Page 1 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

CHAPTER 1

Baltic Capitals (8 Days)

Day 1: Departure from Copenhagen, Denmark

Day 2: At Sea

Day 3: Gothenburg, Sweden (canals, fish market, archipelago)

Day 4: At Sea / Baltic Cruising

Day 5: Stockholm, Sweden (Gamla Stan, Royal Palace, archipelago)

Day 6: At Sea

Day 7: Helsinki, Finland (Fortress, Market Square, sauna culture)

Day 8: Tallinn, Estonia (Disembarkation)

Day 1: Departure from Copenhagen, Denmark

Embarkation day is my favorite brand of chaos—fresh flowers, free-flowing champagne, and an entire boatload of strangers who have no idea what they’re in for.

The Emerald Queen’s atrium glitters with champagne-colored marble, towering floral arrangements, and approximately six thousand excited passengers who’ve forgotten the concept of volume control.

I can’t blame them. This ship does things to people, and most of those things involve shrieking near the elevators. The rest involve the buffet, and honestly, same.

Marina Maxwell stands next to me near the gangway, effortlessly elegant in the standard women’s crew uniform of a fitted white blouse and a navy pencil skirt. Her crimson hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she’s gripping a tablet like it might save her from drowning. And it just might have to, considering she’ll be working side by side with our resident grumpy cruise director, Tinsley, from here on out.

“So this is what you do with each new cruise?” Marina asks, watching a rowdy group of men and women spill through the entrance, laughing like they’ve already discovered the drink package.

“Every single cruise,” I say with a shrug.

Marina nods. “I’m questioning my decisions.”

“You’ve been here ten minutes.”

“I work fast.”

We share a quick laugh as she joins me in waving to the passengers.

I already like her. Anyone who can arrive at regret that efficiently is my people. It took me a full week to regret my first marriage, and look how that turned out.

Bess strolls up on Marina’s other side, elegant as ever in her signature cranberry pantsuit, her red hair swept into its usual tidy bob. Bess Chatterley is one of my on-ship besties. Bess-tie, if you will. She’s typically glued at the hip to my other on-ship bestie, Nettie Butterworth. Both women are octogenarians, although that’s pretty much where the similarities end. Bess is Vermont-prim with a wicked streak she’ll deny under oath, and Nettie is the wicked streak.

“Don’t listen to a word this one says,” Bess tells Marina, patting her arm. “The job is wonderful.”

“I said it was chaos,” I point out.

“Wonderful chaos,” Bess amends. “Trixie tends to exaggerate. It’s part of her charm.”

“It’s my entire charm,” I say, and I tip my head her way because she’s not wrong.

Nettie swoops in from absolutely nowhere, her wild gray curls defying gravity and good sense. She’s wearing a purple muumuu that could double as a parachute and enough silver jewelry to trigger every metal detector between here and Helsinki.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Marina,” Nettie announces. “What you need is a proper orientation, and I’m just the woman to give it to you.” She hooks her arm through Marina’s and claims her the way she claims the last slice of lava cake at the buffet. Which is to say, with speed, commitment, and zero remorse.

“Oh no you don’t.” Bess takes Marina’s other arm, gentle but immovable. “Her version of orientation involves rating bartenders by chest hair density.”