me guess, the last time you swam in a mountain lake in winter”—he exaggerates the word, letting go of my hand—“was in a Norwegian village above the Arctic circle?” He shrugs out of his jacket.
“Iceland, actually.”
“Close enough.”
“Not really. It’s a thousand nautical miles from Reykjavik to the western fjords.”
“You’ve sailed that route?”
“Oh no, it’s dangerous.”
Aksel stops with one boot in his hand and the other on his foot. He is bent over, tugging the laces free. He stares at me, incredulous. “You think a boat ride between Iceland and Norway, the two safest countries on earth, is dangerous?”
“Not a boat ride. Sailing,” I clarify. “The North Sea doesn’t have piracy problems like the Black Sea or the Gulf of Guinea, but the conditions—strong winds and icebergs and rough currents—are dangerous.”
“Very,” he says, smiling.
“It’s true. Fact-check me. The North Sea is as unpredictable as Cape Horn.”
He sets his boots on the ground. “So you would never sail to Norway?”
“Never say never.” I shrug.
“Not about you, Sophia,” Aksel says, and when he looks at me, my breath catches in my throat. He lifts his sweater over his head.
Blushing, I look away. With my boots off, I unzip my puffer, slip my sweatshirt over my head, and slide out of my pants. I’ve begun wearing a camisole and seamless shorts beneath my clothing for warmth. I’ll swim in these—it isn’t as though I am swimming naked.
The lake is temperate, and small at less than two hundred meters across; Aksel’s house is only a half kilometer back through the woods.
Hypothermia risk is low.
“Depth?” I query.
“Twenty feet,” he answers.
I dive. Before I hit the surface, I see Aksel follow.
It’s not freezing, but it’s not exactly Reykjadalur. Turning toward me Aksel shakes his wet hair off his face, grinning. “You’re indomitable,” he remarks.
“I’m not in here alone,” I point out, treading water.
His mouth curves up ruefully. “Peer pressure.”
Even in the dark, I can see the taut muscles etched across his neck and shoulders.
Stretching his arm backward, Aksel places his hand on the rock. I do the same, settling my fingers into a cleft to keep steady.
Only a few centimeters of serrated rock separate our fingers. Why did it bother me so much when Tate put his fingers on my knee, while now, I wish Aksel’s were closer?
“It’s one hundred seventy yards to the far side of the lake. The farthest point is that clump of evergreens,” Aksel says, pointing across the smooth, dark surface. “Whoever touches that large boulder in the water wins. You say ‘go.’ ”
I nod. “All right. Three. Two. Go.”
I kick off from the rock. Ignoring Aksel’s position—and speed—I focus on getting into my own rhythm. Every few breaths I check to make sure I am headed toward the boulder. In my peripheral vision, I can see Aksel ahead, gliding smoothly across the surface.
By the time I reach it, Aksel is treading water, waiting. I brush my hair off my face.
“That probably wasn’t fair,” he apologizes.
“You’re right,” I agree. “We’ll have to race back,” I say. “Except this time, underwater. Whoever goes farthest with one breath wins.”
Aksel scrutinizes me. “Okay, Sophia, but we don’t have to race—”
“Three,” I interrupt, taking a breath. Because I do have to race. I have to prove to myself that I am no longer afraid. Not of the men who attacked our boat off Djibouti, or of who killed our guides in Kenya, or of whoever Aksel thought was following me tonight.
“Two.”
I take another breath.
I am not afraid. Not anymore. Not in Waterford.
“Go.”
I plunge back into the lake. Kicking my legs and pushing aside water, I propel forward. After thirty seconds, I want air. After forty-five seconds, I need it. At sixty seconds, I wonder if I’ll lose consciousness. Ninety seconds. One hundred and thirty seconds. I need to emerge. It’s been too long since I last practiced. One hundred and eighty seconds. My lungs flare.
I break the surface. Curious how far ahead Aksel is, I whirl around, scanning the water. The lake is a glass sheet.
Panic rises in my throat. I look across the tranquil lake back at the clump of evergreens, then ahead toward the rocks where I see his clothes.
Four meters behind me, the water stirs.
As soon as he surfaces, I sense something is wrong.
“SOPHI—” Halfway through yelling my name, he sees me. With quick, deft strokes he swims to me. “Where were you?”
“Underwater—”
“Yeah, but …” Aksel glances at the evergreens and back to me. He ducks his head into the water and emerges half