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i.

Between the second and third bells of the first dogwatch of the evening—or the nearest thing to evening in the unyielding sunlight of the arctic summer—Captain Crozier emerged from the lower deck in his slops.

It left Edward surprised, although he should not have been. Mr. Blanky had informed them that the captain was unwell, but neither he nor his fellow lieutenants had been convinced by the excuse, seeing how Crozier had been up and speaking to Mr. Hornby when they set out to Erebus. Sir John did not seem persuaded either; Fitzjames and Le Vesconte shared a brief look over the table.

In retrospect, Edward wished he too had been able to beg off from the dinner service. There had been no luck luring the bear to the hunting blind, which had put Sir John in an agitated mood that not even Commander Fitzjames could soothe. The tension was only exacerbated by the two empty chairs at the table—one for Graham, one for Captain Crozier.

In the aftermath, as Mr. Blanky went to speak to Mr. Reid before they were to cross back across the icy expanse to Terror, Lieutenant Le Vesconte had pulled Hodgson aside for gossip as the second lieutenants were wont to do when aboard the same ship. Edward and Irving had been caught by association, Fairholme having sacrificed them to make his own escape, and they listened to Le Vesconte allude obliquely to an argument between the two captains that occurred later that day.

Edward thought that he had spoken an awful amount to say nothing concrete at all, but George theorized on the matter for the entire walk back. He kept his voice just low enough to escape notice of their ice-master, who forged ahead. Each time he was invited to speculate, John demurred, flushing beneath his scarf, and cited that idle gossip was not one of the Lord’s virtues as an excuse. Edward nodded and hummed at the right moments, but in truth mostly kept an eye on Sergeant Tozer, who had been swapped out of the hunting blind with two other members of his regiment. The marine kept pace with Private Heather, speaking lowly to one another, but he became increasingly unable to suppress a bullyish smirk as Hodgson’s speculations grew more and more wild.

And so, Edward was not surprised that his captain was hale, but he was taken aback by the manner of his dress, bundled up in standard issue slops, as well as those that climbed out behind him. Eight men emerged into the chill, breath misting in the air, and among their number was the caulker's mate. Even in his ill-fitting burlap and skin slops, Mr. Hickey seemed supremely self-satisfied and was reluctant to depart from the captain's orbit even as his fellows went down to the sledge.

“Lieutenant,” greeted Crozier.

“Sir.” It was not physically possible to stand straighter, yet his posture still felt lacking. “You intend to lead the hunting party?”

A curt nod. The sunlight threw the rough texture of his skin into high relief, and darkened the shadows around the furrow of his brow. “I do.”

It would be more reasonable to send Irving or Edward himself out, and he had privately assumed one of them would be assigned the duty ever since Mr. Hornby began to prepare the sledge. Briefly, he mulled over offering himself up to the task—better he go than John—and decided against it. Crozier was already dressed for the ice, and it did no one any good to challenge the captain outside the wardroom.

“I wish you luck,” he nodded instead. “May you bring something back for us.”

“That is my intent,” said Crozier, and then he clapped a hand on Edward’s shoulder. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, he felt the captain’s heavy gaze searching his face, having tallied his measure and once again found it wanting. “Be well, Edward.”

With that, he dropped his gloved hand and started off the deck. Edward managed a strangled, confused, “Sir.” The hunting party, under Crozier’s meticulous eye, checked the inventory of the sledge one final time and got trussed up in their harnesses. Without any fanfare or farewell, they began to walk. Edward watched until eight bells, as they shrank down into a tiny, dark splotch against the ridges of pale ice. Then, he turned away and went below.

ii.

Billy Gibson woke him after morning watch with a gentle rap on the door and a freshly brewed cup of tea.

The steward was not nearly so amicable as Mr. Jopson, but instead of one man to tend to, Gibson managed three, and then some more. Despite his height, he was skittish enough that it was exceptionally easy for the ABs and the other petty officers to bully him into a bit of extracurricular mending. There was something comforting about Gibson’s demeanor, his transparent desire to not be engaged in any conversation whatsoever, that appealed to Edward immensely, especially first thing after waking. Plus, he had an enviably steady hand for shaving.

“Lieutenant Little, Mr. Jopson informs me that the captain left a letter for you to deliver to Sir John this morning.”

Edward lurched out of his bunk, wincing at the nipping bites of the cold air against his skin. “I’ll take care of it straightaway,” he mumbled. Groping blindly, he reached for the tea and hummed lowly at the sensation of warmth against his fingers. He dressed quickly as quickly as possible before turning himself over to Gibson’s care for the details. With a practiced ease that Edward found impossible to imitate, the steward began to affix his epaulettes.

Their typical morning routine was broken by a soft question. “Sir, if I may,” began Mr. Gibson, pale eyes fixed upon his shoulder. Edward started, viscerally uncomfortable at this shift in dynamic, and pulled the epaulette askew. “The hunting party. On what basis were the men chosen?”

“Did you want to volunteer, Mr. Gibson?” He asked. “Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to say.” And Edward, frankly, hadn’t the faintest idea. “My apologies.”

Lips pursed together, the steward straightened up, adjusting the last touches to his uniform with a practiced eye. “There you go, sir. Anything else I can assist you with?”

“No, I won’t keep you. I know Lieutenant Hodgson can be difficult in the morning if he’s kept waiting.”

Mr. Gibson’s eyes flashed with something akin to mirth. They both knew that George’s tendency to ramble was astoundingly worse in the early morning, as if all the words he had bottled up overnight had to be released immediately upon the first person he came upon—which was always Gibson. “Not at all. I’ve always found him to be very agreeable. Conversational, even. Sir.”

“Conversational,” Edward echoed, amused. “You’re dismissed, Mr. Gibson.”

“Send for me if you’d like breakfast after your return, Lieutenant.” Then, he ducked out of the cabin, took a step sideways, and then rapped upon the door to George’s berth.

Mr. Diggle was at work in the mess, and there were choruses of quiet voices as the watch changed over. Edward went the opposite direction towards officer’s country and into the wardroom. There, he found Mr. Jopson. In lieu of having the captain to fuss over, the steward had clearly taken Crozier’s absence as an excuse to tidy the wardroom from top to bottom. Books and other trinkets had been taken down from the shelves, and Jopson was presently dusting the wood with a clean cloth, perched upon a stool.

“Lieutenant Little,” said Jopson, without turning around. “I trust that Billy spoke to you?”

“He did. The captain left a letter?”

Head turning slightly, an indiscernible blue eye passed judgement upon him. “Captain Crozier,” began the steward, voice enunciating the consonants crisp and clean, “asked that it be delivered this morning. You may find it at his writing desk.”

Jopson returned to his work; Edward, for lack of anything better to do, tugged at the brim of his hat in a pseudo-salute and took his leave. Even though the wardroom was for the use of the captain and lieutenants, it had always felt more like Jopson’s territory. He fetched the letter from Crozier’s writing desk, where it lay innocuously, sealed with red wax, and tucked it carefully into the pocket sewn into the lining of his greatcoat.

With that, he went above deck, nodding at the men on watch. There was Tom Hartnell and Magnus Manson, as well as John Lane and Private Daly—all in various stages of braving the miserable chill. Mr. Blanky stood by the gunwale and looked south to the horizon, where white ice met a brilliant blue sky. When Edward started down the ramp, the ice-master nodded grimly at him, as though he were marching off to his death.

It had taken a quarter of an hour to cross the distance between Terror and Erebus in their first winter in the pack, but as the ice began to buckle, great ridges of deep blue ice were forced up into the air, disrupting the most direct route between the two ships. Now, the average time was nearer to twenty minutes if one moved quickly. Edward marked his progress by Erebus’ masts, which grew taller and taller, like spindly, frozen trees as he drew near.

To his surprise, the Erebites seemed in good cheer, and there were far more men on deck than he would have expected in such temperatures. A small crowd milled near the port side, angled towards the icy labyrinth where the hunting blind was tucked away.

“Lieutenant Little!” Commander Fitzjames waved from the deck as Lieutenant Le Vesconte tugged on the brim of his cap with a smirk. “Back again so soon?”

“Good morning, sir,” he called, squinting up at them. From behind, in the eastern sky, where dawn broke, where England was, out of reach, the sun backlit them both like angels with golden halos. It painted Commander Fitzjames' hair with warm tones, like polished copper, and reduced Le Vesconte to washed-out shades of grey. “I bring a letter from the captain for Sir John.”

“Francis is still unwell?” Fitzjames asked, but before Edward could answer, the commander barreled onwards, flipping a stay lock of hair from his face. “You’ve just missed him I’m afraid. Sir John set out for the hunting blind during morning watch.

“That early?” Edward carefully went up the ice ramp to the deck, stomping snow from his boots.

Le Vesconte leapt at the chance to speak. “Some men thought they heard the beast after midnight. Sergeant Bryant is hopeful that the lures are working, and Sir John wouldn’t dare miss witnessing the marines take down the devil that took poor Graham.”

“With luck, he’ll return soon.” A winning smile flashed over his face, and Fitzjames’ hand settled on his shoulder with all the ease and grace in the world. “Why not come down to the wardroom with us? Mr. Bridgens is drawing up tea. I expect Sir John and the marines will return any moment now with that blasted bear.”

There was no opportunity to refuse, for James Fitzjames pulled him along the deck and ushered him down into the hold in a boyish manner more befitting of a young midshipman. “What a triumph it will be!” Le Vesconte said, swinging an arm around both Fitzjames and Edward. “Perhaps we can convince Sir John to let us bring out the whiskey to celebrate.”

Edward, who berthed on a ship where whiskey flowed in abundance, struggled to conceptualize the reality his fellow lieutenants had been living in. “You would have better luck growing wings and flying back to England, Dundy,” said Fitzjames brightly. Then, clumsily, all three of them stumbled through the narrow door to the Erebus wardroom, where they found James Fairholme with Mr. Bridgens.

“Where’d you find this one, Fitzjames?” The third lieutenant said, gesturing to Edward, whose hat had been knocked askew. “Welcome back to Erebus, Lieutenant Little. What brings you by?”

“I came to deliver a message from Captain Crozier to Sir John,” he said, straightening up as Le Vesconte released him. “Although I seemed to have just missed him.”

“Well, perhaps that’s for the best,” Fairholme said cheerily. “I’ve said it before and—“

“And he’ll say it again,” teased Le Vesconte.

“—and I’ll say it again, but I’ve always thought it a shame that we rarely get to spend time with you Terrors.” A grin, flashing beneath his impressive mustache. “So let's make the most of this while we can, yes?”

Edward was sat down and served; Mr. Bridgens poured tea with a steady hand and deposited a tray of biscuits upon the table for good measure. To keep his hands busy, he immediately fished one over and began to butter it liberally. The surrounding chatter was nearly overwhelming, and without the presence of either Sir John or Captain Crozier or Dr. Stanley, the three Erebus lieutenants felt wilder, more unrestrained and eager, more like young men.

“—I was named after him, you know,” said Le Vesconte, more to Edward than to his own fellow lieutenants, who certainly already knew this story.

“A good man to be named for,” he commented mildly. “Captain Dundas’ service was invaluable at Trafalgar."

Fitzjames leaned forward, his elbows propped up on the table. “If I remember correctly, you served on the HMS Victory, did you not, Little?”

“I did.” Involuntarily, he felt his face flush. “For just under two months.” Fifty-nine days, to be exact, and long after Nelson’s time. And yet.

“What a ship!” Fairholme sighed. “I envy you, Lieutenant. There's no ship so famous as she.”

Laughing, their commander rapped his knuckles against the wood of the wardroom table. “Let us pray they say the same about our dear Erebus once she finds the passage!”

Sharply, abrupt as a whip-crack, gunfire echoed out over the ice. It was loud, far louder than the typical snap and creaking of the pack, and voices carried distantly on the wind. Fitzjames and Fairholme startled, faces shuttering.

Le Vesconte stood eagerly. “They’ve got it!”

