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institute or on your laptop, of course.” Mags opened up a crate. “Hm. Books here, but they’re—well, what I’d call airport books. Bestselling potboilers, that sort of thing.”
    “You do realise I’m going to have to swear you to secrecy about my taste in trashy paperbacks,” I said, smiling at the flashy covers with their bold fonts and monosyllabic titles. “Still, at least I’ll be able to read them all for the first time again.”
    “Nice to know even amnesia has its upside.” Mags raised a teasing eyebrow.
    “It was handy while I was in hospital, I’ll grant you. Gretchen got me loads of DVDs of all the TV shows and films that had been on while I was here, and I couldn’t tell which ones I’d seen and which I hadn’t. Although I did keep getting a weird sense of déjà vu when I was watching Doctor Who .”
    “Mmm, but they do keep recycling the bad guys, don’t they?”
    I turned to a box of my own. When I opened the lid, thick wool and cotton plaid were revealed—not with the musty smell I realised I’d been half expecting, but with just the merest hint of fabric softener. “Okay, this is clothes. I’ll just load the whole box into the car and sort it out back home.”
    “Yes, makes sense,” Mags said. “You can take the ones you don’t want to a charity shop.”
    I put the box to one side and opened another. Pictures in frames, I realised after a moment of staring blankly at newspaper parcels. It’d be good to have something on the walls of my little flat, although I wasn’t sure how I’d feel if they all turned out to be photographs of me with Sven. I could always send any photos to his mother, I supposed. Mags, or someone at the institute, must have her address. I put the box with the crate of clothes and took down a suitcase from on top of a row of boxes.
    I soon realised I couldn’t hope to finish the job today. For one thing, there was a limited number of boxes my Mitsubishi could handle, and for another, I was reluctant to fill up my bright white flat with clutter too quickly. But I was glad to have located a sturdy pair of walking boots and some water- and wind-proof clothing.
    “Okay, let’s call it a day,” I said finally. “I can always come back another time, now I know where it all is. Do you want to go grab some supper? I haven’t been shopping yet, and I probably shouldn’t get into the habit of eating out of tins every night. Which, thank you for, by the way. The tins, not the habit. I’m not holding you responsible for my poor diet.”
    We ended up in a cosy little pizza place on the outskirts of Reykjavik. Long and thin in construction, it was full almost to bursting and decorated with memorabilia from American football teams.
    “Did Sven like it here?” I guessed, digging into my guilty pleasure, an every-topping-under-the-sun pizza with extra pineapple. Although thinking about the trashy paperbacks, maybe not my only guilty pleasure.
    Mags looked up from her healthy, multigrain vegetarian option. “Sven? Oh, no, he hated it. That’s why we used to come here, because he never would.”
    “He…sounds a bit controlling,” I said after an uneasy pause.
    “Oh—I don’t think so,” Mags said, fiddling with her water glass. “Not really. He just had strong opinions about certain things, that’s all. That’s what you used to say, anyway.”
    “What did he object to about this place, anyhow?” I frowned as I waved a hand at the crowded restaurant, the air buzzing with cheerful conversation and the walls crowded with Americana. “I’d have thought he’d have felt right at home.”
    “Oh no.” Mags sounded very definite. “Sven really wasn’t a pizza sort of person. He used to take you to a much better class of eatery.”
    “Where did I take him?” I asked drily.
    If Mags noticed my tone, she didn’t acknowledge it. “Oh, all over the place. Borgarnes and other saga sites. You seemed to spend most of your weekends on field trips, taking