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Summary
“It’s September the second, sir,” Tom replied.
“The year?” Francis asked, though from the sound of the pancake ice pattering off the hull of Terror, he could well guess.
Tom’s alarm was a little harder to disguise this time, as his steward looked him over. Francis was well aware of how mad he sounded, but needs must.
“Eighteen forty-six,” Tom replied.
“Good,” Francis said. “There’s time.”