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thought. Elsa disagreed. She would see to it that Mason was dealt with from afar, accomplishing both their purposes.
    But first, she would tell a tale that would thrill her Victorian audiences at home, longing for adventure from their armchairs by cozy fires, and indignant that such an animal might endanger their beloved Heroine of the Horn. Her editor, Alexander Martin, would be thrilled.

    She was just finishing her tale, written in her personal style—as if to family instead of the thousands of
Times
readers—when Peder came in, pulling off his cap. His hair was longer and had a delightful wave to it that Elsa found wonderful. Many mornings as he slept, she would pull a curl from his temple until it was straight and then smile as it coiled back into place. His cheeks were ruddy from the wind, his skin tanned a golden brown. All in all, she thought herself very fortunate, for her husband was not only attractive but affectionate as well. After six years of marriage, they were more in love than ever.
    Elsa started chattering about her afternoon, the weather, Cook’s plans for supper, anything as she quickly shoved her just-dry sheets of paper under a nautical map book. Peder took off his coat and hung it beside his hat on the rack by the door and turned to his wife, watching her carefully. “And when I heard Cook planned to serve us salt beef again, I felt I simply had to put my foot down,” she continued, a bit unnerved beneath his stare. “After all, we’re but a week from Japan, and it’s high time we had some decent food. What is he waiting for? Oh, I cannot wait for a crisp piece of celery, a nice beefsteak, or some wonderful, juicy fruits, just picked!”
    Peder sat down on the settee and continued staring at her, a small grin on his face. “What is it, Elsa?”
    “What?”
    “What is eating at you?”
    “I don’t know of what you speak.”
    “You do. You always get chatty when you don’t want to dwell on something … or talk about something.” At that thought, his eyes narrowed a bit. “Tell me.”
    Elsa squirmed, irritated at how well he knew her. Desperately, she cast about for something to say. She rose and walked to the window, her hand trailing on the desk to buy her time, as if she were contemplating what to say. “I have been thinking.”
    “That is obvious. Of what, love?”
    Outside the window, Cook turned the corner with Kristian in hand. Elsa smiled. “I would so dearly like another child.” It was true; another child had been on her mind for months. There would be time enough to tell Peder of her article for the
Times
, she rationalized.
    Peder chuckled lowly and rose to embrace her from behind. “It has not been for lack of trying,” he said in her ear, and Elsa felt herself blush. “But I will see what I can do.”
    Elsa turned in his arms to kiss him soundly before Cook tapped on the door. “I do love you, Peder Ramstad,” she said, hoping her eyes conveyed all the passion she felt for this man.
    “And I you,” he said softly, bending to give her another quick kiss as the knock sounded at the door.
    From the other side they could hear Kristian yelling, “Mama! Papa! Are you in there?” They laughed together as Peder opened the door and their child ran in for a hug as if they had been away for weeks.
    An hour later, the Ramstads sat down at their dinner table with Riley. Cook entered, glanced meaningfully at Elsa, then nodded at Peder. “Stewed chicken,” he announced curtly.
    “That smells delightful, Cook,” Elsa enthused, stowing a small smile as he haughtily exited the room for the remaining side dishes.
    “I’ll say,” Riley agreed, in his thick Cockney accent. “Had me fill of salt beef ’bout a week ago. It will be all right to be ashore this time.”
    “I’d like to make better time lightering the case oil than last time,” Peder said, referring to discharging their load of kerosene.
    “Good luck, Cap’n. Japan is notorious for their slowness.”
    “I