Chapter 11 #2
“And the geological significance of these formations cannot be overstated,” Tinsley says with her hand firmly gripped around Wes’s forearm. “Captain, did you know that the geothermal activity here is directly related to the Mid-Atlantic Ridge?”
Wes looks as if he’s trying to be polite while also plotting his escape. “I did know that, yes.”
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Tinsley continues. “The way the tectonic plates are literally pulling apart right beneath our feet.”
Marina stands slightly apart, her arms crossed, and I catch the flicker of annoyance that crosses her face before she schools it back to neutral.
“Marina,” I call out, and she turns with visible relief. “Come look at this steam vent with me. I think I saw a troll.” Iceland has an entire folklore tradition built around trolls, and the locals will tell you with a straight face that they’re very much still out there.
“You did not see a troll,” Bess calls from somewhere behind me.
“Nettie says she saw one.”
“Nettie also said she saw Elvis in the gift shop in Copenhagen!”
“I DID!” Nettie insists at top volume.
Marina escapes Tinsley’s geological lecture and joins me near a smaller steam vent that’s putting out impressive amounts of white vapor.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
“Is Tinsley being territorial?” It took everything in me not to call her a troll.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Only to anyone with functioning eyeballs.” I glance back at where Tinsley is still monopolizing Wes’s attention. “She’s not exactly subtle.”
“I don’t want to cause problems.”
“You’re not causing anything. Tinsley is creating her own problems.”
I watch as Wes finally extricates himself from Tinsley’s grip and makes his way over to us, looking equal parts apologetic and relieved.
“Sorry about that,” he says when he reaches Marina. “Tinsley’s very enthusiastic about geology.”
“Among other things,” Marina says dryly.
Wes grins. “Want to see the overlook? Apparently, there’s a great view of the whole geothermal field from up there.”
She nods. “I’d love that.”
They take off together, and I watch Tinsley’s face go through several interesting expressions before she spots another passenger who needs her organizational expertise and stalks off.
“Drama, drama, drama,” Elodie sings, appearing beside me with excellent timing. “I love it.”
“You’re terrible.”
“I’m observant. There’s a difference.”
Bess and Nettie reconvene near the main viewing platform, both looking windblown and thoroughly pleased with themselves.
“This place is wild,” Nettie announces. “I stuck my hand over one of those steam vents and nearly got third-degree burns.”
“Why would you do that?” Bess demands.
“Scientific curiosity.”
“You don’t have a scientific bone in your body.”
“How do you know? Have you X-rayed me?”
“I live with you. I don’t need an X-ray, I need a support group.”
Ransom returns, and we all stand together for a moment, taking in the absolute chaos of the volcanic landscape. Steam rises from dozens of vents, mud pots burble and pop, and the whole place looks as though the earth decided to have a tantrum and never quite calmed down.
“It’s beautiful,” I say again, because it bears repeating.
“It smells like Satan’s bathroom,” Nettie counters.
“That too.”
We start making our way back toward the bus, and I notice Nicolette standing alone near the gift shop, her phone pressed to her ear. Even from here, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the tight set of her jaw. She’s listening to someone, and whatever they’re saying, she’s not happy about it.
She spots me watching and quickly ends the call, pasting on a smile that seems forced.
“Isn’t this place incredible?” she calls out, overly bright.
“Incredible,” I agree, filing away her reaction for later examination.
The bus ride back is quieter than the ride out.
Everyone is exhausted, overwhelmed by sulfur fumes and volcanic drama, and the landscape rolling past the windows is starting to blur together in my mind—mountains, lava fields, more mountains, distant glaciers.
Iceland is a chef’s kiss in its artistic glory.
I lean against Ransom’s shoulder, and he wraps an arm around me, pulling me close.
“Do you think they’ll reinstate you?” I murmur.
“Hard to say. I get the feeling Quinn sort of wants me gone, but she also wants the case solved. Those two things don’t exactly coexist.”
“And if they don’t reinstate you?”
“Then I find something else. I spent twenty years doing a job I was good at. I can learn to do something else.”
“Just not pottery.”
“Especially not pottery.” He thinks about it for a moment. “Unless we do it together. I like doing things with you.”
I nod with a smile quickly taking over. “And I know exactly what we’re good at doing together.”
A wicked gleam glints in his eyes. He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “As long as you’re in the picture, the rest is details.”
“Even if the details involve smelling like sulfur for the next three days?”
“Even then.”
The bus pulls back into Akureyri’s port area just as the sun starts to break through the gray clouds, sending shafts of golden light across the fjord. The Emerald Queen sits at dock, impossibly huge and white against the colorful town, and I feel that familiar tug of home.
We file off the bus smelling like rotten eggs and volcanic minerals, our hair windblown and our cheeks pink from the cold, and everyone looks thoroughly satisfied with the day’s adventure.
“Same time tomorrow?” Nettie asks as we head toward the gangway.
“Tomorrow’s a sea day,” Bess reminds her.
“Even better,” Nettie says with a sigh. “I plan to spend the entire day horizontal with a lava cake.”
I glance back at the town one more time—the charming painted houses, the white church on the hill, the mountains rising up like skyscrapers—and I feel something settle in my chest. This is what life looks like when you let go of what you thought it should be and embrace what it actually is: chaotic, unpredictable, smelling vaguely of sulfur, and absolutely perfect.
Tomorrow is a sea day, which means twenty-four uninterrupted hours of nowhere to run.
Gideon Vale didn’t get a tomorrow.
And I’ll make sure his killer doesn’t get to keep theirs.