Privacy is a luxury not afforded on a ship, and I was uncertain whether I was already the subject of rumour or not. Cabin doors opening in the middle of the night, the tread of a woman’s feet, in stockings, crossing the saloon. The soft click of a latch. The men were taciturn, pulling rhythmically at the oars, grimacing with the effort, and in their grimace there seemed to be an edge of amusement, directed at me. I tried to ignore them, as a gentleman should do, trying instead to concentrate on the glorious forms of ice we were passing. It certainly was a beautiful morning. The ice glowed bright blue and was carved smooth by the sea, dripping in the crisp light, each drip catching a single jewel from the sun. The air was brittle and cold, as if it too might have an element of ice in it, and like a lens that was sharply cut, it brought everything into vivid focus and intensity. I should have been captivated, but all I could think about was her. The night she had spent with me. Then her disappearance.
