The Pearl in the Ice
PRAISE FOR CATHRYN CONSTABLE
‘A thrilling and atmospheric adventure, laced with magic.’
THE BOOKSELLER
‘. . . [a] richness of setting and old-fashioned sense of adventure.’
THE SUNDAY TIMES
‘The Wolf Princess, set in Russia, is a highlight of this year’s fiction.’
THE TIMES
‘Constable’s passion for Russia comes across vividly; she knows you have only to give reality a slight push to make it marvellous. A classic winter’s tale.’
FINANCIAL TIMES
‘. . . an engrossing, deeply atmospheric story.’
THE DAILY TELEGRAPH
‘There is something of Eva Ibbotson’s magical storytelling about The Wolf Princess by Cathryn Constable.’
THE SUNDAY TELEGRAPH
‘This story is exciting, heart-warming and totally satisfying. Curl up with Cathryn, jump on that unexpected train and steam through the snow – wolves and a magical palace await you.’
LOVEREADING4KIDS
‘The Wolf Princess is an enchanting and magical story, in the style of classic children’s book authors such as Eva Ibbotson.’
BOOKTRUST
A MESSAGE FROM CHICKEN HOUSE
Have you ever dreamt about the wind carrying you away, far out to sea, the wild waves sweeping you further and further into the cold north? Cathryn Constable’s brilliant new story will do just that. In these pages, you’ll discover a mystery both above and below the ocean’s surface, a tale of shipwrecks, sea creatures and tangled trust. Here, a girl seeks the truth about her family and the dreadful threats to those she loves. It’s a thriller, an adventure and a romance of wild imagination. Sail away – find yourself!
BARRY CUNNINGHAM
Publisher
Chicken House
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Acknowledgements
Copyright
C, M, R, S
Also by Cathryn Constable
The Wolf Princess
The White Tower
for whatever we lose (like a you or a me) it’s always ourselves that we find in the sea
E. E. CUMMINGS,
‘MAGGIE AND MILLY AND MOLLY AND MAY’
But a mermaid has no tears, therefore she suffers so much more.
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN,
‘THE LITTLE MERMAID’
The great depths of the ocean are entirely unknown to us. What passes in those remote depths – what beings live, or can live, twelve or fifteen miles beneath the surface of the waters – what is the organization of these animals, we can scarcely conjecture.
JULES VERNE,
TWENTY THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA
1
Torn nail, gashed shin, ragged breath.
Marina Denham, twelve years old and slight for her age, hung from the branch of a London plane tree in the garden of her father’s house in Hampstead.
She looked up at the blue sky through the lace of green leaves; one of the new airships of the king’s fleet floated slowly above her, serene and silent as a cloud. What would it be like, she thought, to be the pilot of that cloudship, sedately patrolling the skies over the rooftops of London?
When I am grown, she thought, and no one can tell me what to do, I will keep the sky safe for the king! I will be so brave that if an enemy bullet tore a hole in the skin of the ship, I’d climb out and fix it myself.
The dry, stale air of a London summer rustled through the tree. Who was she fooling? She knew she wasn’t one for floating in those large, slow airships. ‘Perhaps I’ll go to sea instead . . .’ She called up an image of herself as a battleship commander being saluted by her men, as a shrill bosun’s whistle was caught by the brisk sea air . . . She liked the idea of being on a boat. All Denhams were good on boats, apparently. Although she had never been on one; had never seen the sea. Couldn’t even swim.
‘Got stuck, Denham?’ jeered the boy in the tree next door, a copper beech. ‘Why not give in?’
Her thoughts were quickly capsized.
Marina pushed her leg over the branch and then levered her body upwards, hidden once more amongst the leaves. Hand out, feel for the broken stump, swing to a sitting position and then slowly stand up to edge along the branch towards the trunk. This part, near the top of the tree, was always tricky. The danger was that you could be too confident and miss your footing. Or too desperate for victory and slip at the last moment.
The boy’s blond head emerged from the leaves. Now she would surprise him!
‘What took you so long?’ she asked.
‘But – when?’ His dirt-streaked face scrunched up in puzzlement. ‘How did you . . . ?’ He looked down. ‘Impossible.’ He shook his head and blew his hair out of his eyes. ‘I swear, you would have been burned as a witch in—’
‘Days of old,’ she interrupted. ‘Sadly for you, there was no witchcraft involved. Just skill. You were beaten fair and square, Edward Mount. No spells required.’
‘Even so –’ Edward lowered himself to sit on the branch as if he were riding a pony – ‘I don’t understand how you beat me every single time.’
‘That’s because the female is the superior gender of the species.’
‘Hah! You wish!’
They sat in friendly silence for a while, staring at the backs of their houses through a veil of shivering late-summer leaves. One of the bedroom windows of Edward’s house had the curtains firmly drawn, even though it was hours until dusk. Edward’s mother was meant to have a baby any day now. The shutters on the library window of Marina’s house were shut, too. But they had been shut for months, ever since her father had accepted the command of the HMS Neptune and had locked himself away to prepare for the journey. Today he was leaving for the coast. In an hour. Perhaps less. And even though he had spent most of the last seven years at sea, so she should have got used to being alone, Marina felt the tug of a sad, lonely sort of sickness.
‘Are you packed?’ Edward said.
‘Don’t let’s talk about it.’ She pulled a leaf from the