Sibeal has stopped being sick and is taking sips of water. Her eyes are sunken; her jaw is set with fierce determination. I make myself get up and stretch as Gull has taught me. A crewman named Garbh is in charge of rations: hard bread, cheese, strips of wind-dried mutton. I make myself useful fetching supplies for Gull, for Svala, for myself. At Gull’s suggestion, I soak my bread in water before eating. No nourishing soups on this voyage. Gull can provide herbal potions, but cannot brew any freshly until we make landfall and can light a fire. If I get sick, he may not be able to save me this time.

Svala will not eat. I have not seen her swallow so much as a mouthful.

“I don’t think she eats this kind of food, Felix,” Sibeal says. “If we could fish . . . ”

“No way to cook it,” says Gull. “More’s the pity.”

“She eats it raw.”

“Now, why don’t I find that surprising? Catches it with her bare hands, does she?”

Sibeal stares at Gull, taken aback. “Possibly,” she says.

“I expect someone has a hand line. We might try in the morning. Depends on the conditions. And on what Gareth decides to do.”

Neither Knut nor I can be a reliable guide to finding the serpent isle. I spent much of that voyage in the hold, and I know nothing about navigation. As for Knut, his wish to be elsewhere can be read in every part of his body. When Gareth asks for his advice, he answers briefly, giving as little as he can. I understand his fear.

Gareth has several means of path-finding: landmarks such as skerries and islands, the stars by night, and by day a sun stone such as the Norsemen use. Far from land, under cloudy skies, instinct is the only guide. He believes tomorrow will see us close to the spot where the tempest fell on Freyja. The uncertainty of it hangs over all of us. What if we sail northwest from that point for two days, three, and do not find the isle? Do we abandon the plan and turn for home? Sail on to the end of the world?

“Felix.” Sibeal has got up and come over to me, looking so frail the next roll of the boat might fell her. She seems transparent as fine glass. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. You look—” I stop myself from telling the truth: that I want to wrap her up and transport her safely home, right now. “You look as if you’re getting your sea legs,” I say.