speaking in his most reasonable voice, but Eleanor had become used to such sharp changes. Even in his letters home, she had detected them.
“I believe we must take our opportunities when and where we find them,” he said, pointedly glancing down at the bottle.
Eleanor had to shift her position on the floor, so as to warm and dry a different section of her dress. She worried about how long they would be able to stay there without being discovered. “Couldn't we just take it with us, wherever we have to go?”
“Yes,” he replied, his temper, she could tell, mounting. “But it was taken away from us once, was it not? It could be taken away again.”
He was right, of course… and she recognized as much. But still her spirit rebelled.
Either to prove his point, or because he craved another draught, Sinclair grabbed the bottle and drank again. This time, he was able to manage several swallows before slamming the bottle back to the floor and letting a dark rivulet run from the corner of his mouth.
She found herself transfixed by the deep crimson line touching his chin. He had done that, she knew, deliberately. Her throat, parched already, felt as rough as a dusty road, and she could feel the muscles in her neck straining. Her palms, which she had just gotten dry, were damp again with perspiration, and so, she feared, was her brow. Her temples began to throb, like a distant drumbeat.
“The least you can do,” he said, “after all this time, is to kiss me.”
His blond hair, though wild and twisted on his head, gleamed with a fiery light in the glow of the strange heater. The collar of his white shirt lay open at the neck, and a drop from the bottle had landed there, too. God help her, but she wanted to lick the spot away. Her tongue involuntarily pressed at the back of her teeth.
“As your friend Moira might have said,” he pressed, “will you not do it for auld lang syne?”
“I will not do it for that,” Eleanor finally answered. “But I will do it… for love.”
She leaned forward, as did Sinclair, and with the bottle between them, their lips met-at first chastely, but then, when his parted, she could taste it, the blood, in his mouth.
He put his hand to the back of her head, wound his fingers through her long, tangled hair, and held her there. And she let him-let him hold her, let him ensnare her. She knew that was what he was doing. She let him unite them again as they had been united so long before. She let him do all of it, because it had been so long since she had felt something like this… so long, truly, since she had felt anything at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
December 13, 6 p.m.
On the trip back, Michael begged, and Danzig agreed, to let him drive the dogsled. After a few rudimentary pointers, Danzig clambered into the cargo shell-it was even a tighter squeeze than it had been for Michael-and said, “Ready?”
“Ready” Michael replied, adjusting his goggles and pulling his furred hood tighter around his face. Then, gripping the handlebars and making sure his feet were planted on snow and not ice, he shouted the order-”Hike!”- that Danzig always used. The dogs, perhaps unaccustomed to his voice, at first didn't move; Kodiak actually turned around and looked at him questioningly
“You've got to do it with some authority,” Danzig said. “Like you mean it.”
Michael cleared his throat-now he felt like he was auditioning for the dogs-and shouted, “Hike!” while giving a sharp jerk on the mainline.
Kodiak, in the lead position, whipped around and jumped forward; the other dogs, taking their cue, started to pull, as Michael ran behind, pushing the handlebars.
“Jump on!” Danzig warned him, and just as Michael got his boots onto the wooden runners, the sled gathered momentum and took off across the snow and ice. Danzig had taken the trouble to point it in the right direction, so Michael didn't have to worry about making a turn, but the task was already harder than he had imagined. As smooth as the surface might look, it was filled with bumps and cracks and stones, and he could feel the shock of each one radiating up his legs. It was all he could do to keep his balance and stay on the runners.
“Loosen up!” Danzig cried over his own shoulder, and Michael thought, Easier said than done.
Still, he tried to let his shoulders fall and his arms bend a bit, and he willed his knees to unlock.
“If you want ‘em to go straight ahead,” Danzig advised, though Michael had a hard time hearing him over the wind battering at his hood, “shout ‘Straight ahead!’ “
Okay, that one wouldn't be hard to remember.
“And if you want ‘em to go slower, pull back on the lines and shout, ‘Easy!’ “
Michael had no idea how fast they were actually going, but the impression of speed was incredible. As he clung to the rubberized handlebars, the icy landscape went flying by on either side. When he'd been hunkered down in the shell, it had been quite different; he'd been warm and protected, and everything had been seen from just a few feet off the ground. But standing up, with the wind smacking his face and rippling at his sleeves-the sound reminded him of the snapping flag at Point Adelie-it was both exhausting and invigorating. A cloud of ice crystals, thrown up by the paws of the running dogs, stung his lips and spattered like rain on his goggles. Carefully, he raised one glove, swiped the crystals away, then grabbed for the handlebars again.
But as he began to feel the rhythm of the team and became accustomed to the swooshing movement of the sled, he began to relax. He could look beyond the bushy heads and tails of the dogs and off into the distance. The base was still too far off to be seen at all, and that was just as well. What he saw instead was simply a limitless continent of snow and ice and permafrost-larger, he knew, than Australia, but so desolate that it made the great outback look crowded. The sled was clinging to the shoreline, which comparatively teemed with life, but just a few miles inland, the seals no longer frolicked, the birds ceased to fly, and even the modest lichen disappeared from sight. It was a desert, as bereft of life-in fact, as hostile to it-as anyplace on the planet. Humans had found a way to reach the South Pole; they could fly over it, they could plant a flag, they could take some measurements, but they could never really claim it. No one could really stay there, and only a madman would want to.
The coppery sun was hanging like a watch fob, in an empty sky. Time had become as fluid for Michael as it did for everyone in the Antarctic-he'd already used up nearly half of the time on his NSF pass, but the days simply flowed into each other like a running stream. He had to check his watch constantly, but even then he couldn't always tell if it was a.m. or p.m. There were several times when he had gotten confused, and occasions when he had suddenly had to part the blackout curtains around his bunk, stagger into the hall, and confirm whether it was night or day with the first person he saw. Once it had been Spook, the botanist, who was seldom seen outside his lab-or “the flower shop,” as it was known to the grunts-and together they had agreed it was afternoon, when it actually turned out to be the dead of night. They'd gone to the commons and been surprised to find it so empty. That was when Michael had looked at Spook more closely and seen the telltale signs of Big Eye-the glassy stare, the slack, though oddly bemused, expression.
It was also when he'd started regulating his own sleep cycle with Lunesta or lorazepam-whatever he could get the good Dr. Barnes to prescribe for him that night.
“There's an old saying,” she'd advised. “If one person tells you that you look tired, don't worry about it. But if two people tell you that you look tired, lie down.”
“What are you telling me?”
“Lie down-and take it easy.”
Michael knew that he'd been pushing it-photographing everything, making endless notes in his journal, trying to master all the polar skills from igloo construction to, right now, dogsledding-but he was conscious of the limited time he had at Point Adelie, and he didn't want to overlook anything. On New Year's Eve, the supply plane would carry him back out, and he didn't want to find himself back in Tacoma, wondering why, for instance, he hadn't taken some photos inside the old Norwegian church-already he was planning to get back there-or how he'd failed to solve the mystery of Sleeping Beauty and Prince Charming.
Even now, he knew, the block of ice was slowly thawing. He'd have to go and see it as soon as they got back to base and get some more photos of that stage in the transformation. It was funny, but that was how he'd come to think of it-as a metamorphosis. The ice was the chrysalis, from which the two lovers would emerge-for lovers, he
