Henry, eager as he was to occupy his every minute, naturally progressed his conversation with Mr Goodsir to matters of continued learning: what began as a brief dialogue concerning the ship’s name—fitting, now the sun had set on the arctic circle, that Erebus be the namesake of antiquity’s god of darkness—was now the anticipated nightly endeavour of Goodsir teaching him the Greek alphabet.

Hunched together over opened book, paper, and ink as black as the underworld (that froze stiff within the pen’s nib if left to linger), Goodsir whispered instruction, ever patient with guiding Henry’s pen in the candlelight.

All the while, Henry could not help but think how soft Goodsir’s fingertips felt whenever they brushed his knuckles, how simple it would be to turn his palm and take that warm, delicate hand in his own; and all the while, Goodsir’s proximity, his scent, that damnable smile of his, left Henry near incapable of concentration at all.