Imperial Clock

CHAPTER Four

Lubbers



The first lightning stuttered through thick, heavy clouds far to the south, somewhere in the vicinity of Lake Windermere, as Derek trudged over sleet-mushed meadowland at the head of the fifth year girls’ school outing. The orienteering session had taken far longer than expected, owing to Mrs. Prescott’s needlessly convoluted course and the far too generous spacing of posts the girls, paired together without any real experience of map-reading, had had to find. Not one pair had completed the course, though the McEwan girl and her partner, Carice Rijkaard, had come closest, missing only one of the checkpoints. The girls were all fagged, damp and miserable after the hike, and to top it off Mrs. Prescott had lambasted their slovenly performance—a completely uncalled for dressing-down, in Derek’s opinion.

As the assistant biology teacher at South Hampshire Grammar, he knew most of the faculty pretty well. While Mrs. Prescott possessed formidable leadership abilities as Deputy Head, she also had a tendency to push her staff and students beyond their limits in terms of homework and performance, as though she were on a ceaseless character-building crusade for the entire school. No one could quibble with the exam results—SHG’s ranked among the highest in the country—but nor could it be said the staff room was a particularly pleasant place to be. Competition between departments, too much paperwork, rigid curriculums, a clear division between the Prescott acolytes and those who simply put their heads down and got on with the job, churning out obedient, studious, clever, untouched souls year after year for a mediocre salary; frankly he was glad to be leaving.

“How far now, Auric?” Eustace Challender, Deputy Head of Political Education and at thirty-two the second youngest male teacher at SHG after Derek, strolled ahead, arm-in-arm with his wife Wilhelmina, an arts and crafts teacher. Neither of them looked Derek in the eye.

“Just over the next rise,” Derek replied.

“About time, I reckon.”

“I beg your pardon?” Derek almost crushed the compass in his hand in frustration.

“No more navigating hiccups, pray?”

“No, let’s hope not...” You fat, pompous arse. Let’s see you do any better. Eustace had barely done a hand’s turn these past two days, but loved lecturing others on the importance of teamwork—oh, how he loved to lecture. A loud, obese market vendor of a man, he epitomised everything Derek disliked about the Prescott lickspittles, from his Yes, ma’am, no ma’am, three bags full ma’am demeanour whenever she addressed him, to his bullying nature in the classroom.

His father had worked in the Leviacrum tower, but despite a burning desire to follow in his footsteps, Eustace had not demonstrated a comparable flair for the sciences. This had made him bitter and jealous of those who did get accepted, including Derek, whose Leviacrum apprenticeship would begin in the next semester. A rather prestigious situation, too, in Professor Coleman’s revered, secretive human biology department. A Newton’s Trust bronze medal would be Derek’s on completion of the three-year apprenticeship, which would open all sorts of doors within the establishment—potentially limitless promotion prospects.

If only he weren’t so ambivalent about the placement. For his family, it was the highest honour an Auric had received in a long time, and they were immensely proud of him. He would accept the position for that reason alone, even if his own personal proclivities chafed against the unwholesome rumours that persisted in most Leviacrum matters, particularly its corruption of the justice system to further its own ambitions. Powerful stuff, much of it unsubstantiated, yet if the old adage was true about there being no smoke without fire, the whole of London ought to be ablaze.

The gossip followed him everywhere he went—street corners, pubs, prize fights, the social club, even on school outings with sheltered young women. Sonja McEwan had let slip more than a few risqué condemnations of the empire, much to her classmates’ annoyance. Impressive girl, proud and full of vinegar. But she was the least popular student in her class for that reason. And if the objections of one schoolgirl could stir up such a hornet’s nest—Mrs. Prescott and the Challenders had already discussed sending a letter to her father about her unsavoury remarks—what would happen if the nation’s bottled-up rancour found a militant outlet? Perhaps sponsored by the Coalition forces from abroad? Politically speaking, by joining the Leviacrum, he might be walking into a gunpowder magazine with a lit cigarette.

The first spits of sleet gave way to heavy snowflakes. In minutes, the entire hillside was a whiteout, soft and eerie.

