“‘It was him!’ the little queen whispered. ‘He showed the cutter the way!’

“She looked up, and then she saw the dark figure standing at the top of the next snowdrift. The sharp ends of tools were sticking out of her coat pocket.

“The little queen looked back at the lighthouse keeper. A tear fell on his breast, a royal tear, and, all of a sudden, he started breathing again.

“‘But we can’t stay here!’ the rose girl urged. ‘We’ve got to go! Quick!’

“A short while later, they were racing away on their skates, faster than ever, around crevices and more holes. Behind them, the cutter was gliding through the torn white desert on her own skates. She had worked on them all night. She had made them from pure gold, and at their tips she had left some space to put the pieces of diamond. The cutter didn’t stop when she passed the body of the lighthouse keeper.

“Only the gray seagull hovered over him for a while before she stretched her wings and followed the small group of runaways.

“In the distance, a narrow green line had appeared. The mainland. It was close. But not yet close enough.”

Abel fell silent.

“So the lighthouse keeper was our traitor,” Anna said in a low voice.

Abel nodded. “He’s been following me. He thought I wouldn’t notice. It’s none of his business what I do at night … but I didn’t want anything to happen to him. Anna, I don’t know how he managed to fall through the ice. I … I wish he’d followed me last night. If he’d been where I was, he couldn’t have fallen through the ice … and if I’d been where he was, I could have pulled him out …”

“It’s okay,” she said and put an arm around him. “It’s okay.”

“I wonder,” Micha said, “what kind of creature this gull-wolf-sea lion-dog will turn into at the end. Possibly a prince who marries me?”

“Definitely,” someone whispered, and Anna jumped. She nudged Abel and pointed to the pale face on the pillows. Knaake was still lying there with his eyes closed. But now he was moving his lips. “A prince,” he repeated.

Anna bent over him, as close as she could, and laid a hand on his forehead.

“Mr. Knaake!” she whispered—why was she whispering? “It’s me, Anna. Can you hear me? What happened? What were you doing in the city harbor, on the ice? Why did you go out there all alone?”

He shook his head, very slowly. “I wasn’t alone,” he answered, barely audible. “There was someone else there, too. Someone with … a weapon. I took a step back … into the shipping channel … to avoid the bullet.”

He opened his eyes now, carefully, as if his eyelids weighed tons; he looked at Anna, then at Micha, and then at Abel. And then he closed his eyes again.

“Who?” Anna asked. “Who was there on the ice with you?”

“I … can’t remember,” Knaake answered. “I really can’t remember.”

He groped for Anna’s hand on the bed. She felt his cold fingers, felt that he wanted to tell her something, but she couldn’t tell what. She bent even lower.

“Anna, Anna,” he whispered, “take care of yourself.” There it was again—that sentence so many people seemed to be saying to her lately.

“You’re sure you don’t remember who it was?” she asked. “Please, you have to try …”

But Knaake said no more. She wondered whether he’d fallen asleep or lost consciousness—or whether he just didn’t want to answer. The green line of his heartbeat shivered across the monitor, revealing nothing, and left her alone with her fear. She rose from her chair and turned to Abel, who’d risen as well. When he pulled her into his arms, she felt his cheek against hers, and it was wet. The water of the thaw.

“He’s gonna make it,” he whispered, his voice soft with relief. “He’s not going to die. Someone who talks doesn’t die. He’s gonna make it. Anna, I … is it possible he thought he was following me last night but it was someone else? Someone who was even angrier about it than I was?”

Micha pushed her way into their hug and looked up at them. “He’s gonna make it, and we will, too, won’t we?” she asked. “Reach the mainland? In time?”

Anna visited the lighthouse keeper again on Sunday morning— without Abel. He didn’t talk to her this time.

The no-nonsense doctor looked at her strangely when she told her he had spoken the day before. “Sometimes, if someone wants something badly enough,” she murmured, “one sees it happen for real.”

“But he did open his eyes!” Anna insisted. “He did talk to us.”

“Hmm,” said the doctor. “Well, he hasn’t spoken to us, that’s for sure. And to be honest, I don’t know if he’ll ever talk to anybody again.”

Anna tried to concentrate on schoolwork all of Sunday, but her thoughts were elsewhere—wandering about the ICU; on the beach, where by now the police tape had probably been removed; and on to the Admiral, in front of which Rainer Lierski had been found on the street. Wandering to Abel. More than anything in the world she wished she could be with him now, that they could find out the truth together.

Her cell phone rang twice, and she recognized Bertil’s number. Bertil of all people. She didn’t answer. In the evening, Abel called. They didn’t talk about Bertil; they didn’t talk about police tape; they didn’t talk about people falling through the ice. They talked about summer. About what they would do when it finally arrived. Maybe they would sail somewhere. Swim far out to sea. Forget the winter.

“Tomorrow,” Anna said, “tomorrow, we’ll begin the last week of regular … mostly useless … classes … I wonder what will happen with Knaake’s class. Tomorrow … tomorrow we’ll see each other.”

“Yes,” Abel said. “Micha said I should say hi, and tell Linda hi from her, too.”

“Abel. It’s your birthday this week.”

“Yes.”

“On Wednesday they’re going to reach the mainland.”

“It’s not Wednesday yet.”

“No,” she said, smiling. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Abel said.

That night, Anna dreamed of blossoming red flames, of an inferno, of a burning house. No, it was a boathouse full of boats. The flames were everywhere, the heat was unbearable, and she was right in the middle of it. She saw herself from the outside. Or was the figure she was watching even herself? Was it Abel? In her dreams, the boundaries were blurred.

And then Monday came. And she understood, too late, what the dream had meant.

SHE WAS SITTING IN MATH CLASS WHEN THE ANNOUNCEMENT came on, over the loudspeaker.

Math would be her third exam, required if you’d chosen music and arts as your intensive classes. One more week of lectures she didn’t understand and that she wasn’t interested in, and after that there’d be no more classes, just sitting at home, cramming formulas into her head … she knew she should listen, but the information just drifted by her. Abel was sitting in the back of the room; he’d been late again and looked tired, like he so often did. She bore the tedium for the sake of being able to talk to him afterward. She didn’t even know about what. She just wanted to talk to him.

And then the announcement came on.

“The students’ drama group,” the disinterested voice of the secretary said, “asks for a moment of your attention.”

Anna put her pen down and leaned back. Every year there was an announcement like this at the end of the term. It was usually a short scene from the play they were doing, a friendly advertisement for their production. A welcome interruption to the lesson. Strange, that was Bertil’s voice. She hadn’t known Bertil was in the drama group. She glanced over at Gitta. Gitta shrugged and started to doodle things on the side of a folder. And suddenly, before Bertil’s words got through to her, Anna thought with surprising clarity: I have lost Gitta. Gitta was once my friend, no matter how different we were. But I’ve lost her.