Page 54 of Valour

Hester smiled wickedly and tapped her fingers on the discarded romance novel. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

15th June 1915, Weddell Sea

There was one race left to decide the winner of the dog sled derby. The two ships had to put forward their best dog team driver for a grand finale, and Charlotte was giddy to find that she had won the most races for the Valour.

Hester approached and growled in Charlotte’s ear. “No pressure, Boss, but you have to win this.”

She was quietly confident. Had been studying Septimus’s tactics. “Aye, Captain.”

“Charlotte, Septimus. Ready?” Fliss called, her face deadly serious. “On your marks, set…”

Charlotte took a deep breath, willing her dogs to run like the wind.

“GO!”

Charlotte snapped the reins and cried, “On! Marjorie! On!”

The sled shuddered into motion, sliding forwards on the snow, and Marjorie pulled with all her might, tongue already lolling.

“Go! Go ON, my loves!” Charlotte crouched low on the sled as the dogs raced onwards, picking up speed.

She risked a glance to the side. Septimus was a little way behind. She blew out a long breath, then inhaled the frozen air, the wind whipping against her cheeks. A little kernel of belief settled in her chest, bright and hard.

“On Marjorie! On Samson! On Hercules!”

The ice was a sparkling white blur as they flew through the snow.

The finish line grew closer.

They had to make it.

“Come ONNNN!” Hester yelled, her voice cracking.

But Septimus was gaining, his dogs finding their stride, black streaks against the white snow.

“Come on,” Charlotte breathed, cracking the reins.

It was no good. Septimus drew level and began to pull ahead.

“On! On! On for extra dinner!” Charlotte cried.

It did the trick. The sled jolted under her as the dogs pulled harder than ever, and they crossed the finish line to the wave of a black flag and a shout of, “Charlotte Bailey of the Valour wins the Inter-Ship Antarctic Derby of nineteen fifteen!”

The dogs trotted to a halt, and Hester ran from behind and jumped on Charlotte’s shoulders screaming, “YESSSS!” and toppling them both into a pile of ice and snow and dogs.

Exhilarated beyond imagining, Charlotte lay on her back beneath her friend.

She had done it.

She had won.

She thought of that meek, timid woman who could not get a word in edge-ways, that dutiful daughter who followed orders, that not-quite-a-wife she had been. Under her skin she felt a shifting and changing, more marked than before. The hard edges of the ice, the roar of the winds and the company of bright, ferocious women were shaping her into something harder, something glowing, and she did not shy away from it, as she might once have done. She grasped it with both of her calloused hands, and she did not look back.

Grinning so hard her cheeks hurt, she gazed up at the albatross wheeling overhead.

19

IN WHICH EVERYTHING LOOKS WORSE IN THE DARK AND THERE IS A TEMPER TANTRUM