“Stay close, girls,” Mrs. Prescott bellowed back over the vague path. She slung the rucksack from her shoulder, retrieved a length of climbing rope and passed it back through the party. “I want you all to hold on to this line and follow the girl in front of you. Walk single file, help your partner, and no one is to let go under any circumstances. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mrs. Prescott.”

“We should reach the coaches shortly. Mr. Auric has it in hand. Then we will all be able to get warm with a cup of hot soup before the drive back to Keswick. Now I want no idlers and no complaints. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Mrs. Prescott.”

For a hefty woman in her late fifties, she was remarkably nimble and had more energy than many people half her age. But her face was not a healthy colour—deep red, almost purple as she wheezed by, handing Derek the end of the rope.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

Several gasps later, she gave a rapid nod, faced scrunched, mouth agape. “Yes, I’m—whuwh—I shall be glad to have a sit down.”

“Why don’t you take a few minutes?” Derek placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she bent, hands on thighs, to recover her breath. “There’s no wind yet, it isn’t all that cold. And here, let me take that.” He tugged at her rucksack strap until she shrugged it off for him.

“What’s the matter, Miss? Have you got a stitch?”

“Quiet, McEwan. Get back in line!” Wilhelmina Challender yelled.

Derek glanced over his shoulder at Sonja McEwan. She was muffled like an Inuit, fleeced trousers tucked into her Wellingtons, the hood of her kagool pulled back out of her eyes, revealing a smooth, attractive, young-looking face steamed pink by her exertions. Of the dozen or so who could see Mrs. Prescott’s discomfort, she was the only one who had stepped out of line to enquire after her.

“We should get her to the coaches as soon as possible.” Eustace ducked beside his poorly superior, draping her arm over his shoulders, ready to lift her. “Auric, help me out, man.”

“We should leave her to rest a minute.” Derek then addressed Mrs. Prescott, “Your colour is not good. I’d rather you stay here awhile and recuperate than risk over-exerting yourself further. If it’s your heart, walking on so soon could trigger an attack.”

The poor woman could hardly draw breath, let alone answer. Derek caught her as she teetered to one side. “Look here, Challender, she’s about to faint. Let go of her, and you see the girls safely back to camp.” He nodded Eustace ahead, in the direction they’d been going. “I’ll stay with her while she recovers. You have your compass?”

“Yes, but—”

“Keep to a north-northeast heading. It shouldn’t be more than half a mile from here.”

“W-what about you?” Eustace held off his wife tugging at his arm.

“We’ll be fine as long as the wind doesn’t get up.” I hope.

Eustace thought for a moment, then raised his chin. “Right, ladies, it’s quick-to and follow your leader, no dawdling. Mrs. Prescott has had a nasty turn, and Mr. Auric is going to look after her until she’s ready to walk again. We need to get you lot back safely before the weather worsens.”

“You should carry her.” Again, the McEwan girl had spoken her mind out of turn.

“Let’s leave the big decisions to the grown-ups if you don’t mind, thank you very much. Now, watch your footing—it’s awful slippery downhill on this virgin white.” Eustace whispered something to his wife. She eyed Derek with concern before creeping to the back of the line, to watch the rear for stragglers. “All right, off we go.”

Mrs. Prescott’s breathing softened as she lay in his arms, shivering, wide-gazing at the frosted heather lining a peat bog to their left. No sooner had the girls begun to file past in their colourful array of macks and Wellingtons, gawping down at their stricken mistress whose wrath they’d feared more than death itself mere minutes before, when one of them slipped on the mushy snow. She slapped the ground hard and groaned, rolling onto her side as she clutched her ankle.

“Sir, sir,” another girl shouted ahead to Eustace Challender. “McEwan’s gone over, sir. I think she’s twisted her ankle.”

True enough, when the flustered master of politics removed the fallen girl’s boot and touched her foot, she winced out loud. He lifted her to her feet, asked her to try walking on it a step or two, but she gave a cry of agony at the first pressure.

“It could be either sprained or broken,” Derek observed. “Look, she can stay here with me. You and Mrs. Challender get the girls to safety as quickly as possible. That’s our priority. Come back for us with a stretcher or a sleigh, whatever you can rig to carry Mrs. Prescott. I don’t think she’ll be doing any more walking today.”

