Behind those scents, I catch a whiff of mold and decay. Luca and Ophelia have tried their best, but the Nautilus still smells like a mixture between a rotted-out fishing wharf and somebody’s great-aunt’s house. It’s going to do a number on Robbie Barr’s allergies.

Top seems to think the foyer smells marvelous. He sniffs the air like he’s balancing a ball on his nose. Nelinha studies the walls without touching them, her eyes tracing the path of the air ducts. Ester stands in the middle of the coat of arms and turns in a full circle. Then she turns in reverse, as if unwinding herself.

“This ship is angry,” she decides. “It feels angry to you, doesn’t it?”

I’m not sure how to answer. My senses are overloaded. I do feel a heaviness in the air, like just before a thunderstorm. I may have bought a temporary truce with the Nautilus, but I suspect it is watching me, waiting for my next move. We are not friends yet. Not by a long shot.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Scary. Overwhelming.”

“And angry,” Ester insists. “Please be careful, Ana.”

Ophelia is the last one down the stairs. The hatch rises shut behind her.

“So far, so good.” She gives me an encouraging smile, but she looks tense. Every muscle in her body seems coiled for action. I imagine if a firecracker went off behind her, she’d jump so high we’d have to pry her off the ceiling. “Let’s find my husband.”

That, at least, shouldn’t be hard.

From the aft region of the ship, I hear the distant echo of someone whistling, punctuated by the whir of a power drill.

“Luca!” Ophelia’s shout almost makes me jump to the ceiling.

His voice reverberates back as if from the bottom of a well. “Yes, mio cuore! Engine room! It is quite safe!”

Ophelia raises an eyebrow at us. “So he says. I hope he’s right this time.”

Nelinha frowns. “I thought you said there hadn’t been any more, what did you call them, mishaps.”

“No serious ones, no,” Ophelia says. “But the Nautilus can be…grumpy. This way.”

Oh, hooray. Deeper into a grumpy submarine.

Ophelia leads us aft, down a central corridor.

Paintings in gilded frames hang along the walls. At least I assume they used to be paintings. Now they are canvases of black mold. The tile floor is marked with smudge lines where it looks like someone pulled up a rotten carpet. Along the ceiling, bronze oval light fixtures flicker a dim Halloween orange.

As we pass open doorways, it’s difficult not to stop and gawk.

To port: A formal dining room with a mahogany table and eight matching high-backed chairs. China and silverware gleam in the sideboard cabinet. Under the table lies a tattered and moldy oriental rug.