The Polar Station – Part 2: The Sun Returns

In late February, a pale line of light appeared on the southern horizon.

It lasted ten minutes. Ingrid and Zoe stood on the porch in thick coats, faces tipped to the sky, breath steaming. The line brightened, flushed pink, then faded. The next day it lasted twenty minutes. The day after, an hour.

On the first morning the sun's rim cleared the mountains, they were both outside, wrapped in blankets, holding mugs.

It rose slowly, enormous and orange, spilling gold over the snow. The ice blazed. The whole fjord lit up like a sheet of burning glass. Zoe made a small sound, and Ingrid, without thinking, took her hand.

"Four months," whispered Zoe.

"Yes."

"I thought I'd hate it."

"So did I."

The light climbed. Their shadows stretched long and blue behind them. A pair of ptarmigan scuttled across the snow. For a minute, neither of them spoke, content in the new warmth.

"Can I ask you something?" said Ingrid.

"Yes."

"When the relief boat comes, in May—"

"I'll stay on the team."

"I was going to ask that."

"May I kiss you?" said Zoe.

"Yes," said Ingrid. "And if you say stop, you must keep the kettle at six."

"I'd keep it at six forever."

Zoe turned and kissed her, cold nose, warm mouth, a mittened hand rising to Ingrid's cheek. Ingrid kissed her back with unhurried tenderness, tasting of tea and winter air. The sun blazed on the ice, and the world went gold behind their closed eyes.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Ingrid.

"Green," said Zoe. "Very green."

The kettle at Ny-Ålesund is now shared. A note on it reads: Six o'clock, both of us.

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