A couple of the girls began to sob.

“Don’t worry,” he said to Sonja McEwan, “I’ll carry you on my shoulders if needs be.” Then to Eustace, “See you shortly, old chap. Don’t forget the stretcher.”

“Right-o. Won’t be long.” And off they went, this time at half pace, so as not to repeat the McEwan girl’s misfortune. Soon Derek could no longer see Wilhelmina’s slender silhouette through the greying snowfall.

“So how is she really, sir? I know she didn’t stumble or anything. I was watching.”

“McEwan?”

“It’s all right. Nothing you say can shock me, sir. Believe me, not after what I saw in Norway.”

“Eh? Oh, that’s right, you and your sister witnessed the wave—a lucky escape, that, and a great relief to us all.”

“Thank you for saying so, sir. Is Mrs. Prescott unconscious?”

He closed the Deputy Head’s eyes, then checked her carotid for a pulse. “She’s...had a mild attack, if I’m not mistaken. We’ll have to carry her back after all—just as you said.”

“Sir. I hope she pulls through.”

“Yes. Yes, me too.” After running the next several steps of the rescue through his mind—stretcher her to the coach, drive to Keswick, find out where the nearest doctor lived, drive her there directly—he let the sequence set at the back of his mind. Fretting never solved a thing. He turned his attention to his young companion instead, and her remarkable composure. “Your ankle? Does it still gall?”

“Um, no. It’s quite recovered.” She jiggled it, shaking the layer of snow off her stocking. “Perhaps the cold helped reduce the swelling.” Her warm, searching gaze seemed unsure as it touched his—not at all like Sonja McEwan, an uncompromising creature like none he’d encountered. Her guard was always up, her barbed retorts ever ready to fly at obnoxious classmates, but now Derek perceived something brittle and vulnerable, something deep, delicate behind the prickly frown. As though she let very few people in, but once in, they would be the luckiest, most fascinated, most fiercely defended people imaginable. Millimetres under that cherubic face, a truly striking young woman was about to emerge, and if she held onto that proud spirit, didn’t let the world’s venom in to fester, she had every chance of becoming a woman of rare beauty, in every sense.

But she’d just told him a bare-faced lie. The way she’d cried out in pain after putting weight on her ankle did not tally with such a quick and full recovery.

“So you wanted to stay behind with us? Tell me, are your classmates really that bad?” He threw her a wink.

She reciprocated, grinning. “Awful. You’ve no idea, sir.”

“And you faked that whole stunt, didn’t you.”

“One of my better efforts.” The flakes seemed to double in size as she slid her Wellington back on. “I reckon you’re about the only one on this expedition who knows what the word expedition really means.”

He grunted, unwilling to badmouth his senior colleagues to a student, even if he was fonder of said student than the rest of the faculty combined. He and Sonja had shared something of a rapport all year in his class, umpteen times in his office during lunch hours, but especially in the few minutes after class when she would stay behind to quiz him on the finer points 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 red as beetroot. In the meantime, no one seemed to notice Sonja McEwan’s ankle had fully healed.

Nor that Mrs. Prescott, resting on the front seat of the first carriage, had passed away.

Her heart had given out.



“I could’ve sworn I packed the over-ice—sworn blind. It makes no sense. I had two spare gas torches in this hamper with the soup flasks, two torches full and ready just in case, and plenty of hot strips for the copper pan.” Mrs. Challender rifled through the blankets and food baskets and under the seats in the final carriage one last time, on the verge of tears, before casting her husband and Mr. Auric a pitiful gaze. She turned her face away when she saw Sonja had seen.

Hmm, that’s right, best not cause a panic with the others. But even Sonja swallowed hard at the sight of one her teachers falling to pieces.

Mr. Challender buried his head in the bulky sleeve of his parka, resting against the brass door frame. His wife’s alarming news had the unflappable Mr. Auric worried too; he rubbed his stubbly chin several times with his glove, no doubt thinking of a way out of this. Several locomotive components in the steam engines were frozen solid, and without gas lamps to warm hot strips in the copper pan, and those hot strips to melt the ice, they had no way of freeing up the engines. In other words, they were stuck here until the engines thawed, or they had to walk out.

