“I hope so. I’m not much use to anyone with my head in a bucket. Maybe tomorrow Gareth will let us go on deck for a while.” She glances across at Svala, who is crouched in her corner, an awkward bundle of unease. “I’m sure she’d be happier up in the open air,” she adds in an undertone. “She hates being confined, and she hates being close to people.”

And she is afraid, I think, but do not say it. For the three of us, Freyja’s only survivors, this is that ill-fated voyage all over again. The creaking of the timbers, the endless rolling motion, the tang of sea air, the sound of rushing water, everything takes us back to our dark place. If Svala is frightened, it is with good cause.

Paul, I will be brave. I will be as brave as you were, my brother.

The third day. Tempers fray; we are all on edge. It is overcast. The sun stone is useless. The wind is a mere breath.

Sigurd catches a fish. Svala receives it with wary hands. She takes her prize to a dark corner of the hold, where she squats down and guards it. Eating, she turns her back to us. Her feast is soon gone.

Late in the day, Gareth calls me up on deck. Cloud blankets the sky from north to south, from east to west; if it does not lift, there will be another night at anchor. On every side the sea stretches to the horizon, an endless expanse of heaving gray water. No island; no reef; not the smallest skerry. The sky is empty of birds. We are alone.

I lean beside Gareth at the rail.

“We’re near the place, aren’t we?” I ask him. “The spot where Freyja was taken?”

“As close as we’ll get with little more than guesswork to go by.” Gareth sounds somewhat dour. “What do your instincts tell you, Felix? Does it seem right? Can you remember any signs, anything at all we might use to help us find a way?”

I wish I could help him. “My instincts would be a poor guide. As I said, I was down in the hold for the best part of Freyja’s voyage. What will you do?”

“This breeze feels like a southeasterly to me, and it’s gradually rising. But I won’t go on until I can be more sure of the direction. Pray for clear skies.”

By night, in the hold, I overhear Knut telling Sigurd that I am the ill luck man, and that this wild and crazy voyage has been born entirely of my madness. My goal is to get everyone killed, he says. My ambition is to exact vengeance for my brother’s death and my own inadequacies. Sigurd listens without comment, then changes the subject to fishing.