? She had guessed, over the past few weeks, that the young lieutenant was no stickler for protocol (hadn't he shown her, a woman, the inner sanctums of the Longchamps Club?), but she did not imagine him committing some serious wrong. Her fears were allayed only by the broad smile that flitted around his lips.

"Why? What orders are you defying?"

Sinclair clearly couldn't hold it in any longer, and he suddenly told her the news-the joyous news-that his regiment had been called into action.

And Eleanor found herself smiling, too, and feeling his excitement, as if it were contagious. For some time, the streets of the city had been filled with demonstrations, some protesting the march to war, but others loudly beating the drum for it. The papers had been filled with terrible stories of the atrocities visited upon the helpless Turks, and the dangers of the Russian fleet sweeping into the Mediterranean and posing a threat to the long-standing British supremacy on the seas. Conscription gangs had been tromping through the backstreets and alleyways, rounding up any reasonably able-bodied men-and some who were not-for Her Majesty's infantry. Even the boy who tended the coal bin and stoked the furnace at the hospital had been enlisted.

"When will you be going?" Eleanor asked, and when he told her, the full impact of the news suddenly struck her. If he was leaving the day after next, and he was already in contravention of the orders to remain at the barracks and camp, then this would be their last encounter, their last few minutes together before he sailed for the Crimea. The thought occurred to her, despite everything that she felt had pa.s.sed between them in the previous weeks, despite any bond that might have been formed, that she truly might never see him again. And it wasn't only the dreaded prospect of war, and the inevitable chance of death, that terrified her; it was also the knowledge that had haunted her from the night she'd attended to his wounded arm. The knowledge that they did indeed inhabit utterly different worlds, and that if it weren't for that unlikely encounter, their paths would never have crossed. Sinclair, after his time overseas, might not return to London at all-he might go back to his family's estate in Nottinghamshire. (Although he was still quite circ.u.mspect about his background, she had gathered enough about it, from comments dropped by Le Maitre or Captain Rutherford, to know that it was rather impressive.) And even if he did return to London, would he choose to pick up again with a penniless nurse rather than the grand ladies who moved in his own social circles? Would this little adventure of his-and that was how she sometimes thought of it, in the darkest part of the night, when Moira's constant turning in the bed kept her awake-would it still hold sufficient appeal for him to overrule all questions of practicality and decorum?

As if reading her mind, Sinclair said, "I'll write to you as soon as I can."

And Eleanor suddenly had a vision of herself, sitting in the chair by the sooty window, holding a letter, creased and worn by its long journey from the east.

"And I will write to you," she replied. "Every day."

Sinclair took a half step forward, as did she, and suddenly they were in each other's arms, her cheek laid flat against the rough gold braid that adorned the front of his uniform. He smelled of dirt and sweat and his beloved horse, Ajax; he'd escorted her once to the regimental stables and let her feed the horse a handful of sugar. She clung to Sinclair for several minutes, neither of them saying a word. They didn't need to. And when they kissed, it held a bittersweet and valedictory note.

"I must go," he said, gently disengaging.

She opened the door for him and watched as he hurried down the steps without looking back, the thunder of his boots echoing up the stairwell. If only opportunity had allowed, she thought, if only he'd had just a little more time, she would have liked him to see her outside, in the afternoon light, wearing the new yellow dress.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

December 9, 5 p.m.

AS MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED, news of the amazing underwater discovery had threatened to sweep through the camp like wildfire, so Murphy-notified by walkie-talkie from the dive hut- had immediately imposed an executive order. Michael heard him barking instructions at Calloway to admit no one else onto the ice, or anywhere near the hut. He also ordered everyone in earshot to zip their lips until further notice.

"Wait for Danzig and the dogs to get there," he said before signing off.

By the time the ice block was safely stowed on the back of a sledge, Danzig and his dog team had pulled to a stop fifty yards off. The huskies lay down on the snow and ice and watched the proceedings warily.

"Jesus H. Christ," Danzig said, striding up to the sledge and marveling openly at the thing-the frozen woman-contained in the ice. He paced slowly around the ponderous block, and Michael could tell he was already making some quick calculations about how best to transport it.

"That there, mates," Calloway said, "is the weirdest thing I've ever seen come up, and let me tell you, I've seen plenty of weird stuff."

"No s.h.i.t, Sherlock," said Franklin, who'd been a.s.sisting on the dive.