Page 85 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

Final Night, Viking Formal

If the real Valhalla is anything like this, I may need to rethink my stance on dying.

The Valhalla Lounge is dripping with opulence tonight. Literally dripping, since someone decided to hang crystal chandeliers shaped like frozen waterfalls from the ceiling, and they’re catching the light from every angle.

The room has been transformed into what I can only describe as a Viking palace crossed with Vegas, all gold accents, deep-purple velvet drapes, and hundreds of flickering candles crowded onto every surface. Battery-operated, every last one, because this ship may host the occasional homicide, but the fire marshal draws a hard line at open flames.

A woman can be poisoned in this lounge, but she will not be singed.

The air smells of dill, expensive perfume, and money. Valhalla, indeed.

The buffet table stretches along one wall, groaning under the weight of Swedish delicacies—smoked salmon arranged in elaborate rosettes, Swedish meatballs swimming in cream sauce, gravlax with mustard-dill sauce, pickled herring that actually smells good for once, and potato pancakes with lingonberry jam.

The dessert station features saffron buns, chocolate balls rolled in pearl sugar, and princess cake.

If you’ve never had princess cake, you’re truly missing out. Yes, it sounds like something served at a three-year-old’s birthday party, and honestly it should be, but underneath that smooth green marzipan dome hides layer upon layer of airy sponge, raspberry jam, and vanilla cream. It’s what a cloud would taste like if a cloud had ambition.

And for anyone not feeling Scandinavian, the standard fare showed up too. Wagyu sliders, deep-fried mac-and-cheese balls, lobster-and-crab-stuffed mushrooms, bacon-wrapped scallops, and coconut shrimp with a sweet chili sauce. I’ve already mapped my route through it all twice. A woman needs a plan.

Champagne flows from an ice sculpture of a Viking longship, and the music pulses through the space, a modern Nordic fusion of drums and electric violins.

I suppose they eschewed the ice sculpture of an actual Viking this time around, given the deadly circumstances. Understandable. Although it is a touch off-putting that we’re celebrating the club’s big farewell bash in the very same lounge where Astrid inadvertently celebrated hers. But to each his own.

The Velvet Viking Book Club has descended upon the lounge in full period costume glory. We’re talking elaborate braided wigs, leather bodices, fur-trimmed cloaks, and enough silver jewelry to fund a small country.

The room is buzzing, women chattering, laughing, posing for photos, celebrating the last night of the cruise with an enthusiasm that only champagne and a healthy pour of denial can buy, seeing as their founder was murdered a week ago.

Grief is a strange animal. Sometimes it wears a braided wig and orders another glowing blue drink.

And then there are the cover models. Three of them, to be exact, all shirtless, oiled up, and textbook gorgeous. They’re posing with book club members for photos, flexing on command, and generally being very good sports about the whole situation. Somewhere out there, three mothers are very proud and slightly confused.

“This is my new favorite place,” Nettie announces beside me, her eyes locked on the nearest cover model with the intensity of a hawk circling a rotisserie chicken. “I’m never leaving.”

Bess doesn’t even blink. “You can’t live in the Valhalla Lounge.”

“Watch me.”

“They’ll escort you off the ship in Tallinn.”

“They’ll have to catch me first, and I’ll be greased up like those models—and with the help of those models.”

“I’ll alert the Estonian authorities,” Bess says. “They’ll appreciate the head start.”

I decide not to examine the logistics of that plan. Or the imagery. Especially the imagery.

As for tonight’s dress code, the costume shop has outdone itself. And by outdone itself, I mean it emptied its entire wench aisle onto our unsuspecting heads.

I’m wearing an emerald wench number Elodie insisted I upgrade to after one look at the shop’s standard-issue burlap, with a laced bodice, an off-the-shoulder chemise, and a skirt that swishes when I walk. I feel elegant, festive, and one deep breath away from a wardrobe citation. My hair is twisted up with little braids woven through it, courtesy of Marina’s surprisingly skilled fingers.

Bess is a portrait of dignified servitude in a burgundy velvet wench gown with fur-trimmed cuffs and a collar so prim it could chaperone the rest of the outfit. Trust Bess to find the one wench costume that comes with its own dress code.

And Nettie is luminous in a gold wench getup drenched in sequins, which she keeps adjusting because historical accuracy and underwire don’t coexist peacefully. According to Nettie, neither did the actual Vikings, which is why they raided. Makes sense. As for the sequins, she maintains the Vikings absolutely had them. How else would Valhalla spot you in the dark?

I have no rebuttal. Honestly, I don’t want one.

Elodie appears at my elbow in a black leather wench situation that skipped the frumpy aisle entirely, a corset cinched within an inch of the law, a fur stole sliding off one shoulder, the whole thing basically lingerie with a Viking alibi. Her platinum-blonde hair is looking as short and sassy as ever in her signature downturned bob.

“Formal dinner at the Captain’s table was divine,” she says, accepting a champagne flute from a passing server. “Though I have to say, the real entertainment was watching you and Ransom pretend you weren’t playing footsie under the table.”