“Good morning.” She noticed a half-empty bottle of vodka and a mug on the floor beside the woman’s bed.
A dog calendar (April: Springer Spaniel) was propped up on the chest between the beds.
The three books on top of it were all in English. The one nearest to the woman said Principles of Glacier Mechanics.
Two on Nora’s: A Naturalist’s Guide to the Arctic, and a Penguin Classic edition of The Saga of the Volsungs: The Norse Epic of Sigurd the Dragon Slayer.
She noticed something else. It was cold. Properly cold. The cold that almost burns, that hurts your fingers and toes and stiffens your cheeks.
Even inside. With layers of thermal underwear. With a sweater on. With the bars of two electric heaters glowing orange. Every exhale made a cloud.
“Why are you here, Nora?” the woman asked, in heavily accented English.
A tricky question, when you didn’t know where “here” was. “Bit early in the morning, isn’t it, for philosophy?”
Nora laughed, nervously. She saw a wall of ice outside the porthole, rising out of the sea.
She was either very far north or very far south. She was very far somewhere.
The woman was still staring at her. Nora had no idea if they were friends or not.
The woman seemed tough, direct, earthy, but probably an interesting form of company.
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