But his enthusiasm was met with silence. Edward tilted his head, setting down the teacup. Those were not triumphant shouts of the hunt; that was the sound of men in peril, and Fitzjames realized it at the same time he did.

“Up! Up!” The commander shouted, yanking on his greatcoat in an uncharacteristically clumsy motion. Fairholme, Le Vesconte, and Edward raced after him, scrambling up the hatch onto the deck.

All the men on watch were leaning over the gunwale, eyes fixed on the small dark figures against the expanse of white. In the distance, a marine fired his rifle and there was a flash of gunpowder before he disappeared back behind the ridge of ice.

“Erebus!” Sir John’s voice was faint, but just loud enough to be heard over the chaos. “Erebus!”

“Sir John!” Fitzjames cried in response. He plucked a rifle from the hands of Mr. Des Vouex and started down the ramp. “Bring three men and follow me.” Two marines made chase, and Edward lingered just long enough wrangle a gun from their gunroom steward. Three-quarters of a mile away, men were streaming down from Terror.

It was, by all standards except temperature, a bright and beautiful day. A pale blue sky unfurled itself above them, and the sunlight, while cold, set the ice glittering like precious crystals; the splatters of blood that marred it were more jarring in comparison.

When they emerged from the corridor of ice ridges, a leg lay abandoned. It was still bound up in its boots and stockings as it would have been any other day while still attached to the man who once owned it.

Where were the marines? The men of the hunting blind? Apart from the obscenely large prints of the bear, only blood disturbed the snow. Gory trails of it led to the fire hole, where it ended abruptly. Grasping his rifle, Fitzjames stopped dead, horrified, and then ran ahead shouting at the top of his lungs, “Sir John! Sir John!”

The commander threw himself down with such force that Edward was momentarily afraid he was going to slide in. “Sir John?” A hand went up in the air. “Give me a line! A line!”

“He’s gone, Jas,” said Le Vesconte, dropping his guard to grab Fitzjames by his collar. Yet, when Des Vouex thrust a line of rope into his hands, the commander lurched forward and threw it down in desperation.

“Sir John!”

Edward looked away, unwilling to witness this. He raised his rifle, pressing the butt of it firmly against the meat of his shoulder, and scanned the unforgiving landscape. There! Swinging the barrel towards a flash of movement, he stilled as Sergeant Tozer burst into view with Heather and Pilkington. Then, not far behind came Hodgson, his flushed face clashing horrifically with the wisps of pale blonde hair that were escaping from his hat.

The second lieutenant of the Terror noticeably sighed in relief and lower his gun. “Edward,” he said breathlessly. “We heard you waltzing with that bear.”

“George, Sir John’s dead.” The news broke like a roiling wave over the men, a nasty flash of shock. After eight months trapped in the pack ice, Edward saw the first glimpse of sheer hopelessness in their eyes, and this was not aided by Fitzjames, who remained kneeling and frantic by the fire hole. He turned to the closest marine and found himself looking up at Sergeant Tozer. In the chaos, the man had lost his hat and his ears, peeking out from his sandy curls, were flushed red. “Are there wounded?”

“Aye,” said the marine, and his mouth twitched beneath his mustache. “Dead, too.”

How many? He considered asking, and discarded the thought immediately. “We’ll split into groups,” Edward began. Other than Tozer, no one seemed to have heard. He cleared his throat, raising his voice. “Form groups! Find any wounded and carry them back to the ships. Those in critical condition go to Erebus first!”

“Sir!” The marines chorused, and the ABs followed suit. Hodgson crouched down beside Fitzjames, joining Le Vesconte in an attempt to bring their commander back from the edge of grief.

Edward would have joined them, if not for Harry Goodsir. Stumbling into view, the surgeon wandered into the small clearing, the daguerrotype braced against his shoulder. He looked woefully out of place, as though he had walked out of a photography studio in London and had been transported here. Most fortunately, he did not seem hurt.

“Lieutenant,” said the surgeon. His dark brown eyes were very, very wide. “”The bear. It was—it—“

“Mr. Goodsir, are you unharmed?”

“I am quite alright.” A tongue wet his lips, quick, as if the muscle was shying away from the cold. “I saw—I saw—“

Edward saw that he was in no state to speak, nor should he be lugging around the bulk of the daguerrotype. He slung the strap of the rifle over his shoulder and pulled the camera out of Goodsir’s hands with little resistance.

“Sir?”

“I have it.” With a grunt, he readjusted the weight. Goodsir blinked in surprise and then his expression softened to gratitude—which was entirely unwarranted, because Edward was going to assign him a far more grisly task. “Mr. Goodsir, will you gather Sir John’s remains and bear them back to Erebus?”

A pause. “His remains, sir?”

“It’s only a leg, Mr. Goodsir. I believe you can manage it on your own.”

“Sir John’s leg?” With the camera in his arms, Edward could only gesture with a tilt of his head and shoulder, directing the other man’s attention to the limb that lay abandoned on the ice. Goodsir paled at the sight of it, mouth setting into a thin, anguished line. “Yes, Lieutenant. I shall tend to it.”

Fitzjames was back on his feet when Edward turned around, having been finally convinced to abandon the fire hole. Le Vesconte hovered nearby, hovering like an anxious mother, and Hodgson had taken on a uniquely confused expression as the commander asked him a question.

“Where’s Francis?” He said again, eyes flitting away from George’s face to scan the surrounding landscape.

“He departed with the hunting party after last watch," answered Terror’s second lieutenant.

Anguished as he was, confusion swept the grief away from his face, although Edward realized with a start that his eyes were still wet, gleaming. “Hunting party? What hunting party?”

Le Vesconte, Fitzjames, and Hodgson turned towards Edward in unison. Crozier’s letter, tucked inside his breast pocket, suddenly felt very heavy.

iii.

Signal flags were raised to summon Irving from Terror, and John, as he did everything, industriously crossed the ice in record time.

When he was waved into the wardroom by Mr. Hoar, his cheeks and the tip of his nose were flushed red by cold. Droplets of moisture from his own breath had frozen white in the hair of his beard and prematurely aged him beyond his years. George was the only one who could muster a verbal greeting to their new arrival, and Irving was noticeably taken aback by Fitzjames’s seething, sorrowful silence. Poor Jacko, who was equally as uncomfortable, screeched at John and immediately darted over the table to scramble up his arm. He had always been too lenient with the monkey, but they made for an oddly sweet picture as Irving settled at the table. At least someone here could take some comfort.

The chair at the head of the table remained empty; Fitzjames sat beside it, Crozier’s letter crumpled by his hand. Le Vesconte sat stiff-backed, while Lieutenant Fairholme leaned against the bookcase, staring down at his boots. Mr. Bridgens had refreshed the tea pot, but no one touched it save for Hodgson, who cradled the porcelain cup in his hands like a lifeline.

“Sergeant Tozer gave his report,” began John, politely ignoring Jacko as she caressed his cheek. “The men aboard Terror have been informed about Sir John.” A pause. “He was a good man.”

“The best,” agreed Le Vesconte. The second lieutenant frowned deeply when Fitzjames did not echo the sentiment.

Gently, John pried Jacko off his head, the monkey chittering as she was relocated to his lap. “I have given notice to Mr. Hornby that he should expect to outfit a small party. If they leave immediately and travel light, there is time to catch up to the hunting party to fetch Captain Crozier.”

"There is no hunting party, John,” Edward said bluntly.

“Pardon? Whatever do you mean?”

George set his teacup down. “We’ve been deceived, old boy.”

A hand slapped down onto the table, jostling the fine china. Lukewarm tea slopped onto the wardroom table and ran over the grooves of the wood like blood. “We have lost Sir John!” Fitzjames snapped, in such an uncharacteristic outburst that Edward could do nothing but stare, a shuddering, explosive breath tearing out of him. “We have lost Sir John, and Francis has abandoned us.”

John looked to Edward first in his confusion. “Abandoned us?”

Wordlessly, he leaned over the table and slid Crozier’s letter over. The paper was rent where it had been grasped too tightly as Fitzjames and Edward had processed the words written within. One sentence had burned itself into his mind, laid out in Crozier’s fine hand: I write to announce my resignation as captain of H.M.S Terror.

John’s blue eyes skimmed over the paper, mouthing the words to himself silently. Then, he stilled, eyebrows knitting together. “He’s left us?”

“He claims his intentions are pure,” observed George, but his voice was flat, which meant the man was utterly furious. “It’s a rescue attempt, if we should grant him the grace of believing him.”

“It matters little where he’s going, but that he left in the first place!” Hodgson’s counterpart said. Le Vesconte’s lip curled into an ugly expression. “Would be that the bear went after him instead of Sir John.”

Edward tensed. “Watch your mouth, Le Vesconte.”

An exasperated huff came in answer. “Why defend him? It was you he lied to!” Struck, he realized he did not have an answer. It had been an habitual instinct, an ingrained response that left Edward feeling hollow.

“Send me after him, sir,” said Fairholme to their commander. “I’ll drag him back to face justice.”

Fitzjames raised a pathetic, placating hand. “Crozier has abandoned his post. I will not waste men’s time and our resources bringing him back. Not when there are dead to mourn. Services to plan.” A shuddering breath as the man recollected himself. “I am in command of this expedition now, for all that I wish that I was not.”

“What would you have us do, sir?” Le Vesconte asked softly.

“There must be a service for Sir John, and Graham, and the rest we have lost. Fairholme, tally the dead and inventory their personals for their families. Dundy, tell the men there will be a service during afternoon watch.”

“So soon?”

They were only four bells into the forenoon watch. There was time. “I know what I wish to say,” said Fitzjames. Then, he turned to Edward grimly. Dread and fear curled through his chest, and made his mouth taste sour, like bile. “Lieutenant Little, from this point onwards, you are the acting commander of H.M.S Terror, as well as my second.”

For a simultaneously brief and endless moment, Edward went numb, his blood rushing through his ears. His mouth parted, but he could manage no words. Fitzjames, in an act of immense grace, took pity on him, and continued. “I’ll have the document drawn up for a field promotion for the ship’s records. And perhaps the admiralty will let it stand when we make it back home.” His smile was frail, and it crumpled immediately. “Commander Little,” he managed at last; then, Fitzjames unfolded his long legs, stood, and walked out of the wardroom.

Le Vesconte followed, but Fairholme lingered. “The wardroom is yours for however long you may need it.” With a bob of his head, he darted out and slid the door shut behind him.

Busy staring at the seat Fitzjames had just vacated, Edward did not acknowledge the farewell, more preoccupied by the desolate tableau of misery that was Sir John’s wardroom. It was Fitzjames’ now, he supposed, but that felt severely improper. As though she had sensed that train of thought, Lady Jane Franklin’s portrait, peeking out from the captain’s berth, glared accusingly at him.

“We must tell the men on Terror at once,” said John quietly, anxiously petting Jacko. “About Sir John, and that the captain is gone—"

“Their captain is right here,” said Hodgson with strained levity, as though Edward had fairly earned the promotion. “Our own Commander Little.”

Hearing the title before his name made him vaguely ill. “George,” said Edward wearily, with a horrified resignation at the severity of the situation. “You realize that makes you my second?”

Quietly, John began to pray.

iv.

“A marine?” Hodgson said incredulously, adjusting his cocked hat atop his hair in a looking glass. It added a frankly ridiculous amount of height, and even though Edward could not see himself, he felt suddenly self-conscious. “You want to bring a marine into our confidence?”

They had taken over the wardroom to prepare for the service, and Jopson had seemed incredibly irked to pause his cleaning, as well as the intrusion of Mr. Gibson into his territory. The officer’s steward was currently in the process of fastening Irving’s epaulettes.

“Our situation is precarious.” Edward thought that was an understatement. “It would be prudent to keep the marines close. To earn their trust.”

“Sergeant Tozer would be the rational choice,” said John, face flushing as Gibson leaned over him to do a final pass over his dress uniform. “His performance has been exemplary since we set sail, and he is in good-standing with both his men and our own.”

