“The spotter?” “Yes?” Nora desperately wanted to know what the spotter actually did, but couldn’t ask.
“Well, bonne chance,” said Hugo, with a testing gaze.
“Merci,” said Nora, staring out at the crisp Arctic light and a landscape she had only ever seen in magazines. “I’m ready for a challenge.”
Walking in Circles
An hour later and Nora was on an expanse of snow-covered rock. More of a skerry than an island.
A place so small and uninhabitable it had no name, though a larger island – ominously titled Bear Island – was visible across the ice-cold water.
She stood next to a boat. Not the Lance, the large boat she’d had breakfast on – that was moored safely out at sea –
but the small motor-dinghy that had been dragged up out of the water almost single-handedly
by a big boulder of a man called Rune, who, despite his Scandinavian name, spoke in languid West Coast American.
At her feet was a fluorescent yellow rucksack. And lying on the ground was the Winchester rifle that had been leaning against the wall in the cabin.
This was her gun. In this life, she owned a firearm.
Next to the gun was a saucepan with a ladle inside it. In her hands was another, less deadly, gun – a signal pistol ready to fire a flare.
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