of his lectures. Even here, in these brief minutes alone in a blizzard, something between them simply...clicked. Moved. Worked away inside him. Undeniably clockwork.
“Have you heard my father is planning his third adventure to Subterranea? I dare say he’ll not see snow like this for a good while. Quite toasty down there, by all accounts. Not that I envy him that, mind you—I’ve always thought it’s easier to ward off the cold than to keep cool in bloody heat. It’s all a matter of layers. You can always put more on, but there are only so many you can take off.”
He tilted his head in pensive amusement. “I believe you have a point there, McEwan. Now if only we had unlimited layers at our disposal here. ”
After prolonging a freezing breath, she blinked at him. “It’s getting colder, sir.” He hadn’t noticed. “Shouldn’t you carry her back if she isn’t for coming ‘round on her own?”
“Not yet. I’d as soon not risk it.”
“Sir.”
Five minutes passed, ten, without sign of Eustace. Gusts raked the top snow up into concentrated, busy dances, while jabbing through Derek as he crouched, nursing his unconscious patient. McEwan wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked back and forth beside him as she gazed out into the endless white. Soon the gusts were a constant, icy wind, the flakes indistinguishable from the hurtful cold stream battering him from the side. His ribcage fluttered, felt weightless, and even making fists with his toes became harder and harder. He shielded his eyes to gaze through the blizzard—Eustace was not there—then glanced across to McEwan. Her nose was purple, her stray pale locks frozen stiff against her brow.
They’d waited long enough. It was time to move.
He nudged the redoubtable girl, did his best to hold an easy smile. “Come on, we’re heading back.” His voice barely registered through the whistling wind.
She uncrumpled to her feet, then helped him lift Mrs. Prescott—not necessary, but he esteemed her all the more for it. “W-what if Mr. Challender comes b-back after all and we m-miss him?”
“Can’t be helped.” Hauling the Deputy Head onto his shoulder took far more effort than he’d guessed, and his steps through the snow did not feel secure at all. With him having to concentrate so hard on his own passage, he couldn’t afford to let his young student out of his sight. It would be dark soon, and were she to lose her way in this blizzard, in these temperatures, he might never see her alive again. “McEwan, grab my coat and don’t let go. Whatever happens.”
She stuck her gloved hand into his jacket pocket and gripped the lining with her fist. A tiny, comfortable fist. Hunched beside him, she resembled an Arctic refugee trudging to a new home: no whining, no despair, all seasoned practicality. He thought of the many young women his mother had introduced him to these past several years, and how interchangeable most of them had been, how insubstantial. And of those that had appealed to him—the spirited, independent thinkers who wore their good looks with light regard—none had been much interested in him. They thought him passably handsome, yes, intelligent, and moneyed enough to grant him an audience, but he was also as reserved as they came, taciturn even, or as he’d overheard one lady say—a wayward marchioness he’d been deeply attracted to at the time—“about as marryable as a wet cod.” The words stung anew.
But how easily he could talk to Sonja McEwan, and she to him. Other girls in his class had crushes on him, that much was obvious, yet none had yet dared speak to him as an equal. This young woman had pluck. She didn’t fit in; her father’s reputation had seen to that. But more than that, she was smart as a whip, easily the equal of any student, boy or girl, in the school. And looks-wise, she was blossoming into a lovely example of English womanhood.
A rare combination. If only she were a couple of years older and bore a more reputable family name. If only...
Using his compass, for the party’s tracks were completely covered, he led them directly to the coaches in a little over fifteen minutes. Eustace was not there. He had evidently lost his bearings trying to find them in the blizzard, so Wilhelmina sent up a flare rocket from the emergency supply chest. He can’t have been far away, as he returned several minutes later sporting a limp of his own, face