The Weather Station – Part 2: The Long Blue Hour

The storm of February lasted six days.

It was the worst in a decade. The wind screamed at a hundred and forty kilometres an hour. Snow buried the hut to the windowsills. The power flickered and failed, then returned on the generator. They took readings by torchlight every three hours, roped together, stumbling across the plateau, hauling each other through the drifts. On the fourth night, Rose fell, and Katla pulled her up by the rope, and neither spoke, and they held each other for a long minute in the howling dark before going on.

On the seventh morning, the sky cleared.

The wind died to a whisper. The snow lay deep and silent, with a skin of blue shadow. The mountains stood white and perfect against a sky that was not quite night and not quite day: a long, luminous, ultramarine glow that lasted for hours, with a few pale stars still showing. The whole world was hushed and cold and blue.

They stood on the step of the hut in thick coats, steaming mugs in hand, looking out.

"It never gets better than this," said Katla.

"It's the best forecast I've ever read."

"It's a very long blue hour."

"I'm in no hurry."

The kettle clicked on in the hut behind them. Warmth drifted from the open door. Snow glittered faintly. Rose's cheeks were pink, her glasses frosted. Katla's plait was rimed with ice.

"I haven't said thank you," said Rose.

"For what?"

"For the rope."

"I would not have let go."

"I know." Rose's voice shook. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"May I kiss you, Katla? In the long blue?"

"Yes," said Katla, softly. "And if you say stop, you must stay for another winter."

"It isn't a punishment."

"No."

Rose kissed her, cold-nosed and warm-mouthed, a mittened hand rising to the iced plait. Katla kissed her back with a deep, steady tenderness, tasting of tea and snow. The blue light poured across the plateau. The mountains stood silent, glowing, watching.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Katla.

"Green," said Rose. "Very green."

She stayed another winter, and another. In the station log, in two handwritings, an entry: Forecast: clear. For two. Indefinitely.

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