Page 75 of A Gathering Storm

Ward blinked. That was the last thing he’d expected to hear.

“You’ve waited months for a storm like this,” Nicholas went on. The corner of his mouth twitched with a small, rueful smile. “The least I can do is see you through what’s left of it.”

For a moment Ward was silent, then he said, “The worst of it’s already passed, I think. It’s just the rain left.”

Nicholas shook his head. “I think there may be more to come. Possibly not, but it’s worth a trip up there, isn’t it? It won’t take long.”

“Are you sure?” Ward asked, doubtful.

Nicholas shrugged. “I really don’t think I could sleep just now anyway.”

Ward managed a nod. “All right then. If you insist, I’ll be glad of the company.”

Nick’s clothes had mostly dried on him while he sat with his grandfather, but his coat and hat were still sodden, so Mr. Pipp took out some oilskins and a cap for him. Mr. Pipp had a lantern for each of them too, which he handed them in turn as they went out.

“Careful,” he said sternly to Ward, and Ward nodded, though he looked distracted.

Nick caught Mr. Pipp’s eye and said, “I’ll make sure of it.”

The rain was brutal still. It had been driving down for hours now, and the ground was boggy with it, sucking at their booted feet as they walked the short distance to the Hole. The wind howled too, whipping the rain into their faces as they trudged along and ripping at the flames inside their lanterns, which flickered weakly, tiny beacons against the great dark force of the storm and the endless night.

“Watch your feet,” Nick called. “There’s scores of rabbit holes round here.”

When they reached the edge of the Hole a few minutes later, Nick began to seriously doubt the wisdom of what he had suggested. The Hole was bad enough in the daylight. In the dead of night, in the midst of a storm, it was terrifying: a dark chasm full of jagged rocks and wild sea spray, its edges blurry and indistinct. Holding his lantern up, Nick warily eyed the nearest platform and the ladder that led down to it. The platforms had looked reassuringly solid the last time he’d been here, but shrouded in shadow, they seemed fragile and rickety.

Ward didn’t seem concerned though—he was already on his way, stepping onto the upper rungs and climbing nimbly down.

Nick wanted to protest. To shoutNo!and demand they return to the safety of the house, but this had been his own foolish idea, so instead he waited patiently till Ward had safely reached the platform and stepped aside before following him, gripping tightly to the rungs as he descended, half expecting to be blown off by a sudden squall.

He wasn’t much reassured when his feet finally touched the solid platform—somehow the storm conditions felt even more intense here in thezawn. Maybe the wind was spiralling up from the sea. It was certainly whistling all around him, plastering his oilskins against him, near ripping off his cap, and drenching him with seawater spray from the churning ocean beneath them.

Christ, it was dark . . .

“The smell of ozone is stronger down here,” Ward shouted over the wind, his eyes a faint gleam in the darkness. Nick inhaled, but if there was any identifiable scent in the atmosphere, it wasn’t one he could put a name to. He could only detect the indistinct, nameless smell of rain.

Ward knelt and unfastened his knapsack, drawing out something and laying it next to the lantern he’d set down on the wet surface of the platform. The silver match-safe box. Nick stared at it, suddenly dismayed. What had he been thinking, suggesting this?

Just then, a low, threatening rumble of thunder sounded. The first in a while. Ward looked up quickly from his kneeling position. With the lantern next to him, Nick could just about make out his expression—he looked happy and excited.

“You were right,” he shouted. “The storm’s coming back!”

Nick’s stomach churned. He didn’t want to be right anymore. He should have done what Ward suggested and gone to bed, only taking Ward with him—that was what he’d really wanted. He should have crossed the two impossible feet of space that had separated them in Ward’s hallway and just told Ward he loved him, instead of embarking on this absurd quest. That was all this was anyway—Nick trying in his clumsy way to show Ward how he felt.

Another roll of thunder came, this one impossibly long and deep, like the rumbling growl of a slumbering dragon beginning to stir. The very earth seemed to shudder, and Nick couldn’t help but picture the flimsy platform on which they stood shaking loose from the rocks, breaking apart, tumbling down, down, down to the sea.

“It’s close,” he told Ward, sounding calmer than he felt.

The thunder rolled again, closer still—Christ, it was coming in fast!—Nick dropped to his knees beside Ward. “Perhaps we should go back up. This doesn’t feel safe.”

Ward shifted towards him and raised his hand, cupping Nick’s cheek. His fingers were cold and wet, but the touch was still comforting, easing Nick’s sudden panic.

“We’re safe,” he said. “These platforms were carefully built to hold fast and the lightning rods will draw any strikes away from us.”

Nick said nothing, transfixed by Ward’s earnest gaze and the light brush of his fingertips against his cheek.

Then the thunder came again.

This time it was directly overhead, and no longer a rumbling threat, but the threat made terrifyingly good—a sharp crack followed by an immense bellow of godly rage, and on its heels, the first strike of lightning, like a fissure in the heavens. A bright white-blue vein. A celestial strike of pure ’lectricity that lit up Ward’s awed face for an instant.