“Roughly how far, if you had to guess—”

Mr. Auric shook his head, silencing his shorter, fatter colleague. “Don’t even think it. When night falls, you’d freeze to death before you made the nearest village.”

“May well be, may well be. But I don’t fancy leaving these girls out here all night either. See,” Mr. Challender swiped a handful of snow off the roof, “these carriages are only covered by a waterproof canopy. Hardly any insulation.”

“Better that than foot-slogging it,” Sonja rudely cut in, not meaning to—she immediately clasped a gloved hand over her mouth and cringed at Mr. Auric’s headshake on her behalf. Damn, she really had to stop blurting things out like that.

“Right, McEwan, you’ve had this coming.” Mrs. Challender slid from the carriage, marched over the snow and proceeded to whip Sonja with a tea towel. Hateful, erratic blows that either glanced off her kagool or slapped the side of her hood, making her ears sting. “Impudent little—I’ll bloody teach you not to give lip to your elders.” Thwack! “Giving cheek at a time like this—you just wait till I have you in my office, you rotten little terror.” Thwack! Thwack! “You’ll never speak out of turn again, so help me.”

After the initial shock had sunk in, Sonja felt a little sorry for her arts and crafts teacher. The blows weren’t having their intended effect, and the poor woman’s sobs between outbursts made it clear this attack was her frustration speaking, and a pitiable frustration at that. She obviously blamed herself for the dangerous night to come.

At last she desisted, and her husband led her back into the supply carriage. Dorcas Henshall, Aloysius’s twin sister, who probably hated Sonja even more than her obnoxious brother did, thumbed her nose from a carriage window and then, mouth wide like a grouper’s, scrunched her sly face into a hideous sideways laugh for her friends inside.

Incensed, Sonja hurled a juicy snowball. It found the open window and hit the little hellhound square in her fizzog. Sonja dove into the nearest carriage just as Dorcas spilled out of her own, wailing into the blizzard, eager to heap more trouble on her long-time enemy.

But Mr. Auric wasn’t so gullible. “Whatever’s to do, Henshall?” He quirked an eyebrow at Sonja while he held the drama queen crying into his jacket. “If you want my advice, throw one right back—that’s the way to get even.”

“But Mister Aur-ric—she’s always picking on me.” More tears from Dorcas, even less sympathy from perhaps the only teacher in the entire school who saw through her vindictive theatrics. More than that, he was the one teacher who didn’t speak down to Sonja, didn’t talk at her, lecture her the whole time.

He listened.

Father was never there to listen; Aunt Lily was disinterested in anything but gossip and the latest fashions; and Merry didn’t care much for science; which left Derek Auric, five years her senior and soon to be a Leviacrum fellow, as her “huggable mentor”, as she’d written in her diary last term. A corny phrase perhaps, but it was true—they got on like a house on fire in matters of science, politics, history, favourite places they’d visited, even adventure literature, though he was a devout reader of Verne, while she preferred Rider Haggard. And the more time they’d spent together after class, or in his office during lunch hour, swapping books, chatting away at everything and nothing, the greedier she’d become for his company.

No, tarrying with him in the blizzard had definitely not been over-dramatic; she would have gladly sprained her ankle for real for that privilege.

But would he...could he ever consent to taking their friendship further? Beyond South Hampshire Grammar? Next semester, when he left for his new situation in the tower, they would be unbound from any teacher-pupil taboo but, when all was said and done, she would be seventeen and he twenty-one. Not an impossible age gap by any means, but how would his moneyed family react—not to mention Father and Aunt Lily, still refinding their footing in society—to such an unlikely pairing? And she was hardly Merry, a swan the boys flocked to whenever she spread her wings. No, Sonja was not feminine in that way. Not yet. Grace eluded her, as did obedience to fashions and social mores. But perhaps next season...with Lady Catarina’s instruction...

“Now you run on back to your carriage. I’ll deal with McEwan. Here, these will help keep you and your friends warm until Mrs. Challender can see to you.” Mr. Auric handed Dorcas a couple of spare blankets, then joined Sonja in the empty carriage.