Now that Sergeant Bryant was dead, Solomon Tozer was now the highest ranking marine on the expedition. He was, even without John’s recommendation, the natural choice. Gibson stepped back from the third lieutenant, pleased, and looked to Edward.

“That will be all, Mr. Gibson. Please go get yourself ready.” At the dismissal, the steward darted from the room. “Lieutenant Hodgson,” continued Edward. “Start rounding up the men—we’ll start out at next bell.”

George nodded, slightly subdued at the impending funeral service, but he tipped his cap elegantly. “Commander.”

“Will you fetch Sergeant Tozer for me, Lieutenant Irving?”

“At once, sir.” John turned and followed after Hodgson, and the sliding door shut softly.

Alone, Edward exhaled, settling his weight against the table. Crozier’s presence was seeped into the surroundings. His books, his papers, the decanter of whiskey in the sideboard. Even the china, which was of a less elaborately decorated variety than Sir John’s. Even though he was a commander now, acting captain of Terror, this room would never feel like his. Would he be forced to move into Crozier’s berth? The thought made his stomach churn unpleasantly—he would prefer to avoid it, if possible.

Someone knocked their knuckles upon the door. “Enter,” he called, and Solomon Tozer stepped into the wardroom, ducking down to avoid knocking his impressively tall cap on the frame.

“You sent for me, sir?”

The marine wore his dress uniform well, looking far smarter than Edward looked in his own. In lieu of slops, he had donned a long coat of shale grey and matching capelet that made his shoulders especially broad. The only hint of that deep, rich, vibrant red of the typical marine uniform was present only at the belt, which sat snugly on his waist. As bright as the ice, the crossband and the strap of his rifle were pristine.

Idly, Edward thought that his hat was far more ridiculous than his own. The shako was tall, constructed of black leather, with a polished badge placed in the center and a small white pom-pom on top. Gilded badges decorated the straps, which hugged Sergeant’s Tozer’s jaw; in the lamplight, they glowed.

“I did.” He wet his lips, grasping for some sense of the proper way to proceed. “You are aware of the captain’s hunting party?”

“Aye. I am aware that they left. Private Wilkes went off with them.”

Ah, Edward had not known that. He had not bothered to tally their faces before they had departed, for there had been the reasonable expectation that they were going to return. “What I am about to share will be public knowledge shortly, but that does not lessen its significance or severity.” A breath; Tozer watched him curiously, his hazel eyes dark in his face. “Captain Crozier has abandoned his post and taken eight men in an attempt to reach a Hudson Bay Company outpost. I do not know if the men involved were aware or if they were coerced, but either way, they are gone. With Sir John dead, Commander Fitzjames will assume command of the expedition, as I will do with Terror.”

Sergeant Tozer adjusted his grip on the strap of his rifle. When he spoke, his voice was level, almost curious. “Why tell me this, Lieutenant?”

“Our situation is precarious, perilously so. You must know this.” The marine tilted his head ever so slightly, the brass buttons on his cap clicking together at the moment, and he nodded shortly. “The men will be outraged. They will feel betrayed.” I feel betrayed, Edward thought distantly. “We need your support.”

“Our guns, you mean.” Even though he had not moved, had changed nothing about the expression on his face, Tozer’s eyes were hard.

Shaking his head, Edward took off his blasted hat. “The last thing I want are your guns. Your men look up to you, and Lieutenant Irving says you’ve earned the favor of the ABs and petty officers as well.” The marine looked unconvinced. “I want to keep their morale up, and you have their ear more than I do.” A bell rang four times in quick succession. Hodgson’s deep voice rang out, summoning the men above deck. “I ask that you at least consider it.” Silence. "That is all.”

“Sir,” said Sergeant Tozer with a curt bob of his head. Then, turning neatly on his heel in parade march, he left the wardroom. Edward ran a hand down the front of his greatcoat, smoothing down the buttons. What a poor first showing as commander, practically begging his marine sergeant for his help.

The door slid closed with a click, but when he looked up, Mr. Jopson was standing there, face pale and eyes wide. “You must be mistaken,” said the steward. “The captain would never.”

“You were listening?” Edward asked stupidly. Of course he was listening, all stewards did. It was only that they typically didn't let you know about it. “Mr. Jopson—“

“Captain Crozier would not have abandoned us!” His voice raised into a low hiss, and then, as if shocked by his own behavior, the brief flash of anger passed and Jopson froze over completely. “Pardon me, sir. I overstepped.”

Wearily, Edward picked up his hat and crossed the wardroom. The steward stepped away, giving him space, and watched with his bright, wounded blue eyes as he opened the door. The lower deck was empty; voices and footsteps echoed above deck. “Let us be off, Mr. Jopson. If you please.”

v.

James Fitzjames gave an exceptional eulogy.

It was perhaps a natural skill to develop when one was such a riveting storyteller as himself. Momentarily, Edward envied his effortless grace and skill, but the longer he watched, the more he noticed the cracks peeking through. There was a genuine grief, a weariness hidden in his eyes and the tension of his jaw, as he recounted stories of Sir John, of Graham Gore, even Sergeant Bryant. While there had been snippets of scripture, of the effusive religious metaphors Sir John had been so fond of, the speech was mostly personal, almost off the cuff, and that resonated with the men more than anything.

When Fitzjames had finished, Tozer led the marines in a final salute, a gunpowder sendoff. The men began to disperse back towards their respective ships, but their commander called them back together. “Hold!” He cried, raising a gloved hand. “Hold!” A sea of faces turned to the new captain of Erebus. "I am sorry to say that there is more.” Fitzjames gestured to Edward, waving him over. Reluctantly, he stepped forward out of crowd, and flushed under the weight of all those eyes upon him. “Some of you may already be aware that Captain Crozier set out with a hunting party last night.”

His commander paused, and then did something very unusual. Brown eyes flickered over to his own. “Why don’t you tell it, commander?”

Some of the men murmured when they heard the rank, others were too caught up process it. Folding his hands behind him, Edward straightened his back as much as he could. “Before he departed, Crozier left a letter for Sir John, which I was to deliver this morning.” He swallowed. “Within it, he revealed that he was setting out to Great Slave Lake to the Hudson River Company outpost in order to arrange our rescue. He also tendered his resignation as captain of Terror.”

Voices rose in distress, in anger, in shock and dismay. “I am aware that this is the last thing you wished to hear,” said Fitzjames, raising his voice to be heard above the din. “But we must not lose faith! We will see Sir John’s vision through, for him and all the others we have lost! Commander Little will be acting captain of Terror, as well as my second on this expedition.” Fervently, he pounded his hand upon his chest. “We will see you through this, men.”

Searching for the Terrors in the crowd, Edward nodded, and said sincerely, despite his nausea. “I will look after you. I swear it.”

And so they dispersed, Fitzjames leading his men back the short distance to Erebus, while Edward, flanked by Irving and Hodgson, headed the long distance back to Terror. The walk was almost entirely silent, broken by the occasional whisper as the crew processed the news. When back aboard, he went first to the wardroom, then crossed the border into Crozier’s berth.

He stopped before the desk, sat down with a sigh, and opened the logbook. Flipping to the first blank page, Edward dipped the pen into ink, and began to write. The harsh contrast between Crozier's script and his own stuttering, clumsy hand was painful to look at.

June 15 1847. 69.93/-98.71. Captain Crozier abandoned post. Lt. Edward Little assumed acting command.

vi.

“Moon and star biscuits!” George cried delightedly.

Edward turned and glanced over his shoulder. Indeed, raised up in his second’s hand was a star-shaped biscuit, fresh from the oven. “Mr. Evans’ idea. They’re for Robert Strong’s birthday,” explained John, voice warped by the pencil held in his mouth. There was the sound of song seeping out of the mess into the wardroom, joyous.

“Our bow is up another nine inches,” said Edward, rapping his knuckles against the wardroom table. “We should start considering moving men over to Erebus. Volunteers first, until the situation settles."

“We can coordinate with Commander Fitzjames. I’ll poll the men and see how many wish to move over. Once we have the numbers, I can put together a list for Mr. Hornby on how many provisions to move over as well. Our stores are—" Irving exhaled sharply. “These cans! I do not understand why so many are turning up spoiled.”

George wandered over, leaning over John’s shoulder. “Has Fairholme reported the same on Erebus?”

“Yes, but with far less frequency. It’s the solder, or at least that’s what we believe.”

“Perhaps we’ve been cursed with bad luck, lads. We ought to have signed up on the HMS Superb.”

Despite himself, Edward snorted, which made his second grin broadly, triumphant. “Morale? How does it seem?”

“Sergeant Tozer reports that it is holding,” said John.

George laughed warmly. “The men like you, sir.” Edward hummed, unconvinced, but was grateful for the reassurance nonetheless.

“We should—" He paused, startled by the sound of a scream and a muffled gunshot. Three sets of eyes met in alarm before they ran from the wardroom, nearly barreling over Billy Gibson as he was coming by with a armful of silver to polish.

Emerging into the night, the upper deck was frigid like the grave. Edward briefly bemoaned leaving his coat below and pressed onwards into the negligibly better warmth of the watch tent, aglow with the yellow light of the lanterns. A hole had been torn into the canvas, and Tommy Armitage, one of Tozer’s favorites, bravely brandished a gun towards the polar night.

“Mr. Armitage!” Hodgson cried, pushing forward. “Report!” 

The steward's voice was strangled, eyes flickering to something unseen as he gestured to the floor with his rifle. “He’s still breathing!”

“Who is?” Edward rounded a group of crates and barrels and found himself looking upon Tozer’s broad shoulders. Blood was slick against the planks, crystalizing in the cold. Private Heather lay with his head—or what was left of it—propped in his sergeant’s lap.

“It came over the gunwale, sir,” continued Armitage, but the words lost meaning, fading away to simply noise. A chunk of Heather's skull had been ripped away, exposing the delicate organ of his brain, and he felt bile flood into his mouth.

As he swallowed it back down, Solomon finally managed to look up. Several wayward curls escaped the brim of his hat, and his eyes were dazed, in shock. “Lieutenant Irving,” Edward called over his shoulder. “Help bring him below.” Kneeling down, he nodded at Tozer. “Quick, before he freezes.”

The marine returned to himself, at least momentarily. “Private Hammond, take the watch!” He, along with Armitage and John, gently lifted Heather and vanished from sight.

“Is there anyone else injured?” Edward called, scanning those who remained. All the men on dogwatch were riled up with nerves, fear naked on their faces.

“Commander! It’s got Strong!” Mr. Golding ran from the back half of the tent. “It took him! We heard someone yelling for help out on the ice, and he's missing.” A breath. “It’s his birthday, sir. We have—“

He nodded. “We’ll find him. Lieutenant!” George went to attention, blue eyes bright. “Fetch Mr. Armitage. I’ll need thirty brave men willing to track down that bear.”

“Captain.” Even after five months, Edward was still unused to responding to that address, and young Mr. Evans had to repeat himself, voice more insistent. “Captain, I volunteer. Please, may I come? William is my friend.”

Shivering and snow-covered, the ship’s boy was a pitiful sight, but there was a courage in his eyes. A bravery impossible to refuse. “Get below, and dress warmly,” he said kindly, some strange feeling overtaking him as the boy smiled shyly. “Mr. Peglar! Signal Erebus with the lanterns. They ought to know that there’s been trouble.”

Edward went down to fetch his coat and suited up in slops. Armed with a rifle, he paired up with Evans, who carried their lantern as though it were the most important responsibility in the world. Thirty men went down onto the ice, and the world was turned wavering and strange by the undulating light of the aurora which danced above them.

“How old is Mr. Strong?”

“He just turned twenty-four today, sir,” said Evans.

In less than a month, Edward would be turning thirty-five, and suddenly he felt very old. “And you? When was your birthday?”

The ship’s boy’s eyes crinkled. With his muffler obscuring most of his face, it was the only way to tell he was smiling. “I was born in July, sir. Twenty, I am.”

