inconvenience . . .’
Lyle clambered out of the deck and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Well done, lad. That was very thoughtful of you.’ Tess beamed. ‘Now, I don’t suppose you speak Italian?’
‘Erm . . . no, sir.’
‘How about Latin?’
Thomas’s face lit up with excitement. ‘Oh, yes, sir. I have had the pleasure of studying the ancient and noble languages of the classics, and I must say I find them fascinating both for their development in various European languages and for their natural, even original -’
‘Good. You can come and help me translate a few things.’
‘What shall I do, Mister Lyle?’ demanded Tess with a pout.
‘Take all the tins, saltpetre and sulphur you have, and make me a torch.’ He dug into his pockets and came out holding a handful of small, frosted glass spheres, which he passed to Tess. ‘Add as much magnesium as you can, stir well and allow near no naked flame.’
On Tess’s face, for a second Thomas saw a strange, thoughtful expression.
‘You are plannin’ on goin’ swimmin’, ain’t you, Mister Lyle? Only it seems to me you got this oxygen source an’ this rapid burner and initial combust . . . thing for startin’ the reaction an’ how you’re all containin’ it . . .’ She frowned suddenly. ‘What we really need is phosphorus, Mister Lyle.’
Thomas looked at Lyle when he didn’t answer, and saw the older man’s face beaming with an almost childish expression of pleasure. His voice was as quiet as ever, but his eyes lit up proudly as he said, ‘Could be, lass. Definitely could be.’
Lyle put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder, and guided him away, leaving Tess and Tate sitting together on the deck. Tess smiled, staring after their shadows in the fog, lost in her own contentment. At her side, Tate lay down, ears trailing across the deck. She scratched him idly behind the ears, head on one side, thinking. Really thinking; not the usual quiet thoughts of everyday life, but thoughts which had words she could almost hear, like a little voice in her mind, and pictures too: thoughts which felt bright and real. She could almost feel how things worked, almost stand up and announce to the fog and the lost sunlight, this is what will happen .
She picked up one of Mister Lyle’s little glass balls, and knew that inside there was a slither of a magnesium compound that would burn for a few minutes with a bright, intense white light. She smiled, and kept smiling, as she picked up a tin and thought about fire and light. And for a second, just a second, Teresa Hatch heard something beneath normal hearing, something that drifted into her mind without consulting the ears, rising up from the old cobbles and the trapped water underneath the thin, transparent ice, to join the thoughts that had been slowly bubbling away ever since Mister Lyle sat her down, many months ago, and said, ‘Teresa, that letter is the letter “a”.’
Tess realized she was humming.
‘Oranges and lemons,’ say the bells of St Clement’s.
‘You owe me five farthings,’ say the bells of St Martin’s.
‘When will you pay me?’ say the bells of Old Bailey.
‘When I grow rich,’ say the bells of Shoreditch.’
Teresa Hatch almost laughed and, for a second utterly lost in thoughts beyond normal expression, began to hammer together a scientific marvel. It seemed perfectly obvious what had to be done, when she thought about it. Inexpressible, unutterable. Simply . . . perfect.
CHAPTER 4
Sinking
The captain’s cabin was cold, grey and lit only by a couple of candles and whatever light managed to crawl through both the frost-covered glass and the fog outside. It was almost entirely bare. Not a picture hung on the wall nor a book lay on a table to suggest any personality inhabiting it. The only exception was a very large shiny gold crucifix hanging above the bed. Lyle’s eyes settled on it instantly, and his eyebrows went up.
‘It’s new.’ Cautiously he picked it up, and surprise
Lyle clambered out of the deck and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Well done, lad. That was very thoughtful of you.’ Tess beamed. ‘Now, I don’t suppose you speak Italian?’
‘Erm . . . no, sir.’
‘How about Latin?’
Thomas’s face lit up with excitement. ‘Oh, yes, sir. I have had the pleasure of studying the ancient and noble languages of the classics, and I must say I find them fascinating both for their development in various European languages and for their natural, even original -’
‘Good. You can come and help me translate a few things.’
‘What shall I do, Mister Lyle?’ demanded Tess with a pout.
‘Take all the tins, saltpetre and sulphur you have, and make me a torch.’ He dug into his pockets and came out holding a handful of small, frosted glass spheres, which he passed to Tess. ‘Add as much magnesium as you can, stir well and allow near no naked flame.’
On Tess’s face, for a second Thomas saw a strange, thoughtful expression.
‘You are plannin’ on goin’ swimmin’, ain’t you, Mister Lyle? Only it seems to me you got this oxygen source an’ this rapid burner and initial combust . . . thing for startin’ the reaction an’ how you’re all containin’ it . . .’ She frowned suddenly. ‘What we really need is phosphorus, Mister Lyle.’
Thomas looked at Lyle when he didn’t answer, and saw the older man’s face beaming with an almost childish expression of pleasure. His voice was as quiet as ever, but his eyes lit up proudly as he said, ‘Could be, lass. Definitely could be.’
Lyle put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder, and guided him away, leaving Tess and Tate sitting together on the deck. Tess smiled, staring after their shadows in the fog, lost in her own contentment. At her side, Tate lay down, ears trailing across the deck. She scratched him idly behind the ears, head on one side, thinking. Really thinking; not the usual quiet thoughts of everyday life, but thoughts which had words she could almost hear, like a little voice in her mind, and pictures too: thoughts which felt bright and real. She could almost feel how things worked, almost stand up and announce to the fog and the lost sunlight, this is what will happen .
She picked up one of Mister Lyle’s little glass balls, and knew that inside there was a slither of a magnesium compound that would burn for a few minutes with a bright, intense white light. She smiled, and kept smiling, as she picked up a tin and thought about fire and light. And for a second, just a second, Teresa Hatch heard something beneath normal hearing, something that drifted into her mind without consulting the ears, rising up from the old cobbles and the trapped water underneath the thin, transparent ice, to join the thoughts that had been slowly bubbling away ever since Mister Lyle sat her down, many months ago, and said, ‘Teresa, that letter is the letter “a”.’
Tess realized she was humming.
‘Oranges and lemons,’ say the bells of St Clement’s.
‘You owe me five farthings,’ say the bells of St Martin’s.
‘When will you pay me?’ say the bells of Old Bailey.
‘When I grow rich,’ say the bells of Shoreditch.’
Teresa Hatch almost laughed and, for a second utterly lost in thoughts beyond normal expression, began to hammer together a scientific marvel. It seemed perfectly obvious what had to be done, when she thought about it. Inexpressible, unutterable. Simply . . . perfect.
CHAPTER 4
Sinking
The captain’s cabin was cold, grey and lit only by a couple of candles and whatever light managed to crawl through both the frost-covered glass and the fog outside. It was almost entirely bare. Not a picture hung on the wall nor a book lay on a table to suggest any personality inhabiting it. The only exception was a very large shiny gold crucifix hanging above the bed. Lyle’s eyes settled on it instantly, and his eyebrows went up.
‘It’s new.’ Cautiously he picked it up, and surprise
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