�Then I'll have to go there.�
�Seeing her like this � she don't want it. And there's nothing you can do to help her.�
�I'll be the judge of that.�
He threw back the ratty blanket and staggered to his feet. The world spun around him, the dirty walls, the muslin curtains speckled with flies, the wretched bodies lying in disorderly rows all across the floor. Moira threw her arms around his waist and steadied him.
�You can't go there!� she protested. �You can't!�
But Sinclair knew that he could, and that Moira would help him to do so. He groped around the straw he'd fashioned into a pillow and pulled out the jacket of his uniform, wrinkled and soiled though it was. With Moira's reluctant help, he finished getting dressed, then lurched toward the door. It opened out onto two endless corridors, equally dim and cluttered, but leading in opposite directions. �Which way?�
Moira took his arm firmly and led him to the left. They passed room after room filled with the sick and the dying�most of them silent, a few softly muttering to themselves. The ones who were in such agony or delirium that they could not be kept quiet were given a blessed dose of the opium, and it was simply hoped that they would not awaken again. Occasionally, they passed orderlies or medical officers who gave them a curious glance, but by and large the hospital was so vast, and everyone working in it so overwhelmed by their own duties and responsibilities, no one could spare any further concern.
Since the hospital had originally served as a barracks, it was built as an enormous square, with a central courtyard sufficient for mustering thousands of troops, and towers at each of the four corners. The nurses� quarters were in the northwest tower, and Sinclair had to lean heavily upon Moira's ample arm and shoulder as they mounted the narrow, winding stairs. When they came to the first landing, they saw the glow of a lantern descending toward them, and Moira had to usher Sinclair quickly into a shallow recess. As the light came closer, Moira stepped forward and said, �Evening, mum,� and from the shadows Sinclair saw that it was Miss Nightingale
herself, lamp in hand, a black lace handkerchief draped over her white cap, whom she had greeted.
�Good evening, Mrs. Mulcahy,� she replied. The white collar and cuffs and apron she wore stood out in the lantern glow. �I expect you are returning to your friend's side.�
�That I am, mum.�
�How is she? Has her fever abated at all?�
�Not so's you'd notice, mum.�
�I'm sorry to hear that. I shall look in on her when I have finished my rounds.�
�Thank you, mum. I know she would appreciate that.�
As Miss Nightingale trimmed her lamp, Sinclair held his breath in the dark corner.
�As I recall, the two of you enlisted in this mission together, did you not?�
�We did, mum.�
�And you shall return from it together, too,� she said. �Just be sure that the bonds of friendship, however strong, do not divert you from our more general purpose here. As you know, we are�all of us�forever under a magnifying glass.�
�Yes, mum. Indeed, mum.�
�Good night, Mrs. Mulcahy.�
And then, in a rustle of black silk, Miss Nightingale continued down the steps, and when the light from her lamp was gone, Sinclair stepped out of the shadows. Moira said nothing, but beckoned him on. At the next landing, he heard the voices of several nurses, wearily exchanging the news of the day�one was describing a pompous officer who had demanded that she stop dressing an infantryman's wound in order that she might fetch him a cup of tea� while others were washing up. Moira put a finger to her lips and led him up yet another flight, to the very top of the tower, where he found a tiny alcove with a tall window overlooking the dark blue waters of the Bosporus.
Moira, lifting her skirts from the floor, hurried to the side of the bed and whispered, �Look who I've brought you, Ellie.�
Before Eleanor could even turn her head on the pillow, Sinclair had knelt by the bedside and taken hold of her hand. It was limp and hot, damp to the touch.
Her gaze was unfocused, and she seemed strangely annoyed at
the interruption; he doubted that she had actually registered his presence. The fever, as he well knew, could blur the line between fancy and reality.
�If the instrument is out of key,� she said, �then it ought not to be played.�
Moira met his eye, as if to confirm that Eleanor went in and out of sensibility.
�And put the music back in the bench. That's how it gets lost.�
She was back in England�perhaps at her family home, or more probably at the parsonage, where she had told him she once used to go to practice the piano. He pressed the back of her hand to his lips, but she pulled it away and whisked it above her blanket, as if trying to scatter a horde of flies. They were everywhere in the hospital wards, but here, he noticed, so high up in the tower and facing the sea, there were none.
How, he wondered, could he get rid of Moira? To do what he needed to do�what
had
to be done to save Eleanor's life�he would need to be alone and unobserved. Moira was wringing a cloth in a bucket of water, then dabbing at Eleanor's face with it.
�Moira, can you get some port wine, do you think?�
�More easily said than done,� she replied, �but I'll try.� Moira, no fool, handed him the cloth, then tactfully withdrew.
Sinclair studied Eleanor's face in the moonlight. Her skin had a hectic flush, and her green eyes glittered with a mad delight. She was not aware of her own suffering; for all intents and purposes, she wasn't even there. Her spirit had left her body and was traveling in the Yorkshire countryside. But her body, he feared, would soon go, too. He had seen a hundred soldiers rant and rave, mutter and laugh, just like this, before suddenly turning their heads to the wall and dying with a single breath.
�Can you play me something,� he said, �on the pianoforte?�
Eleanor sighed and smiled. �What would you like to hear?�
He gently drew the blanket away from her shoulders, the heat from her fevered body welling up from beneath the wool.