Ice and snow crunched underfoot. The pack had grown more irritable, and in the past five months, fresh ridges had been blown up towards the sky, transforming the landscape into something even more alien than before. Edward scanned the mountainous landscape for any sign of his missing AB, for footprints, or blood. Anything.

A rustling noise, something other than the typical creaking and groaning of the ice, caused him to halt, stopping Evans with his arm. He readjusted his grip on the rifle, his gloved hand hovering over the safety. Another crunching noise, drawing closer.

“—and then I said—my god, Edward!” Commander Fitzjames appeared around a bend in the ridge, accompanied by one of his marines and both of his surgeons. “Put that thing down, will you?”

“Captain?” Pointing the barrel of the rifle down, he gaped and winced at the sudden ache of his teeth as they were exposed to the cold. “What are you doing here? Did you not see my signal?”

Fitzjames shrugged. “You signaled that there was trouble. I’ve come to help.”

“The beast is out there,” Edward said in sheer disbelief. “You should not have risked yourself.” One of them was fine, but both, at the same time? Despite his confidence in both lieutenants, he shuddered that the thought of the expedition’s leadership falling to George and Le Vesconte.

“He’s right, sir,” agreed Dr. Stanley, and he suppressed the urge to disagree out of principle.“You should not be so reckless with your life.”

Evans shifted, still tense. “Sir,” he said to Edward. “What about William?”

“We have to escort Captain Fitzjames to Terror.” The ship’s boys eyes grew distant and dismayed. “Take heart, Evans,” Edward started, in a clumsy attempt to be comforting. “There are twenty-eight other men looking for him right now.”

His party was the first back to the ship; the other lanterns were still circling on the ice. “Dr. Stanley, Dr. Goodsir.” He ripped his cap and welsh wig off in a rough motion and ignored how pinched the senior surgeon's face grew. “Drs. Peddie and MacDonald could use your assistance in the sick bay. Commander, the wardroom is yours. Ask Jopson for tea, if you'd like. He'd appreciate something to do, I think.” A pause. “I’ll only be a moment.”

As they split—Fitzjames to the wardroom, the surgeons to the sickbay, Evans to his friends in the forecastle—Edward descended further down the ladderway to the orlop deck. Thomas Armitage was leaning over his ledger in front of the armory while Tozer ranted in his general direction.

“Everybody is so staggered that he’s hanging in there like that. He’s a Royal Marine—what in the bloody hell do people think that means!” Solomon snapped, thunking his head against the walls. Mr. Armitage nodded, humming, and wrote something down. “No one here knows but us—“ Hazel eyes caught sight of him, and the marine stopped. “Commander.”

The gunroom steward jerked his head up. “Sir! Are the search parties returning?”

“Not yet,” said Edward, “but you should expect them soon. By next bell. If you would, I’d like a word with Sergeant Tozer.”

Awkwardly, Armitage leaped to his feet, pressing the ledger against his chest. His tightly-wrought curls flew like a halo around his head at the sudden motion. “Sir!”

The sounds of life drifted down from the deck above. “I am sorry about Heather.”

“Save it,” Solomon said hotly. “He's not dead yet.” A pause. “He’ll pull through. He will.”

Even if he did recover, what kind of life could he lead now? “And you?” Edward asked. “How do you fare?"

“How’d you feel if it was Lieutenant Hodgson who got his skull bloody blown off, huh?” Very poorly, he thought. An explosive sigh. “I could use a smoke.”

“Later,” said Edward. “I need you in the wardroom.”

“Me?” The marine repeated flatly, shifting his weight. “I’ve got nothing new to report, sir."

Yet, the man pushed himself off the wall, arms crossed over his chest. The slops were gone and the cinched cut of the Royal Marine uniform was on full display. In the gloom of the orlop, the ruby color darkened to that of blood. Solomon's hair was still mussed from his welsh wig, riotously unruly.

“Commander Fitzjames is here. I want you to give a report on what you saw, and how we should prepare in case the beast comes aboard again.” The marine had come close enough that Edward had to tilt his head up slightly to look at him.

“You’re dead set on giving me no time to prepare, are you?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t already have opinions about it, Solomon.”

The sergeant huffed, warm breath ghosted over Edward’s face. They were standing very close, but that had ceased being out of the ordinary some months ago. “You owe me,” he said.

“Most certainly, sergeant.” Edward shifted out of parade rest to place one fleeting touch against Tozer’s elbow. “Let’s not keep keep Commander Fitzjames waiting.” He stepped aside, gesturing to the ladderway, and as the marine pushed by, he was checked with his shoulder, a broad, firm push that knocked into Edward’s chest.

Solomon went up the ladder first, but it was Edward who led him into officer’s country. In the wardroom, Fitzjames had made himself comfortable at the table and was presently trying to accomplish the difficult task of charming Jopson with one of his tales. The steward did seemed pleased to be conducting the tea service; Edward felt somewhat guilty—he preferred the ease and familiarity of Gibson’s service, and only called upon Jopson rarely, and mostly for assistance in the wardroom. What did he fill the rest of his days with now that Crozier was gone?

“Captain Little,” Fitzjames said, stressing out the syllables of the address in delight. Jopson’s face went tight. “And Sergeant Tozer! Lieutenant Irving says that you’ve been a great help.”

“Try my best to, sir,” said the marine.

Edward sat himself down by Fitzjames, and then was immediately beset by Jopson with a teapot. “He was on deck when the bear arrived. It is my hope that his account will clarify some our questions.”

Sliding open the wardroom door, George and Mr. Blanky arrived, followed shortly after by John and Dr. MacDonald. The surgeon had washed his hands clean, but there were flecks of blood on his apron.

“Private Heather?” Edward asked on behalf of Solomon, who had gone rigid.

“Stable,” answered the surgeon, glancing to the marine with a wry smile. “The bleeding has stopped.” Imperceptible except to the most practiced eye, Tozer relaxed.

Blanky sat down at the end of the table, snow melting into his hair and beard. “There was no sign of Mr. Strong, sir. We swept the ice for as far as was reasonable with this visibility.”

Edward frowned, an easy expression for him. “That is unfortunate.” A pause. “Thank you, Mr. Blanky.”

“Perhaps he was carried past Erebus,” said Fitzjames. His mouth twisted into a momentary pout as Neptune, who had been resting his head upon the commander’s knee, abandoned the man for Irving. As soon as his lieutenant sat, the Newfoundland padded away and eagerly laid himself atop John’s feet, tail thumping against the planks. “I’ll send out search parties as well upon my return. We’ll find your man.”

“Thank you, sir,” he nodded. While there was a chance Strong could still be alive, Edward doubted it deeply. “Sergeant, if you would be so kind as to give us a report of what you saw on watch.”

All the senior officers turned to the marine, who bore the weight of their attention admirably, head tilted up proudly. “It came up from the gunwale, sirs. Quick, and fast. It ripped through the watch window and snagged Private Heather.” A short, brief pause. “It was completely silent—we only noticed it as it went back down, and only then because we heard Heather hit the ground.”

“And what of Mr. Strong?” Fitzjames asked.

“He was posted at the stern. It grabbed him only after we started shooting at it.” His eyes darted to Edward’s face briefly, a passing glance. “If I may, sirs, I’d like to recommend arming some additional men for the watch. The perimeter is tight on either ship, but an extra gun or two bolstering our number could make all the difference.”

“Your reason seems sound, sergeant,” said Edward; the corner of Solomon’s mouth quirked up for half a heartbeat before flattening out once more. “Commander?”

Having raised a hand to his mouth, Fitzjames nodded once. “I don’t object to supplementing the marines, but I would prefer to wait until the men’s nerves are less high. The last thing we want is—“

A voice rang out, likely one of the marines judging how Tozer snapped to attention at the sound of it. “Alert command!” The watch whistle sang shrilly. Without dismissal, the sergeant stormed out of the wardroom.

“Why does it feel like we’re always running out of here?” George said, rising to his feet.

Up on deck, toppled into pieces like children’s blocks, was the dismembered body of Robert Strong.

vii.

Multiple men had to carry down Robert Strong’s body, and the only concession for privacy was to place the man’s severed head into a burlap bag.

The crew had been riled up far beyond the point they had been for the loss of Sir John and Graham Gore. Edward was unsure if it was because the man had been genuinely admired by his fellows, or simply because it had been his birthday when he died. ABs and petty officers clamored near the sickbay, where Hodgson was standing guard. One benefit of his gregarious, accommodating demeanor was that the men took it very seriously when he became firm and unyielding. When George barked for them to stand back, they scurried away like reprimanded children.

Laid out upon a table, the body was in the process of being restored. All his limbs had been detached from the torso, which itself had been bisected at the waist, as well as the head, which was thawing out from its rictus of terror. Dr. Peddie, with the rare aid of Mr. Stanley, were presently attempting to reattach the left arm with needle, thread, and grim expressions.

“Despite how sharp the lines of separation are, this wasn’t done with a blade. This was a single claw,” MacDonald said wearily, voice low and quiet. Hodgson was still guarding the door, his shadow visible through the linen veil. A few sailors milled by, muttering in concern, but Tozer had successful diverted most of the crowd back towards the forecastle. “It was deliberately done, not mindless clawing. On the torso, there are signs of multiple cuts.”

“Multiple cuts?” Fitzjames echoed.

Stephen Stanley said sharply. “Three, to be exact.”

“Someone using a claw, then?” Their commander continued, searching for some rational explanation. “As an instrument—“

“No man is strong enough, and there would be striations on the bone if it had been sawn through,” answered MacDonald.

Robert Strong’s freshly-shaved head had tears frozen to his cheeks, Edward realized. Nauseous, he looked away and focused on John instead, who had his arms slack to his side, eyes distant. “There’s the matter of the prints,” he began, reporting in lieu of Hodgson, who actually braved the ice to examine the surrounding area. “The creature’s prints circle Terror, but no others.”

“No boots?” Irving exhaled shakily.

“Only Navy issue.”

Fitzjames grasped the shelf so hard his knuckles were pale. The neat, elegant cut of his white waistcoat felt woefully out of place. “Not a man. Not a bear. Then what—“ Frustrated, he cut himself off.

For an extended moment, there was a pained silence. “Have we considered that perhaps this would not be a mystery to the indigenous people here?” John offered.

“Have you seen many nearby?” Stanley asked dryly, which irritated Edward on behalf of his lieutenant.

Goodsir, who had been tending to Heather, poked his curl-haloed head out from behind a privacy curtain. His dark eyes, made larger behind the lens of his silver glasses, were curious and bright. “There is the woman, the daughter of the Netsilik man.”

“She refused to speak to us,” he said, recalling her departure from Terror. How long ago that all felt now, those distant days before Edward and Fitzjames had been suddenly thrust into the responsibility to finding the passage and bringing all their men home.

“Well, she is certainly capable of speech,” said Mr. Blanky. Sometimes, Edward thought they brought him into command meetings out of habit, for Crozier had kept the man close in his confidence.

A muscle jumped in Fitzjames’ jaw. “She’s been camped near us for five months and we have no understanding as to why! The bear came when she came.” His voice shook with unrestrained anger; abruptly and unusually, Edward wished that Le Vesconte had come along—he had an uncanny knack for dealing with the other man’s temper. “By all accounts, her people are covetous, traitorous, and cruel—"

“Sir,” cut in Mr. Blanky, voice firm. “I would recommend that you prioritize the accounts of the people in this room. Both Dr. MacDonald and I know these people better than the blowhards writing opinion pieces for gossip rags.”

Voice going high, strained, Fitzjames threw his hands up. “That we cannot discern a connection between this thing and the girl does not mean there isn’t one!” He turned on Edward with the ferocity of the cheetah from his stories. “Your marine—“ My marine? He thought, fixating on the wrong point. “He spotted her camp during the last sledge party?”

“He did,” he confirmed, unwilling to lie.

“Send him out immediately. I want her brought here,” said his commander. “Mr. Blanky and Dr. MacDonald can question her.”

Now? “Respectfully, sir. I would prefer to send a party out in the morning.”