Like the segments of a brass caterpillar, each steamcoach pulled a train of three spherical carriages. They each had large iron wheels with spring suspension for uneven terrain, and were coupled together by rigid iron knuckles. With both coaches stranded, the girls would have to share four carriages, with two left for the supplies and the two engine cabins for the staff. But the girls had packed themselves into three carriages instead of four, probably to console each other and keep warm, leaving one free. Sonja’s heart squirreled when Mr. Auric climbed in to share the empty carriage with her.

“What will the others say?” She adopted her plummiest tone.

“About what, pray?” Not obtuse, more evasive; he planted himself on the seat opposite her and avoided eye contact while he rubbed his gloved hands together and peered through a clear streak he’d made on the misting window. “I really did underestimate the chill. You are tolerably warm, McEwan?”

“As toast, sir. But I’ve resolved to visit the warmest place on earth for my next holiday—the northern hemisphere rather seems to have it in for me.”

He chuckled behind his vigorous glove-rubbing. “Where did you have in mind?” Sonja shrugged. “Oh, come now, give it your best shot,” he egged her on. “Remember my lecture on mind over matter, the physiological evidence?”

Of course she did, or rather she recalled his delivery of it: loose and playful, for the first time really starting to engage the class, much to the chagrin of Dr. Gavin, their senior biology teacher who also happened to be a bald, creepy mesmerist every pupil in the school was scared stiff of. It was also the day she’d tripped into Mr. Auric, purposefully of course, and gasped as he’d caught her, hands on waist, lips almost touching, and spoken her first name: “Sonja...I mean McEwan, easy does it now.”

“How could I forget?” She smiled and coyly looked away when their glances met. “Oh very well, here’s my psychosomatic remedy for our little igloo ignominy: first...” His deep laugh only sweetened her exuberance, “... a week’s frolicking on a Bermudan beach, parasols and modesty optional, followed by the clearest, bluest, most fish-full snorkel swim in the Caribbean, probably off St. Lucia or Barbados.” Heavens, if her remedy was working on him as potently as it was her—and given the way his gaze discreetly poured over her body, perhaps conjuring her supple roundnesses beneath the winter wear, it appeared to be—Derek Auric would indeed have a distinct carnal inclination for her person right now. “And finally, a jungle trek to a paradise lagoon and waterfall where people wear scandalously little for—”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, that was most vivid, McEwan. I think that’s enough thawing for now.”

Sonja groaned, but did he even realise how suggestive his quip was? He’d never made any kind of advance upon her, and rightly not, for he was a gentleman and would never abuse his authority over her, but could such obvious feelings...sparks...heat between two people ever be considered wrong? She knew nothing about such things. Did he even reciprocate her affection? He was fond of her, that much was obvious, but what else? Men were infuriating things—either too obvious when you’d rather not know or too inscrutable when a little insight might reassure. This fizzy alchemy between them, almost making her lose her head altogether at the mere thought of him close to her, where did it spring from? Both of them? Or from her alone?

Don’t let him off the hook so easily. Keep him talking until he declares himself one way or the other. If you don’t, it’ll torture you forever.

“I feel terrible about Mrs. Prescott.” She eyed the canopy roof as it flexed and whumped against the brass ribs holding its form. “She seemed so full of beans throughout the walk, and then just like that—” The first tears of ripped stitching made her swallow. She eyed Mr. Auric worriedly.

He perched on the edge of his seat, biting his lip. His dull grey eyes pinwheeled as he watched the fray in the ceiling grow to a gaping wound, and considered his next course of action. “God, these winds are bloody-minded. I—we may need to reorganize if they get much worse. If the roofs should rip loose altogether...”

A frightening thought. Bad enough to have to spend the night marooned in a blizzard, but to be exposed to the elements as well. She fidgeted with the drawstring on her kagool, twining it around her finger. “Sir, are you in charge?”

He shot her a cutting glance, as though the idea appalled him. “No. Why?”

“Nothing. I just think you should be, that’s all.”

“Well, both Mr. and Mrs. Challender have seniority over me, so the onus is on them...I mean they are in charge of the class.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“That’s quite all right, McEwan. Despite the constant reprimands you receive, you’re actually a very sensible—” he mouthed a few syllables, as if sifting through them for the most non-committal word, “—very pragmatic young woman. Very much your father’s daughter.”

