Shards and spears of ice reflect the lantern light through the foot-long holes in the hull, but in the centre is something much more disturbing—blackness. Nothing. A hole in the ice. A tunnel. Honey bends a piece of the splintered oak farther in so Crozier can shine his lantern on it. “Holy fucking Jesus Christ fucking shit almighty,” gasps the carpenter. This time he does not ask his captain’s pardon.