“You want to wait?” Fitzjames repeated incredulously. Idly, Edward noted that both surgeons had paused their work on Strong’s body, and Goodsir had fully drawn back the privacy curtain to unabashedly watch the exchange, exposing the meat of Heather’s brain. “It’s incapacitated two of your men tonight!”

“And I’ll not lose any more by sending Sergeant Tozer out into the squall. Commander Fitzjames, I ask you to reconsider,” he said fervently, perhaps a bit too short in his tone than was proper for the leader of this entire expedition. And yet, Fitzjames himself had always encouraged that he speak his mind, that Edward offer his counsel when he felt needed. You and I, Little, are in this together now.

Mouth twisting, Fitzjames studied him for a moment, before he sank against the shelf with a sigh, raising a hand to his brow. “You’re right,” he said at last.

“Thank you, sir.” Quietly, the surgeons resumed their work, and some energy returned to John, who nodded encouragingly at Edward. “Commander, the weather is poor enough that you should stay. Crozier’s old berth is available to you, and Lieutenant Irving can find spots for your surgeons to bunk down for the evening.”

“That would be much appreciated, Captain Little,” breathed Fitzjames, mastering himself slowly. He readjusted his waistcoat and ran a hand through his hair to neaten it. A deep breath. “Something ought to be said to the men.”

Edward agreed. After the chaos of tonight, they needed something to cling on to. He thought of Robert Strong, and thought of Mr. Evans, who had loved his friend so dearly he had made special biscuits for his birthday. Edward recalled the snatches of song, the laughter, the mundane joy that had been cut short. “I’ll take care of it, sir.” The Terrors were his men, his responsibility.

When he slipped out of the sickbay, Hodgson caught him by the shoulder, a question in his bright blue eyes. Edward shook his head, conveying the situation through the complex language of raised brows and clenched jaws that they had developed under Crozier’s tenure. It had always been immensely comforting to look across the wardroom table, to exchange a look that said, I understand.

Everyone apart from the men back on watch were crowded into the forecastle, tensely waiting for news. Frightened and angry faces turned to him—Hartnell’s worried eyes, Manson’s fear, Genge’s fury. Towering above the crowd, Gibson’s face was undercut with somber concern. Solomon was a spot of red, half-dressed in his slops, and had sat himself upon the lower rung of the ladderway with a rifle over his shoulder, prepared and willing to leap back out to defend the men on watch.

As he approached, the men parted to make space for him. Edward folded his hands behind his back. “There will be no more parties sent out tonight,” he began, throwing his voice over the immediate rumbles of discontent. “I’ll not risk any more of you to either the weather or this creature. In the morning, if the weather has cleared, a small group will be sent to apprehend the Netsilik woman camped out on the ice for questioning. Presently, she is not to be considered a suspect behind the deaths.”

A pause, to let it linger. “I was informed earlier that Robert Strong was twenty-four today.” In the crowd, Mr. Evans straightened up. “I would ask that you spend the rest of this night remembering him. He was a friend to many of you, and a valuable member of this crew. A service will be arranged within the next two days.”

“There is one last order of business.” Edward bit the inside of his cheek, then steeled himself. “Listen up, men! Mr. Blanky has informed me that Terror is tilting another nine inches. As the pressure ridge becomes more unstable, she’ll be at further risk, as will you. Any man who would like to volunteer to berth on Erebus, please make yourself known immediately to Lieutenants Irving and Hodgson, and we’ll send you over with Captain Fitzjames after morning watch.”

Faces turned away to murmur to their fellows, but it was broken by a great shout. “We’ll stay as long as you’ll have us, captain!” Evans and Golding stood up, at the crew seemed cheered by the enthusiasm of the ship’s boys.

“Aye, Captain Little! We’ll stay with you and Terror ’til she gives up on us!” Another man, hidden by the crowd, called. And then there was a chorus of ayes and cheers. Up on the ladderway, Tozer’s teeth flashed into a smirk, and he stamped the butt of his rifle upon the deck.

Edward could only stand there, dumbstruck and overwhelmed by their confidence in him. The outpouring of faith and tenacity. Brave faces were cast in a warm glow from the lamplight, and a few more courageous men risked clapping their hands against his shoulders.

When John slipped into the wardroom an hour later, his lieutenant was on the cusp of a rare smile, uncharacteristically cheered. Only five men had elected to volunteer. The rest would stay.

viii.

Shortly after his birthday, Edward suited up in slops and braved the -52 degree weather.

The wind howled angrily. Having beset their ships two days ago, the storm had yet to relent. Snow was whipped through the air as fast as gunshot, raking its greedy, hungry hands over any exposed skin. Distant lanterns flickered faintly, distant lighthouses in the polar night, and tried valiantly to guide them safely between either ship.

Yet, despite the foul circumstances, his party seemed in good cheer. Mr. Hornby and Mr. Blanky were laughing at some jape, as though they were enjoying a good ale at a pubic house than braving the treacherous ice. Walking ahead, Tozer, inspired by the intermittent sound of the cannon fire, was recounting a story about a man known as Six-Pounder to Private Hammond; every now and then, the sergeant would look back over his shoulder, as if checking if Edward was listening.

They ran into the observation party before Erebus, a sad, frozen outpost ringed by lanterns and bundled-up marines, who all saluted Solomon as they passed through. Hunched upon a stool, Edward found Le Vesconte struggling with the chronometer. His face was covered by both a muffler and a scarf, his hat pulled down low, and his eyes were covered by protective goggles—yet Edward would still tell he was absolutely miserable.

“Des Voeux,” said Erebus’ second lieutenant. “Look, Captain Little’s come to save you. Let’s pack it up.” The second mate shoved his overmitten on desperately and snapped the ledger shut.

Together, both groups set off to the safety of Erebus, who still remained practically level despite the chaos on Terror. He tugged off his gloves the moment he entered the safety of the hold, working feeling back into his fingers as he cast a look around the bustling forecastle. As the past month had been unkind to Edward’s ship, which was listing more than ever, twenty of his Terrors had been moved over to Erebus. Some of them were milling around the crowd, and he heard a few whistles and calls of Captain Little! in the chaos.

“How’s the weather out there, Edward?” Fairholme said, appearing from nowhere. His mustache had been freshly trimmed, and privately he marveled at the other man’s fastidious commitment. George, John, and he likely looked overgrown by comparison.

“Awful,” he answered, shaking out his coat, and thrusting his slops into a mate’s hands. From the corner of his eye, Edward saw Solomon yank off his hat, hair curling in the warmer, humid air of the hold, and greet his fellow marines with a shout.

A laugh, and Fairholme smiled. “Next time, we’ll come to you. Dundy, all well?”

“I can’t feel my toes,” he complained. “I’m going to see Des Voeux off to sick bay. Tell James I’ll be in the wardroom shortly.”

They set out to the wardroom, weaving through the forecastle. Men were crouched on the floor playing card games, another man had procured a fiddle and playing for a group of shoddy, but enthusiastic dancers. The distant sound of laughter followed them into officer’s country, where Mr. Hoar opened the wardroom door with a flourish and announced them to Fitzjames.

“Good morning, captain,” said Edward.

A fine sight in his white waistcoat, the commander glanced up from where he was bowed over his maps. “A fine morning to you as well, captain. Are your lieutenants with you today?”

“Not today. Lieutenant Hodgson is overseeing the cannons for the experiments, and Lieutenant Irving is occupied with our inventory.”

“Ah, a shame! I was hoping to hear the rest of George’s story about Canton,” Fitzjames smiled. “Isn’t funny that we fought in the same battle and yet have such different accounts? Please sit.”

And so he did, and Mr. Hoar arrived shortly to set out tea service for the three of them. “We’ve brought over the supplies you requested,” began Edward. “Mr. Hornby is overseeing the transfer below with Mr. Blanky.”

“I expect Mr. Reid will be tracking your ice-master down at this very moment,” the commander began, taking a small sip from his cup. “Erebus remains stable for now, but he’s been drafting up some ideas for how to stabilize Terror in the meantime.”

“That would be appreciated.” A beat. “How are the Terrors aboard faring? Has the transition been relatively smooth?”

Fairholme nodded. “Very much so. While many were dismayed to leave your care, they’ve settled in nicely with their fellows here. We only had one fight break out, but it was small and easily contained.”

When Edward managed a drink of his tea, he was disappointed to find that it had already gone mostly lukewarm. “If Terror shifts any further, we may need to transfer over another score.”

“We can handle that,” said Fairholme. A pause, as he glanced down to his stack of papers. “Dundy and I have already planned out where they could be accommodated, and Mr. Wall has given us his estimate of what he would need brought from Terror’s stores.” He glanced to the empty seat, which had an empty teacup already laid out. “He certainly is taking longer in the sickbay than expected.”

“With his luck, he’s lost a toe or some other extremity,” Fitzjames joked, blasé. “No matter. We can catch him up, if need be. Edward, how fares the girl?”

There was a probing tone to his question that made it not quite so innocuous. “Lady Silence? Mr. Blanky and Dr. MacDonald have been conversing with her with some limited success.” He smiled to himself, amused. “Mr. Hartnell is quite enamored with her.”

“Enamored?” Fairholme said brightly.

“That is how Lieutenant Hodgson tells it.” His second did so eagerly and often, as if witnessing snatches of a clumsy, poorly written romance serial was the height of entertainment.

Leaning forward, Fitzjames propped his arms up on the table, lacing his fingers before his mouth. “And the creature? Anything there?”

“Not yet, sir,” said Edward. “Dr. MacDonald feels they are close, however.”

They spoke for a while longer, until, at last, Fitzjames dismissed the meeting to check in on Le Vesconte. Fairholme walked Edward out, but paused in front of his own narrow berth. “One moment,” he said, darting inside. When he emerged again, he had a book in his hands. The words General View of the Geology of Scripture were stamped on the spine. “Lieutenant Irving had asked about my father’s work when I was last aboard Terror. Would you be so kind as to deliver this to him on my behalf?”

“Of course—he will be delighted, I’m sure.” He tucked the book into his greatcoat breastpocket. John really would be quite pleased—in the past six months, the two third lieutenants had become fast friends with one another, and it was something of a relief that Irving had someone to discuss scripture with rather than retreating to his berth to write letters he couldn’t send.

When he returned to the forecastle, he found Mr. Hornby and Mr. Blanky sharing a smoke. Edward signaled them to suit up, but Solomon, who had sat himself down with the Erebus marines, had his back turned to him. He went over to the table, looming behind the marine.

“Sergeant,” he said lowly, breaking apart the conversation.

Solomon threw his head back, nearly knocking it against Edward's chest, neck arching out of his starched collar as he looked up at him. His sandy hair fell away from his forehead, glowing in the lamplight. Beneath his beard and mustache, his mouth twitched, and his eyes were bright. Edward swallowed. “Captain, are we off?

“That is my intent, sergeant.” And he moved away as Tozer suddenly rose to say farewell to his men. Edward fled towards the ladderway and busied himself by pulling his slops back on, ensuring that his hands, ears, and nose were properly covered.

Stepping out into the cold was as horrible as it always was. The world blurred as tears came unbidden to his eyes at the cold, and the water froze immediately the moment it was blinked away. It was quieter on their return journey, each man hurrying as fast as they could across the ice. Edward led the way this time, clutching a lantern in hand, with Solomon a steady, silent presence at his side. As they crested a small ridge of ice, a dull thump sounded behind them on the snow.

“Fred!” Blanky roared, dropping down to the ice. The ice-master shook his friend gently, then rougher as the First Mate refused to stir. “Wake up, lad!”

Solomon slung his rifle over his shoulder, turning back to help Hammond hoist Mr. Hornby up into a carry. Terror was a pathetic sight with her masts angling lower and lower towards the ice, but still soothing in the bloom. Edward ran up the ramp to the deck, threw open the hatch, and descended into the lower deck.

A few men called out greetings, but it became deathly silent as Solomon climbed down, holding Mr. Hornby’s feet. “Bring him down. Easy!” The marine grunted as he bore the full weight of the First Mate’s corpse as he was lowered down.

