Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [96]
Bernice frowned. ‘He doesn’t play games with me. He wouldn’t dare.’
‘So,’ said Ace, ‘you going off on your own?’
‘I don’t know if I should,’ Bernice crossed her arms. ‘Who’s going to keep an eye on you two if I go?’
Ace threw the bacon rind at her.
* * *
The wind was blowing through the rigging, whistling its meaningless tune. It felt like being struck by a snowball, outlining cheekbones and ears in sharp pangs of cold. The sky was a black apron filthy with specks of paint.
Frederick Fleet and Reginald Lee climbed into the crow’s‐nest and took their first glance at the Atlantic. ‘The bridge says to keep an eye out for icebergs,’ said the men they were relieving.
Fleet tucked his hands under his armpits, warming his fingers. The sea was so smooth it might be a single sheet of ice. They were steaming at full speed or something like it. Like rolling a marble across a table.
They could see the whole ship spread out beneath them, a sixth of a mile long, her lights blazing like a challenge to the stars. Perhaps they felt small, just a tiny part of the flock of humanity on board the ship, itself a tiny speck in the endless blackness of the ocean and the sky. They were safe inside God’s pocket.
* * *
10.30 pm
Cristián knocked on the door of Anna’s cabin. The Doctor leaned on the wooden wall behind him, pale yellow in the electric light.
No answer.
Cristián knocked again. ‘Anyone home?’ he called out.
There was a sound from inside, a human sound, without any words. The Indian gently pushed the door. It swung open.
Anna sat on the end of her bed in disarray, a far cry from the self‐assured figure who had accosted Cristián on deck. Her shawl fell down around her shoulders and tangled in her hands as she wrung the lace. The sound of her hysterical sobbing filled the cabin.
Cristián sat down on the bed beside her as the Doctor fumbled for the light switch. He hesitated, and then put an arm around her trembling shoulders. ‘What is it?’ he said, though the sinking feeling in his chest told him he already knew.
Anna just went on sobbing, as though she hadn’t noticed they were there. The Doctor sat cross‐legged in front of her and caught her eye. Suddenly she calmed, her gulping breathing slowing down. ‘It’s Daddy,’ she said miserably. ‘My poor Daddy.’
The Doctor sat back, folding his arms tightly across his chest. ‘You’d better stay with her.’
‘Hey,’ said Cristián, ‘we shouldn’t split up. I don’t think we should split up, I think that’s a really bad idea –’
‘No one else dies,’ said the Doctor. ‘Enough. Enough of this.’
* * *
10.45 pm
The door to Sir Charles’s cabin was ajar, allowing a flat line of light to leak into the dim hallway. The door was jammed open by one of Anna’s shoes. She’d dropped it as she fled, like Cinderella leaving the ball, all her fantasies turning into pumpkins and rats.
The Doctor picked up the shoe, holding it in his hand for a moment. Then with a sudden motion he kicked the door open.
Huitzilin was not inside.
The Doctor went into the cabin and closed the door.
The cabin was another piece of Titanic opulence, with its plush carpet and wood panelling and antique furniture. Sir Charles’s mortal remains lay at the foot of the bed. The Doctor sat down on the floor with his back to the door, took a piece of paper out of his pocket and carefully unfolded it. It was a typewritten list of seven hundred and twenty‐two names in alphabetical order.
Anna and Sir Charles were not among them.
He put the paper away and knelt next to Sir Charles.
There was something wrong with the corpse. It wasn’t the look of horror on the man’s face, the random tangle of his limbs. He had been taken by surprise, and by more than surprise. There was no worse way to die. And more than die. Erased.
He had seen it before. There were worlds whose improbable ecologies were like