“You’re welcome,” Eva said. She walked us to the door. “I look forward to seeing you later, Ms. Blacklock.”

“Later?”

“At eleven a.m. It is the ladies’ spa experience—in your press schedule?”

“Thanks,” I said. “See you then.” And as I turned to leave I thought, guiltily, of the unread pages of the press pack back in my cabin, and wondered what else I might have missed.

We left the spa via the exit to the deck, and as the door swung back, it was wrenched out of my hand by the strong breeze, banging sharply against a rubber stand put there for the purpose. Nilsson closed it behind me, and I moved to the ship’s rail, shivering in the wind.

“Are you cold?” Nilsson shouted, above the roar of the wind and the noise of the engines. I shook my head.

“No, I mean, yes, I am, but I need the fresh air.”

“Are you still feeling unwell?”

“Not out here. But my head’s aching.”

I stood, holding on to the cold painted iron of the railing, and leaned out, looking down, past the glass-walled balconies of the cabins aft, down at the creaming waves at the ship’s wake, and the great dark expanse farther out, unimaginably deep and cold. I thought of the fathoms and fathoms of swirling blackness beneath us, of the darkness and silence below, and how something—someone—might fall for days through those black depths, to rest at last on a lightless seabed.

I thought of the girl the night before, how easy it would be for someone—Nilsson, Eva, anyone—to just walk up behind me, give me a gentle push . . .

I shuddered.

What had happened? I couldn’t have imagined it. The scream, and the splash maybe. But not the blood. I couldn’t have imagined that.

I took a huge lungful of the clean North Sea air, turned around, and smiled determinedly at Nilsson, shaking my hair back, where the wind had whipped it across my face.

“So whereabouts are we?”

“International waters,” Nilsson said. “On our way to Trondheim, I believe.”

“Trondheim?” I tried to think back to the bits of the press pack I’d actually read. “I thought we were going to Bergen first.”

“A change of plan, perhaps. I know that Lord Bullmer is very much hoping that you will all get a glimpse of the northern lights. Perhaps there are particularly good conditions tonight so he wanted to hasten north. Or it might have been a suggestion of the captain; there may be climatic reasons why it’s better to do the trip that way round. We have no fixed itinerary. We are very much able to cater to the whims of our passengers. It may be that someone at dinner last night was particularly anxious to see Trondheim.”

“What’s in Trondheim?”

“Trondheim itself? Well, there is a famous cathedral. And parts of the city are very attractive. But it’s mainly the fjords. That and the fact that the city is of course much farther north than Bergen, so there’s a better chance of seeing the aurora. But it might be that we have to go farther north still, to Bodø or even Tromsø. At this time of year, it’s still uncertain.”

“I see.” For some reason his words unsettled me. It was one thing to feel yourself part of an organized, itinerized trip. It was quite another to realize you were a helpless passenger with someone else at the wheel.

“Miss Blacklock—”

“Call me Lo,” I interrupted. “Please.”

“Lo, then.” Nilsson’s broad, comfortable face looked pained, something troubled in his teddy-bear expression. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t believe you, Lo, but in the cold light of day—”

“Am I still sure?” I finished. He nodded. I sighed, a little unhappily, thinking back to my doubts of the night before and the way Nilsson’s unspoken question echoed the unpleasant little nagging voice at the back of my skull. I twisted my fingers in the cloth of my top before I spoke. “The truth is, I don’t know. It was late, and you’re right, I had been drinking—I could have been mistaken about the scream and the splash. Even the blood—I guess it could have been a trick of the light, although I’m pretty sure of what I saw. But the woman in the cabin—there’s no way I could have imagined her. I just couldn’t. I saw her, I spoke to her. If she’s not here—not on the ship, I mean—then where is she?”

There was a long silence.

“Well, we haven’t spoken to Ulla,” he said at last. “From your description, I’m not sure it’s her, but we should rule it out at least.” He drew out his staff radio and began tapping at the buttons. “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a coffee, so perhaps we could ask her to meet us in the passenger dining room.”

The breakfast room was the same room we had eaten dinner in last night, but the two large tables had been broken up into half a dozen smaller ones, and when Nilsson pushed open the door, no one was there apart from a young waiter with corn-colored hair swept into a side parting. He came forward to greet me with a smile.

“Miss Blacklock? Are you ready for breakfast?”

“Yes, please,” I said vaguely, looking around the room. “Where should I sit?”

“Anywhere you like.” He waved a hand at the empty tables. “Most of the other guests have chosen to breakfast in their cabins. Perhaps by the window? Can I bring you tea, coffee?”

“Coffee, please,” I said. “Milk, no sugar.”

“And a cup for me, please, Bjorn,” Nilsson said. And then, over Bjorn’s shoulder, “Ah, hello, Ulla.”

I turned to see a stunningly beautiful girl with a heavy black bun walking across the dining room to our table.

“Hello, Johann,” she said. Her singsong accent clinched the matter, but I was sure, even before she spoke, that she wasn’t the girl in the cabin. She was singularly beautiful, her skin against her black hair as white and clear as porcelain. The girl in the cabin had been vividly good-looking, but not that delicate, classical loveliness, like a Renaissance painting. Also Ulla must have been nearly six feet. The girl in the cabin had been around my height, nowhere near Ulla’s. Nilsson gave me a questioning look, but I shook my head.

Bjorn returned with two cups on a tray and a menu for me, and Nilsson cleared his throat.

“Won’t you have a cup with us, Ulla?”

“Thank you,” she said, shaking her head so that her heavy bun swayed at the nape of her neck. “I’ve had breakfast already today, but I’ll sit for a moment.”

She slipped onto a chair opposite and looked at us both, smiling expectantly. Nilsson coughed again.

“Miss Blacklock, this is Ulla. She’s the stewardess for the forward cabins, so the Bullmers, the Jenssens, Cole Lederer, and Owen White. Ulla, Miss Blacklock is looking for a girl who she saw yesterday and is anxious to trace. She’s not on the passenger list, so we are thinking she may be a member of staff, but we have had no luck in finding her. Miss Blacklock, do you want to describe the girl you saw?”

“She had long dark hair,” I said. “She was about your age—late twenties, maybe—really pretty, and she spoke English like someone born in Britain. She was about my height. Can you think of anyone”—I was aware my voice had started to sound pleading—“anyone who would fit that description?”

“Well, I have dark hair, obviously,” Ulla said with a laugh. “But it was not me, so after that I am not so sure. There is Hanni, she has dark hair, and Birgitta—”

“I’ve met them,” I interrupted. “It’s not them. Anyone else? Cleaners? Sailing crew?”

“N-no . . . there’s no one on the sailing crew who could fit that description,” Ulla said slowly. “On the staff there is also Eva, but she is too old. Have you spoken to the kitchen staff?”

“Never mind.” I was beginning to despair. This was starting to feel like a recurring nightmare, interviewing person after person after person, while all the while the memory of the dark-haired girl began to dissolve and shimmer, slipping through my fingers like water. The more faces I saw, each corresponding slightly but not completely to my memory, the harder I was finding it to hold on to the image in my head.