Grabbing his shoulder, Hodgson hovered in concern and curiosity. “What happened?”

“Mr. Hornby’s collapsed on the ice,” he replied, pulling his muffler down. “He’s gone.”

“How?” George whispered frantically.

Edward ignored him for a moment. “Bring him to sickbay!” Then, to his lieutenant. “We don’t know.”

Sometimes, it felt like they didn’t know anything at all.

ix.

Despite his grief at Hornby’s death, Blanky insisted on meeting to discuss a plan to stabilize their ship.

“With the ship’s weight having shifted from the central axis, the integrity of the ship will continue to deteriorate.” The older man tapped the diagram of Terror insistently, ignoring Jopson as the steward came to refill his glass. Above deck, George had resumed his cannon trials to keep the men distracted. A shuddering boom shook the china in the wardroom cabinets, a delicate, tinkling noise.

“And you and Mr. Reid propose to alleviate it how?”

“Captain Fitzjames has approved us to borrow the spare masts from Erebus. We’ll make use of our own as well and see if we can’t put together a buttress. It should redistribute some of the pressure.”

Edward nodded. There was another cannon shot. “You have my approval, Mr. Blanky. Anything to keep us upright longer.”

“The work will be dangerous, especially in this weather and in the dark,” he warned, but there was a hint of enthusiasm in his eyes at tackling the challenge anyways. “But we would be fools to wait to do it.”

Idly, Edward noted that the cannon missed it’s next interval. “How long until we can begin?”

“It’ll take a full day to bring the spare masts over from Erebus with the ice being how it is.” Blanky frowned deeply. “Those ridges have—“

A shuddering crash sounded upon them, loud as thunder, and there were shouts. Men’s voices clamored from the forecastle, and when Edward left the wardroom, he collided roughly with Irving.

“John!” He said, reaching out to steady the other man. “What’s going on?”

His lieutenant said, voice tight, “The hatch is jammed!”

Edward pushed through the throng of men to the ladderway. Indeed, the hatch refused to open larger than a sliver, exposing a dark, starless sky; they could not get out, but snow and freezing air burrowed inside.

“What’s going on!?” At his shout, the warped visage of his second appeared, a wide blue eye as bright as a star.

“Captain! It’s come aboard!” Hodgson’s voice was muffled, but loud enough that the crew trapped below began to panic. The sound of a gunshot alarmed them further, and dread, colder than the arctic winter, ran like ice down Edward’s spine. Solomon was up there.

Distantly, Neptune was barking, an angry, vicious sound, and then Jopson appeared from the wardroom, Edward’s coat slung over his arm. “It’s at the stern!”

“George!” He roared up through the hatch. “The stern! The stern!” Abruptly, his lieutenant vanished from view and Edward reeled around. “The forward hatch!”

“It was sealed today!” Irving cried, anguished.

He bit back a curse. “Darlington! Where’s Mr. Darlington!”

“He’s above deck, captain!” Tommy Armitage shouted.

Never in his life did Edward expect to wish that Mr. Hickey was still aboard. “In God’s name,” he shouted, pushing forward towards the sealed forward hatch. “Someone bring me the caulker’s tools! Lieutenant Irving, Mr. Armitage, unlock the armory. Shotguns and rifles to half.”

With all the speed in the world, Evans ran down to the orlop deck and returned with a mallet and pry bar, pressing them into his hands. Muffled thumps and stomping echoed above their heads, as well as a booming, impressive weight that shifted on the planks of the upper deck.

The pine tar and pitch were still fragrant, and although the outer seal had dried, the inside was softer, easier to break apart. Edward attacked it with a blind, vicious determination, chunks of tar falling to the ground. With a grunt, he broke the seal open, and yanked the hatch free with the end of the pry bar.

Unable to get Edward to come back down, Jopson roughly shoved his greatcoat up into his hands, and he tugged it on clumsily as he emerged into the collapsed tent. His knee landed upon something wet—there, dead eyes open in shock, lay Mr. Darlington.

He crawled over the deck, hearing men pour up behind him. When Edward emerged into the dark squall, he found a pathetic picture. Crispe lay mangled, half-strung up in the rigging, there was blood frozen over the planks, black and shining like a dark mirror; Manson and Hartnell were shouting to themselves as they tried to load the six-pound gun, ramming their mittens down in lieu of a wad.

Solomon stood bravely before them, rifle aimed up towards the rigging. His crossbands were a beacon in the darkness, and he had lost one of his mittens in the chaos. “Captain!” He roared. "In the rigging!"

With great difficulty, Edward did not go to the marine, but instead to aid his seaman with the cannon. They had jerry-rigged it on the fife rail, aimed blindly into the sky. “Lieutenant Hodgson, sir!” Hartnell called, his face blistered red from the cold. “He went to distract it!”

“George! Where are you!?”

If he could hear them, the wind ensured the men on the deck could not hear any response. Yet, a flash of light went up like a beacon against the dark sky. “Higher,” Edward realized. The cannon needed to be higher. “Sergeant! Help!”

Tozer brought his ungloved hand to the frozen surface of the cannon, bracing it up with his weight. With a prayer, Manson fired the cannon, and the shot went up with a roar into the night. There was a screech, a large, white shadow falling to the deck with a wet squelch, and a dozen rifles went off as the crew who had come aboard fired. Angry, the beast rose on unsteady feet and galloped away, throwing itself over the gunwale and into the storm. Blanky, brandishing a shotgun, made to follow.

Where was George? Irving, bundled up in his scarf, clearly had the same thought, craning his head up at the rigging. There! There! A figure was lowering himself down precariously on a rope, swinging dangerously in the squall. Windblown and dazed and frozen, Hodgson set one leg upon the deck, but not the other. It took Edward a terrible, endless moment to realize that his left leg was in mangled ribbons below the knee.

“Hello, boys,” said George, and then he toppled backwards onto the deck.

x.

It took four men to bring him down safely. Solomon, one hand bloody from where frozen metal had burned the skin of palm away, took George by one shoulder; Edward took the other; John, turning vaguely green, supported his back and the intact flesh of his thigh; Mr. Blanky lifted his good leg.

When they stumbled down the ladderway, the men had cleared the forecastle as best they could, and they set Hodgson down upon one of the tables. Mr. Diggle and Evans came in with bowls of hot water and set to warming George’s frozen limbs. As soon as he collapsed, the adrenaline faded and his lieutenant was nearly delirious with pain, eyes glassy with tears.

Irving crouched down, taking one of the warm rags from Evans and tenderly warmed George’s fingers. “George,” he said softly, casting his voice into a whisper. “They say you were very brave.”

Peddie and MacDonald set down their surgical equipment with urgency. “Captain,” said MacDonald. “I’m taking the leg off under the knee. I’ll give Lieutenant Hodgson coca to soothe him, but we’ll need to get him good and plastered.”

“My leg?” George murmured weakly. “What do you mean?”

Handing the bowl back to Evans, John stood. “I’ll fetch it.”

George again, more insistently, “What do you mean cut it off?” Edward found that he couldn’t bear to look at his face, and instead stared at the mangled mess of flesh. With its claws, the beast had shorn his calf into pieces, exposing parts of bones. His foot was missing completely. Hysterically, he thought of Sir John’s leg out on the snow. Was Hodgson’s foot somewhere above deck? Had someone brought it down with the rest of the dead?

“Hush, lad,” Blanky soothed, brave enough to do what Edward could not. “It has to come off. Dr. MacDonald will be quick.” Then, as a diversionary tactic, “What possessed you to climb the rigging, Lieutenant? Sounds more like something I would do.”

Flushed and panting, Irving ran back over with Billy Gibson in tow. The steward carried a fine cut glass in his hands, remarkably out of place in the present situation. John propped up George, while Gibson served a generous pour. Hands shaking, his second choked it down, face scrunching up. “Mr. Gibson” he said inanely. “You’ll have to tailor my trousers again.”

“That’s just fine, sir,” said the steward, pouring another glass. “No trouble to me.”

MacDonald sighed, lips pressed together. “We need to begin. Hold him down.”

As men surrounded him, George struggled weakly. “Wait, wait.” Edward pressed his weight down on his arms; Irving came around the other side. A hand grasped at his, fingers red from being frozen and thawed so quickly. “Edward,” he begged. “Please, Edward, don’t let them cut it off.”

Mr. Gibson gently forced the bit stick into his mouth, and Hodgson looked up at Edward with naked betrayal and shock. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.” As MacDonald started his work, George began to scream.

In the aftermath, Edward stumbled to his berth, sliding his door open with a enraged weariness. It rattled into the carriage, slamming against the jamb, but it did not roll back out. Numb, Edward tried to pull it shut, but it remained firmly stuck in the frame. A long, still moment, and then he banged his forehead against the wood, shutting his eyes in total defeat.

“Are you alright?” Opening one eye, he saw a wall of grey and a white crossband. Solomon stood still in his slops, face still flushed from the cold, and his eyes were dark, concerned. He was not supposed to cross into this part of the ship without permission or escort, but Edward found he could not care.

“My door is stuck,” he said lamely, for that was all he could say.

Tozer removed a glove with his teeth and set his broad fingers to the frame. One of his palms was hastily bandaged—Tommy Armitage’s work, no doubt—and blood sluggishly seeped through the linen. He fiddled with it, eyes narrowed in concentration. Then, “Well, I’ll be damned. It is.”

Hysteria bubbled up from his chest. Edward laughed wetly, and the sound broke off into a strangled noise, bordering dangerously on a sob. First the ship, and now Hornby and Darlington, and George—poor, recklessly brave George, who moaned from the sickbay in the throes of a pain Edward could hardly imagine—and now his blasted door. He would finally have to take up residence in Crozier’s berth, wouldn’t he? The thought filled him with white-hot panic. “Solomon, I—“

“S’alright.” A broad hand settled on his back, too low than what was proper, as the marine crowded into Edward's space. “I’ll fetch Gibson and we’ll see what can be done.” There was a puff of breath near the crown of his head, as if Solomon had tucked his nose there against his hair. “I’ve got it.”

xi.

“As such, we can expect to finish our full supply of coal by November next unless we begin stepping down the ships’ heating plans now. And that’s without any future days making way under steam factored in,” began John, a hand trailing down each line in his ledger. Due to the serious nature of the meeting, Jacko had been locked inside her cage, and the monkey pressed herself against the bars, pouting at her favorite lieutenant.

“Lieutenant Fairholme and I have also finished inventories for food stores,” he continued. Fairholme, mouth somber beneath his great mustache, nodded. “Of salt beef, we’ve a combined total of 750 pounds. Of salt pork, 210. Flour, 902. Cheese, 87. Dry fruits, only 9 after making Lady Jane’s Christmas pudding last week.”

Hodgson scoffed. “A waste of supplies that was, if you ask me.”

Somehow, the other occupants of the wardroom seemed to wilt further, except for Dr. Stanley, who always seemed to be in perpetually dour mood. Edward uncomfortably threw back the last dregs of his tea, frowning at the chill temperature.

“Of lemon juice, not quite 200 gallons remain, though Dr. MacDonald suspects by now its lost most of its antiscorbutic potency.” Terror’s surgeon nodded wearily, his forehead in his hands. “As for the tins,” Irving hesitated, then continued. “We’ve examined every one and tossed out the putrid. What’s left number 1402 tins preserved meats, 911 preserved soup, and 1182 potatoes.” Shutting his ledger with a quiet snap, John nodded. “It’s clear now why the Stephan Goldner Tinned Foods Company was the low bidder.”

Macdonald leaned forward, scrubbing his face. “I’d like to run that man through,” he said heatedly.

We’ll have to form a queue, Edward thought wearily. Certainly many men on crew had strong words for the man, and he hoped they made it back home to England just to see the admiralty drag the company through the press.

“And when is the point of no return?” Fitzjames asked.

“Mid-winter of next year,” said Fairholme. “If the native game continues to elude us.”

Mr. Blanky cleared his throat. “Of course, we should also consider that Francis will be on his way come springtime with a relief party.”

