Read Online Imperial Clock (The Steam Clock Legacy) by Robert Appleton - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Appleton
Ads: Link
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 badm outh 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 . ”
Af ter 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 m inutes 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 t he 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 in to 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
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 badm outh 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 . ”
Af ter 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 m inutes 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 t he 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 in to 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
Similar Books
