Page 72 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

Finland runs on its own thermostat, and no one is allowed to touch it.

Behind us, Helsinki glitters in the sun, and I’ll say this for Finland’s capital—she’s been charming me since the gangway.

According to the ship’s daily newsletter, the Seabreeze, which I gobbled up this morning, the Swedes founded the city back in 1550, the Russians helped themselves to it for over a century, and the Finns finally got the keys in 1917 and have been quietly perfecting the place ever since. And I do mean quietly. Finns are famously the least chatty souls in Europe, and yet this country keeps getting crowned the happiest on earth, year after year. I suspect the two facts are related.

A country not big on small talk but big on happiness? I’ll take it.

They also drink more coffee per person than any other nation on the planet and own more saunas than cars. Three million saunas for five and a half million people. Caffeine, silence, and a good hot steam. These people solved life while the rest of us are still looking for the instructions.

Magnus materializes beside me and stares at the approaching fortress with a look of disdain. “This is what passes for fortifications now? Built in the 1700s? This is practically modern. In my day⁠—”

“You mean in Gerald Winklebottom’s day?” I mutter under my breath.

He freezes solid as a statue, rage written all over his face. Even his beard looks offended. “We do not speak that name.”

“Gerald the accountant?” I bite back a smile.

“I will haunt you with renewed vigor,” he growls.

“You’re already haunting me with questionable vigor.” True as gospel.

“I can make it worse.”

He can’t. I’ve seen his best work, and it involves a lot of dramatic hovering and the occasional light breeze. I have a feeling his real talent lies with a calculator.

The ferry docks with a bump that sends Nettie lurching toward the railing. Bess grabs her by the back of the jacket without so much as looking up from her bench. She’s done this before. It’s safe to say she’s about to go pro.

“Try not to lose your breakfast at a Finnish national heritage site,” Bess warns.

“I make no promises.”

“You never do,” Bess sighs. “It’s your only consistent quality.”

We disembark onto the main island, and the fortress swallows us whole in the nicest possible way.

The Swedes started building this place in 1748 to keep the Russians out, which worked beautifully right up until the Russians took it anyway, and now the Finns own the whole gorgeous pile.

About eight hundred of them actually live out here, strolling past cannons the way the rest of us stroll past mailboxes. Grass grows soft over the old earthworks, cobblestone lanes dip and wander between pastel buildings, and the air smells of sea salt, cold stone, and coffee drifting from a café tucked into the ramparts. It’s the most peaceful heavily armed place I’ve ever stood in.

I spot the Velvet Viking Book Club already gathering near an old cannon. They’re wearing their usual array of velvet and leather, which looks both out of place and somehow perfect against the backdrop of historic warfare architecture.

Sienna’s at the front, white-knuckling a laminated itinerary. She’s been the de facto leader since Astrid died, though her face says she’d rather be anywhere else on the planet, up to and including the bottom of the Baltic.

Her auburn hair whips loose in the wind, and she’s clutching her tote bag like it contains the secrets of the universe. Or at least the secrets of how to manage fifty women hoping to bump into a shirtless Viking.

“All right, ladies!” Sienna calls out, her voice barely carrying over the wind. “We’re doing our Shieldmaiden Strength photo shoot at various locations around the fortress! Please stay with the group and don’t wander into restricted areas!”

Restricted areas. On a fortress. During a murder investigation. I give it an hour.

“That feels like a challenge,” Nettie whispers.

“It’s not a challenge,” Bess says firmly.

“Everything’s a challenge if you’re brave enough.”

“There’s no such thing as a self-issued challenge,” Bess counters.

“That’s exactly what a coward would say.”