“Oh, yippee,” said George darkly. “I’d prefer to take my chances on the ice than accept help from Francis Crozier.”

A pinched expression settled on the ice-master’s face. “Lieutenant, I don’t appreciate—“

“Oh, shove off, Mr. Blanky,” said Le Vesconte. “We’re sick and tired of hearing you sing praises of the man that abandoned us to die.”

“Lieutenant Le Vesconte,” said Fitzjames airily, but the lack of his usual nickname for his friend belied his anger. “I do believe that’s enough. Lieutenant Irving, if you would continue.”

A nod. “If we reduce to three-quarter rations, we’ll reach the end of our provisions by the end of January with our current roster of 116 men.”

Their commander sighed. “Why mention the number of men, Lieutenant.”

John had nothing to say; he simply glanced down at the table, cowed, and Edward spoke up at last. “Good work, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, excellent work, Lieutenant Irving,” began Fitzjames, face softening. “I simply caution against such a large reduction in rations so soon. We haven’t seen hide nor even a hair of Mr. Teeth and Claws in a month.” George stiffened. “It seems that Lieutenant Hodgson and Mr. Hartnell killed it, or ran it off at last.”

Edward cleared his throat. “What of reducing to four-fifths rations?”

“Yes,” nodded his commander. “I think that would be amenable. We’ll discuss how to reduce further in one month’s time.”

“I’ll speak to Mr. Wall at once,” said Fairholme.

“Please advise him, as well as Mr. Diggle, to emphasize salt meats in their menus now, not the tins.” Le Vesconte’s head swung up, eyes sharp, and Hodgson wilted, falling back against his chair in raw dismay. “We must start conserving all things portable.”

As second in command, Edward was the only man who could draw the admission out directly. “You’ve decided then,” he began, unsurprised. Only two days ago had they met privately to discuss the idea. “We’re walking out.”

“Yes. Come spring.” Both commanders surveyed the faces around the room. Irving looked as though he had been physically hit, eyes blinking quickly; Fairholme had turned his head to gaze out the wardroom windows to the dark, icy landscape, vaguely ill. Le Vesconte seemed resigned, cowed by Fitzjames admonishment, while Blanky nodded in agreement. Across the table, George was staring directly at Edward, mouth twisted into an unreadable expression, eyes flashing.

It was Edward who looked away first. “We can discuss the details down the line,” continued Fitzjames. “That will be all for today, gentlemen. Not a word of this yet to anyone who isn’t at this table. Mr. Blanky, I’d like a word in private with you and Captain Little.”

The men stood. Departing together, MacDonald muttering at Dr. Stanley, who for once did not immediately try to shut the conversation down. Le Vesconte stormed out, but paused to hold the door open for Hodgson as Edward’s second limped through. Even after a month of practice, the prosthetic leg was troubling him, had left the man clumsy and mortified. Fairholme and Irving carried their ledgers under their arms—the taller of the two lieutenants leaned down and whispered something low, and as the door slid shut, Edward saw John Irving earnestly smile, which momentarily chased the weariness from his face.

“Sirs,” said Mr. Blanky, moving to a closer chair. “If this is about Francis—"

“It’s not,” said Fitzjames flatly. He gestured between himself and Edward. “I was hoping you might share some insight with us. You walked out with Sir John Ross, did you not?”

Immediately, the ice-master’s face shuttered at the memory. Voice tight, he answered, “I did.”

“I’ve read his memoir but it would be preferable to have the true account of someone else who was also there.”

“His memoir?” Blanky laughed harshly. “Someone’s going to have to invent a new kind of memoir if truth is what you’re after.”

Edward bit the inside of his cheek. “The truth would be preferable, Mr. Blanky. If you will.” There had never been any concrete evidence that Blanky had known of Crozier’s plan, but he found it frankly impossible that he knew nothing at all. There had been enough half-truths and omissions from him this year.

“You read the book,” began the man exasperatedly. “You know we spent three winters on the Victory.”

“Yes. Nearly the same as we,” said Fitzjames.

“And the captain might’ve tried for a fourth, if we hadn’t run out of food. We shouldn’t have waited to start walking. If you want my opinion, we’ll be cutting it awfully close come spring, but at least you both have started making plans for it. By the time Captain Ross got around to it, the scurvy was in us.” A barely surpassed sneer. “He had no sympathy for illness.”

“No sympathy?” Edward asked.

And so the ice-master shared the tale of woe and misery, the trials, the ache of hunger, the anger and resentment covered by an increasingly thin veneer of civility. Edward tried to imagine himself in that position, in those men’s shoes, but found that he could not. He had reached the limits of his imagination when he had been elevated to captain and commander. His current situation was already beyond his wildest nightmares. Yet, Edward could resonate with resentment, the violence. If Crozier did return come spring, if he walked through the wardroom door right now, he genuinely believed his first instinct would be to punch the older man in the face, and assumed many felt the same.

Regardless, he did feel entitled to the first hit; Fitzjames would have to wait. “Mr. Blanky,” said the commander, “most of the men survived.”

“If that’s the point you want me to get to, then yes, we survived—I’m sure Sir John Ross,” the name was dripping with disdain, “wants that to be the moral of his story. But he never knew how close he came.”

“What you recommend then?” Edward asked sincerely. Per Fitzjames’ calculations, it would be nearly 800 miles to the nearest vestige of civilization. “Morale is already low—for some, this may be the final blow.”

Blanky studied him for a moment, then his eyes flickered to Fitzjames, his weary mouth relaxed slightly. “I’d recommend not keeping it from the men, first of all. To be frank, you’ve both done exceptionally well with being transparent with the crew—don’t start hiding things now, especially after what they’ve been through.” A pause. “Give them a happy memory, something to look back upon. There will always be tally later when things get hard. There always is.”

xii.

With a quiet knock against the frame of the door, Gibson drew back the curtain to Edward’s berth just enough to poke his head in. “Visitors from Erebus, sir.”

Edward pulled his coat on and went through the lower deck, meeting a snow-encrusted Le Vesconte as he dropped down from the ladderway.

“Still have all your toes?” Edward said as way of greeting.

“If I had known you had a sense of humor, I would have bothered to know you on land, commander,” said Le Vesconte dryly, but there was a hint of a smirk in his mouth. “James has news. The men will be pleased, I think.”

Good news was something to be coveted here, at the inhospitable end of the earth. “Well, let’s not keep them awaiting then.” Together they went into the mess, where Mr. Diggle was in the process of serving dinner. Edward stamped his foot on the wood planking, and the chatter turned into a muted, anticipatory hush.

“Men, up! Lieutenant Le Vesconte has a message from Captain Fitzjames that’s going to put a beam in all your steps.”

The Erebus lieutenant propped himself up on a barrel, taking on a lackadaisical posture which Edward had learned within the past year was his natural and preferred state of being. “Clear your social calendars, gents! We’ve got a bit of benjo planned for first sunrise. Captain Fitzjames has proposed a carnivale.”

Cheers broke out, smiles gracing the faces of his crew; Le Vesconte basked in the positive attention like a cat on a windowsill, pleased beyond reason. Yet, Edward himself couldn’t deny that it soothed something in him to see the men in such good spirits.

“What will you need from Terror?” Edward asked, pulling the second lieutenant away towards the wardroom. Supper forgotten, the men instead were trading costume ideas with laughter.

Perfunctorily, Le Vesconte fished a letter from his jacket and presented it to him. “Paint and sailcloth mostly—we know you don’t have extra masts or lumber to spare. Mr. Wall has promised to make the trek over to confer with Mr. Diggle about the menu.” A pause, as he stepped into the wardroom. “Do you have a costume chest?”

“A costume chest?” If they had one, Edward would not have been surprised if Crozier threw it overboard as soon as they left Greenhithe. “John would know.”

“Jas says you have to come in costume. He’ll command you, if need be,” said Le Vesconte, laughing at Edward’s horrified expression. “You’re a captain—you have to set an example for the men, but speaking of—Jas and James tell me that Irving’s a decent painter. They want his help with the backdrops.”

“He has a good eye,” Edward admitted. Last Christmas, John had presented him with a small watercolor portrait of himself. He had looked wretched and awful, even in painted form, but he kept it folded neatly inside a book, for the gesture had been sweet. “He would be happy to help, I’m sure.”

Having a second sense for this sort of thing, Jopson came in briskly, bearing a silver serving tray with freshly-brewed tea. “For convenience, we’ll set it up halfway between ships,” Le Vesconte hummed in idle thanks as the steward poured his cup. “Mr. Reid has identified a potential area, but you’d best ask Mr. Blanky for his opinion.”

“I’ll speak to him straightaway,” said Edward, unfurling the letter. Fitzjames’ looping hand neatly denoted the inventory—it would take a great deal of supplies, but they wouldn’t be able to carry it all come spring anyways. “Mr. Jopson, would you see about having some of the smaller items brought up for Lieutenant Le Vesconte and his men to bring back to Erebus?”

“Of course, sir. I’ll speak with Mr. Gibson and see what we can do.” A quick, perfunctory bob of the head that served as a bow, then, he was off.

Edward took the tea in hand. He was trying to be better about drinking it before it went cold. “It may be a moment, but it’s better to keep you.” Meeting Dundy’s eyes, he raised a brow. “If I sent you back out there without giving you a chance to thaw, you’re liable to lose a finger on top of your toes.”

A swift kick landed against his shin. He laughed, a strangled, unfamiliar thing.

xiii.

There was a costume chest aboard, or so John claimed. During the first dog watch, after scarfing down an informal dinner alone in his berth, Edward ventured down into the orlop deck to find it.

In truth, it was quite easy to find amongst the barrels and crates, which made him feel a bit silly for not knowing if it was even aboard the ship. The storeroom had always been Irving’s domain, even back when Terror had been under Crozier’s command. Edward was fair with his sums, but neither he nor George had been so enthusiastic about numbers and inventory like John, who still proudly kept his mathematics medal in the pocket of his waistcoat.

It was exactly where his lieutenant said it would be, which made Edward’s life marginally easier.  The costumes were housed in a large sea chest, which was left entirely unmarked, and the hinges squealed unpleasantly as he forced it open. Even in the dark of the orlop, dimly lit by his lone lantern, it was like opening a window into a forgotten world of color. Rich violet and intoxicating green fabrics were haphazardly stuffed alongside painting masks with rosy blush, yellow taffeta and ruby stockings. There were crumpled hats adorned with false flowers and garlands of laurels for Roman pantomime. For someone like Edward, whose world for the past two years had been only navy blue, red, and horrible white, it was nearly overwhelming.

As he leaned down, poking through the props, a hand settled on his waist, fingers digging into the fabric of his greatcoat. Edward stood quickly and found himself braced against a solid, chest. “A carnivale, eh?” Solomon whistled lowly, breath tickling his ear. “What sort of bad news are you and Fitzjames waiting to unleash upon us?”

“Captain Fitzjames,” he corrected idly, dropping his weight back against Tozer. “Must you always assume it’s bad news?”

“S’always bad news,” said the marine, his jaw settling on Edward’s shoulder. Then, as if suddenly and earnestly curious, he added. “Is is not this time?”

Edward hummed, eyes skimming back over the chest, the fabric and frivolities from a different world. “It’s what we expected, more or less.” He was unwilling to confirm it aloud, seeing how Fitzjames had expressly told him not to, but the potential of being forced to walk out had been discussed between them before.

Thoughtfully, Solomon’s fingers drummed on his hip, and he was silent for an extended moment, chest rising and falling against Edward’s back. “It’ll frighten the men, but I doubt most of them will be surprised. Morale has been steady, more or less, since Lieutenant Hodgson tangled with that bear.” A pause; he knew George was a sensitive subject. “Honestly, I think it helped. They fuss over him, since he's been struggling and all.”

“George hates it,” he said, very softly. The mother-henning, how the ship’s boys hovered too close and offered help endlessly. George hated John’s pity, Fitzjames’ optimism, Fairholme’s concern and Le Vesconte’s lack of it. Above all, he despised Edward and his guilt.