�You choose.�
�I am fond of the traditional songs. I can play you �Barbara Allen,� if you like.�
�I would like that very much,� he said, slipping the chemise
from her shoulder. She shivered in the breeze from the open window. He bent his head above her.
Eleanor's fingers twitched, as if they were caressing a keyboard, and under her ragged breath she hummed the opening bars of the song.
Although her skin was still hot to the touch, gooseflesh had already begun to form. He placed his hand above her breast to protect her from the night air. Even then, beneath the scent of camphor and wool, she smelled as sweet to him as a meadow on a summer morn. And when his lips grazed her skin, she tasted like milk fresh from the pail.
She was singing, very softly, �Oh mother, mother, make my bed ��
What he was about to do, he feared could never be undone.
�O make it saft and narrow ��
But what choice was there?
�My love has died for me today ��
By daybreak she would be gone. He put his arms around her, the breath choking in his own throat.
�I'll die for him to-morrow ��
And when he bestowed it�his mouth closing on her skin, her blood mingling with his own corrupted spittle�she flinched, as if from the sting of a bee, and her singing abruptly stopped. Her body became rigid.
Moments later, when he lifted his head again, his lips wet from the dreadful embrace, her limbs relaxed and she looked at him dreamily, saying, �But that is such a sad song.� She stroked his tear-stained cheek with her fingertips. �Shall I play you something gay now?�
PART IV
THE VOYAGE BACK
�I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;
But or ever a prayer had gushed,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.
I closed my lids, and kept them close,
And the balls like pulses beat,
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky
Lay like a load on my weary eye,
And the dead were at my feet.�
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1798
���
CHAPTER FORTY
December 18, 9 a.m.
JUST AS MICHAEL SHOWED UP
at the infirmary, stomping the snow off his boots, Charlotte came out the door with a finger to her lips. She put her arm through his and guided him back toward the outer door. �Not now.�
�She okay?�
She tilted one hand back and forth while pulling on her gloves. �She's still having a rough time and running a low fever. I've got her on some sedatives and a glucose drip. Best to let her rest.�
Michael found he was even more disappointed than he'd have imagined. Ever since rescuing Eleanor from the whaling station, he'd been haunted by her face, the sound of her voice, the chance to uncover the rest of her story.
�And Murphy stopped by to remind me to keep quiet about her being here.�
�Yeah, I got that memo, too,� Michael said.
�Come on,� Charlotte added, throwing the hood over her
head. �What I need right now is a mug of Uncle Barney's industrial-strength coffee.�
Holding on to each other in the gusting wind, they inched their way down the ramp and over to the commons. A fake Christmas tree, strung with tinsel and a few battered ornaments, had been set up overnight and stood forlornly in a corner of the room.
Darryl was already in possession of a table in back, where he was plowing through a plate piled high with fried tofu (Uncle Barney said he'd radio for more on the next supply flight) and mixed veggies. Charlotte slid onto the bench next to him, and Michael sat down with his tray on the other side. With her braids all pulled together onto the top of her head, she looked like she was wearing a pineapple.
The first thing she did was to pour a lot of sugar into her coffee mug, and take a good long drink.
�Just getting up?� Darryl asked. � �Cause if you don't mind my saying so, you look like you should have stayed in bed.�
�Thanks for the kind words,� she said, putting her mug down. �How does your wife not shoot you?�
Darryl shrugged. �Our marriage is built on honesty,� he said, and Michael had to laugh.
�The weird thing is,� she said, �when I was in Chicago, and I had car alarms going off in the middle of the night, and neighbors having parties till four in the morning, I slept like a baby. Here, where the place is as silent as a grave and the nearest car is parked about a thousand miles away, I'm awake half the night.�
�You pulling your bed curtains closed?� Darryl asked.
�Not on your life,� she said, dipping some dry toast in a runny egg. �Too much like a coffin.�
�How about the blackout curtains on the window?�
She paused, chewing slowly. �Yeah, I got up to fiddle with those last night.�
�The idea,� Darryl admonished her, �is to close them
before
you get in bed.�
�I did, but I could have sworn �� She stopped, then went on. �I could have sworn I heard something outside, in the storm.�
Michael waited. Something in her voice told him what was coming.
�Heard what?� Darryl asked.
�A voice. Shouting.�
�Maybe it was the banshee,� Darryl said, burrowing into his plate.
�What was it shouting?� Michael asked, as casually as he could.
�Best I could make out�and the wind was pretty high�it was something like �Give it back.� � She shook her head and went back to her toast and eggs. �I'm starting to miss those car alarms.�
Michael could barely swallow his food, but he decided to keep his own counsel for a while.
�Which reminds me,� she said, fishing in the pocket of her overcoat and removing a blood sample in a plastic vial. �I need a full blood assay done on this.�
Darryl didn't look thrilled. �Why am I so honored?�
�Because you've got all that fancy equipment in your lab.�
�Whose is it?� he asked.
�Just one of the grunts,� she said, offhandedly. �No big deal.�
�Well,� he said, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin, �as it so happens, I do have some big news of my own.�
Michael wasn't sure if he was kidding or not.
�You are sitting, my friends, in the company of greatness. In that last set of traps, I captured a heretofore undiscovered species of fish.�
Both Michael and Charlotte suddenly gave him their full attention.