She sensed he was caught between wanting to endear himself to her and his teacher’s duty to keep her at arm’s length. The result came across as cold, diffident.

“Thank you.” Without the sir, she managed to soften the blow, make herself feel a little less patronized.

The door flung open and Mr. Challender leaned into the carriage, followed by wicked swirls of snow. Sonja recoiled from the biting wind. “The roofs of four carriages have been torn free, including the girls’. My wife and I have made a decision.” He coughed and then wiped his streaming nose on a frozen sleeve. “We’re going to head for the farmhouse at the edge of Keswick before nightfall, before we all freeze. Everyone, that is. Everyone is going. Come on, Auric, McEwan, get yourselves ready. Grab whatever blankets you can find. As many layers as possible to insulate yourselves for the trek.”

A strange, overpowering sensation of drowning overcame Sonja—drowning in snow, something that had never occurred to her until now. The drift had almost reached the highest step of the carriage, over two feet. If it continued at this pace, they might soon be entombed.

Mr. Auric turned slowly to his superior. “Listen carefully to me, Eustace: leaving the coaches is the worst possible idea in this situation. I know you’re the senior faculty member here and we haven’t exactly seen eye to eye, but I implore you to trust me on this—if you take the girls out into this blizzard, there’s a very good chance you will kill some, if not all of them.”

“Rubbish! Just sitting here waiting to be buried is the surest way to kill everyone. Think on it. At least if we start out now, before nightfall, we have a chance of reaching safety. If we stay here, we have no chance whatsoever of reaching safety. I’d rather not threaten you with disciplinary action by the School Board, Auric. My mind’s made up. Now come on.”

“I’m staying.” Sonja sat upright, adamant as Mr. Challender turned to scold her.

“And so am I.” With a stomp of his boot Mr. Auric was on his feet, clawing at the canopy, making short work of the stay pegs. Exhilarated, Sonja leapt onto the seat and helped him rip the roof free from its nails and stitching. She only managed one corner but between them, they soon tore the whole thing down. Then, after barging his perplexed colleague aside, Mr. Auric waded through the snow drift to the first of the girls’ open carriages.

He shepherded the class into two groups, one per carriage, and called for them to “Huddle together as tightly as possible. I’m going to tie the edges of the canopy to the seats, but I also want you to take turns holding it down, using your own weight to secure it. I’ll show you how. Use the blankets to make yourselves comfortable, as it’s going to be a trying night. If you require the toilet, alert either myself—I’m staying with one group in the first carriage—or Mr. and Mrs. Challender, who will stay with the second group, and we will make all the necessary arrangements. And lastly, try not to worry; morning will come sooner than you think.”

Despite the incredible wind, Sonja and a few other girls helped him rip the final fraying roof down—all the carriages were now exposed—and secure it over Mrs. Challender and the girls in the second carriage. Mr. Challender spoke something she didn’t quite catch into Mr. Auric’s ear.

“You do what you have to, but I may have just saved these girls’ lives.” Mr. Auric glared into his colleague’s hateful stare, inches away. “And if you do anything to scupper it, I’ll break your bastard neck. We clear?”

“Just so long as you know what’s coming.”

“And vice versa.”

They parted with obscene and livid hand gestures Sonja could not believe came from teachers at her school. If the other girls had seen or heard that exchange, they might indeed think the world was coming to an end. But it only confirmed her suspicion—that beneath the slightly shy and awkward assistant teacher, Derek Auric was a formidable man. He would not be bullied or swerved from what he knew to be the right course of action. Admiration almost frothed through her chattering teeth as she watched him orchestrate the survivors in the gale force winds.

While she squeezed between a shaking Dorcas Henshall and Patty Lonergan under the canopy in the first carriage, muffled sobs from all around reminded her she was in most regards still in a world of children. But she didn’t feel like one right now, not even a little. A warm, gentle kiss on her cheek made her gasp. She couldn’t see him, yet the faint hint of tobacco on his masculine breath was unmistakable under the whumping tarp. And when he whispered to her, “Thank you for believing in me, Sonja,” she knew instantly she would never be that child again.

She closed her eyes and saw beyond the storm as clear as day; it was almost unbearably exciting.