“He’s a hero to the boys. Brave thing, he did. Wouldn’t have expected it from him—maybe he ought have been a marine.”

A startled laugh burst out of Edward, and he heard Solomon hum into his ear, pleased. “You should tell him that. I think he would appreciate it very much.” A pause. “Is this a good idea?”

“Better to have it anyways, than not have it at all.” Without warning, the marine sergeant stepped away, leaving Edward’s back feel suddenly cold, and he crouched down to rifle through the chest. Gorgeously red, his shoulders strained the fabric of the uniform. “What’ll you go as?”

Recounted in Le Vesconte’s voice, he heard Fitzjames’ command. “Me? Nothing, ideally,” bemoaned Edward, “but I have been ordered to put on a good showing.” He nudged Solomon with the toe of his boot. “What do you think? Oh, in God’s name, Tozer, you’re making a mess.”

A pile of fabric pooled on the floor as the marine dug through the chest. Peering down at him, all Edward could see was the dimple on his cheek creasing into view as the man smiled. He grasped something in hand and stood triumphantly, brandishing something towards his commander. In the chill of the orlop, his ears and nose were ruddy, even more so when compared to the color of his coat.

“Wear this,” Solomon crowed, smirking. Edward was helpless to defend himself as the other man unfurled a bottle-green gown and pressed it against him. One hand came to pin the collar against Edward’s neck, the other to clutch the juncture of bodice and skirt to his waist. “In this, I imagine you’ll be able to upstage whatever the commander has in mind.”

The last thing Edward wanted was to upstage anyone, whatsoever. “Upstage? More like it’ll inspire the men to stage a mutiny—who wants to see their captain in a gown?”

“They won’t have mutiny on their mind, I assure you, Edward,” smirked Solomon, and his teeth flashed sharply against the red of his mouth.

xiv.

Even in the dark, the site where the carnivale was to be held was already an impressive sight.

Commander Fitzjames, dressed in his fur-trimmed personal slops, guided him eagerly, as though the arctic ice was a country fair held on good, English soil. “The men are eager, more so than I expected,” the man said, smiling despite the chill. “Work is progressing fast. I have no doubt all will be prepared in time for our evening of revelry.”

The main tent was standing. Through the open flaps, he could see Irving up on a stool, paintbrush in hand, as Fairholme held a lantern up to illuminate the canvas backdrops. John was currently rendering a verdant tree, heavy with fruit, standing somewhere in a pastoral countryside.

“It’s very impressive,” Edward agreed, watching with interest was Charles Des Voeux, who for once seemed cheerful, helped raise a flag pole that bore the standard of their empire. A round of cheers went up, and he saw Mr. Hartnell and Mr. Manson clap excitedly. “The Terrors have been assisting adequately, yes?”

“We almost have too many volunteers,” laughed Fitzjames. “Lieutenant Irving has been a true boon, as has Mr. Jopson. To think that such a steward was wasted on Francis.” Best not let him hear you say that, thought Edward, as the man continued, voice turning more serious. “George would have been a great help, but my last attempt to convince him did not go well.”

“You refused you again?” He asked, dismayed. Privately, optimistically, foolishly, they had all hoped the news of the Carnivale would raise his spirits.

A wry laugh. “His morbing is almost as bad as Crozier’s. Almost.” Their commander paused, dark eyes watching as a group of ABs were fabricating a false hedge maze. “In some ways, it’s more difficult—Lieutenant Hodgson was always such a merry fellow, even back in Canton.”

“He has not been the same since the loss his leg,” agreed Edward. 

“I imagine few would be the same after such a thing.” Fitzjames mused. “Will he come, you think? I’d prefer not to command it of him.”

“John and I are trying.” Desperately so, but speaking to George now felt like speaking to a wall, equally as cold and unyielding.

Kindly, his commander clapped a gloved hand against his arm. “I am sure, Edward.” Then, taking on a brighter tone, he asked. “Have you chosen a disguise?”

Edward audibly sighed, which made Fitzjames laugh. “I have been convinced to go as one of our monarchs.”

“Which one?”

“King Edward,” he said dryly. “The Third.”

Most unlike himself, Fitzjames made a sharp, painful snort, and then laughed even harder, so much so that he had to bend at the waist. When he stood again, his face was flushed. “Oh—oh! Don’t tell, but that’s what Dundy’s going as.”

Edward nodded, biting back a smile. “Should I change, sir?”

“Perish the thought,” said James, delighted. “He’ll be so riled up. A fitting costume for you, I think—name notwithstanding.”

When he returned to Terror, encased in a thin level of ice, Edward shucked off his slops and hat, then went into the wardroom. There, to his surprise, he found George, hunched over a roster list. Blue eyes glanced up warily as he entered, then hardened into something else he could not place.

“George, I—“

“Did not expect to find me here? I am still capable of doing my job, sir,” he said hotly.

Edward paused, feeling as though he had been physically struck. “I know you are, Lieutenant.” His voice was more weary than he would have hoped, and he shook his head, droplets of melted ice falling to the floor. “I was going to say that Captain Fitzjames asked if you planned to attend Carnivale.”

Muscle jumping in his jaw, Hodgson flushed contritely, but he simply turned back to the duty roster, shoulders tense. “I haven’t decided.” A pause. “How far is it from the ships?”

“Half a mile from Terror,” he said, foolishly hopeful. “Not so far.”

“Not for you,” sniped George.

There was a extended silence as Edward gaped and his lieutenant pretended very hard to ignore him entirely. Stunned, he sat at the head of the table with a thump, wetting his lips as he thought of something, anything to say. Yet, before he could speak, Gibson entered with a tray balanced on his long, thin fingers.

“Captain Little,” the steward said in his soft-spoken voice. “I did not know you had returned, else I would have brought you a cup.”

“There’s no need, Mr. Gibson. I’m fine.” As the taller man turned to leave, Edward blurted out clumsily. “Have you put together a disguise for Carnivale?”

Owlishly, Gibson blinked at him, and George suspended his anger long enough to glance up at him incredulously. “Me, sir? I have.”

“Wonderful, would you be opposed to helping Lieutenant Hodgson put one together, then?”

A hiss. “Edward!” It had been weeks since George had last called him anything other than Captain Little, and so he did not mind the vehemence that undercut his name.

Lips quirking up into something that was nearly a smile, Gibson nodded. “Yes, sir. I imagine Mr. Jopson and I can have something put together in time for him.”

He absconded before Hodgson could protest, and so the lieutenant turned all of his surprised fury upon his captain. “How dare you—just because I am an invalid does not mean you can walk right over me. What's next? If I refuse to go will you summon your marines to carry me across the ice? If I died, would you drag me back from my grave simply because you wished it?” A stifled, angry groan. “In God’s name, Edward Little, the last thing I want from you is your pity!”

“What is it you want from me, George?” He asked quietly, cowed. In that moment, if his lieutenant asked him to grovel and lick his boots in apology, he would have done so.

“I don’t know!” Hodgson threw up his hands, then cradled his forehead in his palms. He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I want my leg back,” he said pathetically. “I want to go home, I want to have sugar with my tea again, and to play the clavier. I want an apple, fresh from the tree, I want—I want—“

Edward felt nauseous, racked with guilt and shame and helplessness. “I can’t give any of those to you.”

“I am aware,” said George. Painfully, he stumbled to his feet, gathered up his duty roster, and left.

xv.

On the eve of the first sunrise of the year, the crew of the Terror suited up for Carnivale.

The forecastle was a riot of activity as finishing touches were placed on costumes, every man assisting their fellows as they obscured themselves in the protective, yet comparatively boring, layer of the slops. Mr. Hartnell wore a lion’s head nearly as blonde as he was, while Mr. Manson attempted to straighten out the horn of his unicorn headdress, which he had carelessly knocked against the wood. There was Irving with his hand-stuffed angel wings attached with a frankly confusing amount of knotted rope, and the felted halo that sat askew atop his brown hair. Down the passageway, hovering before the door to the wardroom, Mr. Gibson, dressed as a rabbit, was drawing whiskers upon Jopson’s face with black grease.

Rowdy enough to seem drunk, the marines hollered as each member of their regiment emerged in costume: Hammond was Saint George; Private Daly as Sir Robert Guiscard; and Tommy Armitage, who was considered by all to be an honorary marine, came up as Lancelot to a great chorus of cheers. Presiding like a king over his court, Tozer sat upon one of the tables with a wide grin. He wore his marine uniform, the starched collar visible against his throat, but over that he had donned a tunic emblazoned with the heraldry of Harry Hotspur, the hotheaded and brave knight.

Edward himself had been greeted with a great roar of enthusiasm when he sheepishly stepped out of the wardroom. The cheaply-gilted crown sat uncomfortably on his head, and the quartered livery of King Edward was scratchy and uncomfortable where the fabric rubbed against his skin. Tozer, from whom he had kept the costume a secret, threw his head back and laughed—King Edward III had knighted Harry Hotspur, after all.

Apart from the handful of men who went ahead to oversee the finishing touches on the Carnivale, the rest of the Terrors went together in one large group, a motley crew of mirth emerging onto the ice. It was only when the hold had mostly emptied out that Hodgson emerged as Marie Antoinette. Jopson and Gibson had thrown together an admirable costume on such short notice, with layered, ruffled skirts that obscured his prosthetic, and a towering wig of wool and rope.

“George!” Irving said delightedly. “What a splendid disguise.”

“The credit is not mine, save for the idea, of course. Mr. Jopson and Mr. Gibson must be thanked for assembling this on my behalf.” For a moment, he almost sounded like his old self again, in his meandering, easy way of speaking. “I suppose instead of ‘off with her head’, it’s off with my leg, eh? Shall we be off, captain? It wouldn’t do to be late.”

No, it would not. Pulling on their slops, the last attendees of the night's revelry went out onto the deck. Irving ended up darting ahead to oversee the front half of the crew as they marched through the icy labyrinth; Edward lingered in the back, watching Gibson and Jopson speak quietly with Armitage, oddly reminiscent of Edward’s sisters gossiping with their friends. Solomon kept his rifle at the ready, scanning the landscape for any danger, and George hobbled along slowly.

As they crested a ridge, he could see the arctic landscape spread before them like a mirror, blue-grey ice reflecting the sky. Erebus lantern’s weakly outlined the dark shadow of the ship in the distance. Winding between ridges were his men, huddled together from the cold, but happy. Their laughter carried on the wind.

There was a muffled cry. George’s prosthetic leg gave out from underneath him and he went down onto the ice like a marionette with cut strings. His elaborate wig did little to cushion the blow. “Blast it all,” swore his lieutenant as Edward knelt to help him up. “I won’t make it.”

“You can," he said softly.

“No! I can’t.” Hodgson’s voice broke, as wretched as the cracking of the ice. “How am I supposed to make it? It’s eight hundred miles to Back Fish River and I can barely walk one mile between the ships!”

Everything fell into place all at once. The anger, the anguish, the fear. “If you can’t walk it, I’ll drag you all those miles, George. And if I can’t do it, John will.”

“Edward, I don’t want to be left behind.” A strangled gasp.

“You won’t be,” he promised. “I’m not going to abandon you—I swear it. Now, come on.” He slung one of George’s arms over his shoulder, then used his own to support him by the waist. “Let’s get you up.”

So caught in his own despair, his lieutenant was a dead weight and Edward faltered, struggling to stand. Silently, Solomon came around the other side. “Chin up, sir,” said the marine. His hand brushed deliberately against Edward’s as they pulled George up together. Even through layers of wool and fabric, Solomon’s roughspun mittens, he could feel the weight of it, the firm support, the reassuring touch. “See, not so far, innit?”

His second nodded weakly, mouth pressed together into a thin line. For a moment, in the dancing blue-and-green lights in the sky, his eyes seemed wet.

“Come on, George,” said Edward encouragingly. Fitzjames’ carnivale was a warm beacon of light beneath the watchful eye of the aurora. “We’re close.”