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His dark trench coat sheds the rain almost as efficiently as his expression discourages conversation. Today Marta has him backed against the railing, and he’s standing there with the solemn attention of a man receiving instructions from his board.

I catch Hattie lightly by the arm. “Hold on. I think Marta has found a flaw in his management style.”

Hattie follows my gaze and bites back a laugh. “Should we help him, or would that ruin the lesson?”

“We should stay out of it. He looks like he’s learning something valuable.”

We move closer. Marta’s wet feathers have puffed along her arms, and she smells strongly of fish and harbor water. Sigurd notices me almost immediately, but Marta keeps his attention by tapping the front of his coat again.

“I don’t care how much money you have,” she says. “If she misses every holiday because you’ve buried her at the bottom of the ocean, I’ll find a pressure suit and come down there myself. You do not want me arriving angry.”

Sigurd inclines his head with complete seriousness. “That sounds unnecessarily dangerous, Mrs. Ferreira. I’ll make sure Valerie visits often enough to prevent it.”

“I’m not finished. If she stops writing, or I hear from anyone else that she’s miserable, I’ll bring a gutting knife with me.”

“I’d prefer to avoid that outcome, so I’ll take the warning seriously.”

Hattie makes a strangled noise beside me, and Marta finally turns around.

Her expression changes the moment she sees me. She crosses the remaining distance and pulls me into a tight hug. I wrap both arms around her and laugh against her wet feathers.

A few months ago, I stood in this harbor terrified that Marta would lose the stall she’d spent years building. Now its shutters are open behind her. Two customers wait beneath the awning as though their fishmonger threatening a billionaire is nothing unusual.

Marta pulls back and grips my shoulders. “Keep your coat zipped on that deck. The wind coming off the water is brutal.”

“I will. I promise you don’t need to threaten me with the knife too. And I’ll write as soon as we’re settled.”

She gives my arms one last squeeze, then wipes quickly beneath one eye and pretends it was rain. After pulling Hattie into a shorter hug, she orders both of us to stop standing around getting soaked and marches back toward the market.

Hattie watches her go. “I think that went surprisingly well. Nobody was stabbed.”

“Sigurd still has both eyes too, so I’d call it an excellent result.”

Sigurd reaches us a moment later and takes one of my cold hands between both of his. “You should have worn gloves. Packing them doesn’t provide much protection when they’re somewhere inside the yacht.”

“You survived Marta threatening you with a gutting knife, but my cold hands are apparently the crisis that concerns you.”

“I’m choosing my battles more carefully now. Your hands seem considerably safer to address.”

Hattie hugs me one more time at the foot of the gangway. This one is quick because neither of us trusts what will happen if we make it ceremonial. Then she lets me go without a word. Neither of us really wants to say goodbye.

I follow Sigurd onto the gangway. His hand stays wrapped around mine on the climb to the main deck.

The crew starts clearing the loading area once we’re aboard. Mooring lines come free from the pier, and the gangway retracts with a metallic groan. A low vibration travels through the deck as the engines wake beneath us.

I move to the railing, where Hattie is still standing on the breakwater with both hands shoved into her pockets. Marta has come back out from beneath the market awning and stands farther behind her, one feathered arm raised above her head.

I wave until the distance makes the gesture useless.

The yacht turns toward the mouth of the harbor. Saltweather softens behind a curtain of rain. The market lights linger after the clustered roofs have begun to disappear.

Sigurd comes to stand beside me and slips an arm around my waist. I lean against his side and keep watching for as long as I can.

Sigurd presses his mouth briefly to my temple. “Are you ready for whatever comes after this?”

I wait until the harbor is little more than a gray shape behind us, then turn toward the open water and lace my fingers through his. “I am. What about you, Mr. Eiriksson? Are you ready?”

A faint smile pulls at his mouth. “Not nearly as much as I should be. I certainly wasn’t ready for you. But if nothing else, I’ve learned my lesson.”