I arose to darkness and silence. Bambleby’s enthusiasm for early rising, it seems, was short-lived—well, fine; I shall have plenty of quiet to write in my journal. I have just opened the shutters; a landscape of white and shadow gazes back at me as I pen these words.
Bambleby and I made it to the lake yesterday after a steep climb. It was one of those scenes that froze me in place, a little cup of velvety blue between towers of rock. At our backs was the furious arctic sea, thick with ice, too much of it visible from that height. Too much rather summed up the place, I thought as I hurried after Bambleby, who apart from giving the volcanic stones scattered here and there a few desultory kicks seemed barely conscious of the feral nature of the surroundings. The wind yanked on my bun and sent the loose strands lashing against my face.
Though we found only tenuous evidence of the nykur—misshapen prints in the frozen muck by the water’s edge, which I photographed—I returned with my spirits improved. As Finn had informed us that the weather was changing, evidenced by the looming cloud upon the horizon, I determined to make the most of the sun and set off on another survey of the eastern peaks, whilst Bambleby, despite lacking any visible signs of fatigue, pleaded exhaustion and retired to the cottage.
Solivagant, I misjudged the distance and returned in the dark, the stars a thick glittering above me like a spill of treasure. I could not help pausing to stargaze, a pastime I indulge in but rarely in Cambridge, the nights there being blurred by gaslight and hemmed in by trees and towers. By the time I clambered up the little mountain path to the cottage, our students had returned from their sojourn at the pub rather the worse for wear and had gone to bed early to sleep things off.
I hardly recognized the cottage whereupon I stepped in from the windy night. The fire merrily crackled, and the whole space was illuminated by strategically placed oil lamps that had not been present before. Woollen rugs scattered the floor, and the windows were hung with curtains. And there were things atop the mantel: pretty things that seemed to have no purpose at all. I recognized one from Bambleby’s office, a little jewelled mirror that flashed merrily in the firelight, but others seemed to be artefacts of Hrafnsvik, including a Madonna carved from whalebone and a little seascape painted on a scrap of driftwood.
Bambleby himself was seated at the fire, mending a curtain. He explained to me that he had borrowed most of the furnishings from Krystjan, including the curtain that he was presently repairing and which he intended to be strung up in the kitchen.
I hardly heard any of it through my amazement. “You are darning curtains? You?”
“My family has a talent for needlework,” he said merely, his fingers moving with an improbable deftness.
I informed him that the cottage had been perfectly satisfactory as it was, to which he replied that the place had been so dank and cheerless as to be suitable only to bats and unsociable gargoyles brooding over their books, and he would sooner put his eyes out than endure weeks of such wretched environs. I contemplated unleashing Shadow and his muddy paws upon Bambleby’s efforts, but the truth was that even I could see that our humble abode was much improved, with a sense not only of warmth but of safety, an enveloping cosiness whose source I could not wholly put a finger on. I settled for brooding over my books for the remainder of the evening, ignoring him completely, which he hates above all else.
* * *
—
I’m afraid that, since writing the last, things have turned upside down.
Finn was late with breakfast, which did not at first alarm me, given the conditions. I pulled a chair up to the window and watched the snow fall as I brewed tea. I had not forgotten my promise to Poe, and did not look forward to plunging into those drifts, though I estimated the snowfall at less than a foot.
As I sat, a sort of inexplicable dread grew within me, a sense that I was the only person for miles about. I stood abruptly and threw open Bambleby’s door, banging it into the wall.
From the bed came a sort of confused mumbling, and there was a flash of golden hair. Yet my relief was fleeting, and I was already stamping down the hall when Bambleby croaked, “Em? What the bloody hell?”
The students’ room was empty. I had known it would be, somehow. Not only that, but their trunks were gone, their cloaks. I stormed back to Bambleby’s room, banging the door again, and flung back the curtains.
“Good God,” he muttered from his pillows. “If this is your manner of setting an alarm, I am asking Krystjan to install a lock.”
“They’re gone.”
“What?”
Moments later, there came a knock at the door. Bambleby answered it, having roused himself at last. I knew it wouldn’t be them, and it wasn’t; Finn’s worried face gazed back at us.
“Thank God,” he said. “There are rumours going around town that you set off this morning in Bjorn Gudmunson’s boat, bound for Loab?r. It’s rough weather for sailing.”
I exchanged a look with Bambleby. “The rumours are half true. Our students, it seems, have absconded. But what on earth are their plans in Loab?r?”
Finn shifted his weight, looking guilty. “From Loab?r, there are merchant ships to London that depart every other day. Perhaps they’ve a mind to board one.”
Bambleby gave him a level look. “Perhaps?”
“I may have—heard them discussing it with Bjorn yesterday in the tavern,” Finn said, adding quickly, “I had no idea they intended to leave today.”
“Thank you, Finn,” I said grimly. We took our breakfast from him—bread and cheese only this morning; he hadn’t had time for anything else, what with the burden the storm had added to his chores. Several sheep were missing, it seemed, and the weight of the snow had caused the roof of an outbuilding to collapse.
Bambleby paced back and forth. While I had calmed somewhat, he seemed to grow more and more agitated. “This is a fine thing. We are nearly out of wood.”
Trust him to be concerned with his own comfort, when his students could that very moment be drowned in an icy sea. I said as much, and he waved his hand. “I met Bjorn. He’s a man who knows his business. He wouldn’t have taken on a suicide mission.”
I watched him for a moment—I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him so unravelled. “Have you ever travelled abroad without servants? I’m sorry, students.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “There has never been a need.”
“I see.” If I hadn’t been worried about our research, I might have been enjoying myself. “What are we going to do? We have limited time, and now we are without our assistants to help with the data gathering.”
“I’m sure we’ll muddle through,” he said distractedly. I could tell he wasn’t worried one whit about data gathering—well, why would he be, if he was used to fabricating said data? No, he was wondering who would prepare his tea and wash his laundry.
“We will have to roll up our sleeves from now on,” I said, placing heavy emphasis on the first word.
Bambleby collapsed into one of the armchairs, looking faint.
There was no water left for the washing up after breakfast, so I donned my boots and tramped outside to the stream. The snow had ceased, and the sky was a soft eggshell colour, the mountains dreaming under their woollen blankets. There was a loveliness in the forest’s absence of colour, its haunted dark framed by grey-white boughs, as if the snowfall had winnowed it down to the essence of what a forest is.
My sense of peace was short-lived. The stream was covered in ice too thick to pierce. I slipped trying, covering myself in snow. In a burst of inspiration, I filled the pot with snow, then set it over the fire. Bambleby was outside by the woodshed, looking like he was trying to solve a mathematical equation. For some reason, he had pushed away the snow with his boot so that he could stand upon the frosty grass. I actually felt a little sorry for him, shivering despite the weight of his cloak, for he reminded me of some temperate tree or bush, transplanted and forced to grow in some northerner’s garden against its will. I hefted the axe and placed a log upon the stump.
“Perhaps we should send for Finn,” Bambleby said.
“I’m perfectly capable,” I replied, though the axe was of an unnerving Ljoslander design and nearly came up to my shoulder.
I swung. The dull blade glanced off the log, which went careening into a tree, dislodging a small avalanche of snow. My axe buried itself in the stump; unbalanced, I fell over.
He looked appalled. “Good God, what a violent process.”
I dragged myself to my feet, cheeks flaming as I brushed the snow from my backside. “It’s not supposed to go like that.”
“I won’t be helping.” He backed up a step, raising his elegant hands. “I’ll cut off my foot. Or you will.”