Page 28 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

Some women collect stamps. We collect suspects.

The excursion board near the gangway spells out our destination in cheerful letters: Cinnamon Rolls & Cobblestone Strolls: An indulgent walk through Haga’s most beloved cafés.

The Velvet Viking Book Club clusters nearby in a loose semicircle, still dressed in their jewel-toned travel wear (mostly velvet), each of them nursing a croissant and dissecting the deceased in the hushed tones most people reserve for celebrity divorces. They’re managing Astrid’s absence rather than mourning it.

My investigative instincts sit up and take notes.

Nettie bounces on her toes. “I’ve carb-loaded and I’m emotionally available for whatever Sweden wants to throw at me.”

“That’s concerning on multiple levels,” Bess muses. “Most of them cardiac.”

“Sweden has no idea what’s about to hit it,” I say, and I mean that as an apology. To Sweden.

A woman in purple velvet, one I recognize from the Valhalla Lounge party, insists loudly, “Astrid would’ve wanted us to carry on.”

Would she, though? From everything I’ve heard, Astrid didn’t want anyone carrying on so much as a conversation without her direct supervision. The woman probably left instructions on how to grieve her properly. Alphabetized and subject to review.

Marina stands slightly apart from the group, electronic notebook in hand, scanning the dock with her professional posture firmly in place. Except she’s not supervising logistics. She’s looking for someone.

“He’s still with the Swedish authorities,” I say, sidling up next to her.

Her face turns the same color as her crimson locks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve scanned that dock four times. Either you’re looking for a certain captain or you’re casing the harbor.”

“I’m doing a head count.” She bites back a smile.

“Mm-hmm. Fifty-two women and zero captains. Now those are some seriously tragic numbers all around.”

Her mouth opens with a silent laugh. “I could push you into the harbor, you know.”

“You could, but then who would cover for you the next time a man in uniform makes you drop your iPad?”

She shoots me a look, but underneath it her mouth softens into something almost sad, and it makes me think Copenhagen wasn’t just about losing a job and an apartment. Whatever she left behind on that dock had a heartbeat.

And whatever it is, she won’t be carrying it alone. Not on my watch.

I’m about to prod further when the tour guide, a bubbly blonde woman in her twenties holding a sign with a cinnamon bun on it, calls for everyone’s attention.

“Welcome to Gothenburg,” she chirps. “We’ll be walking through Haga, stopping at three traditional cafés. Please stay together and watch your step on the cobblestones!”

I appreciate a woman who leads with pastries and follows up with safety. She’s got her priorities in the correct order. Sugar first, survival second. It’s how I run my own life, and I’m still standing.

We set off in a chattering herd, winding through streets that look like they escaped from a fairy tale. The Haga district unfolds around us in uneven cobblestones, wooden houses painted mustard yellow and brick red, and flower boxes spilling color from every window. Café chalkboards advertise “Hagabullen” in swooping script with a picture of a cinnamon roll next to it, and the smell of cinnamon, cardamom, and fresh coffee drifts down the street like an invitation you can inhale.

Someone behind me announces that if heaven doesn’t smell exactly like this, she plans on speaking to management.

Laughter ripples through the group, but it comes out strained around the edges, and honestly, who could blame them? Two nights ago these women watched their founder collapse under four feet of frozen Norseman, and this morning they’re expected to smile through a pastry crawl.

Grief doesn’t take shore days off. It boards right along with you and stands a little too close in the elevator. If clutching cinnamon buns and quoting fictional warriors is how they hold themselves together, then I hope the buns keep coming.

We file into the first café, and I’m immediately confronted by cinnamon buns the size of dinner plates, lacquered with glaze and heavy enough to double as blunt instruments.

Given the circumstances of the last year of my life, I notice these things now.

I plan on eating one anyway. Respectfully.

A tall woman I don’t recognize claps her hands for attention. She’s wearing a silver Viking brooch the size of a baseball, so I privately dub her Madam Brooch and vow to learn her real name before this cruise is over.