Einarr scooped his son out and held him tighter than he ever had before.

In the days that followed, Einarr and Bragi spent all their time at Sigurðr’s favorite fjord, digging a massive hole. When it was large enough, they enlisted the help of the Viking crew to carry Bragi’s boat-the one that Sigurðr had painted so brilliantly-to the gravesite. While it was being lowered, some of the Vikings grumbled that Sigurðr was not so important a warrior as to deserve such a fine boat grave, but no one dared speak such a thought aloud. They simply left Einarr and his family to bid farewell to the man who had saved their child.

Beside Sigurðr’s body in the boat, they laid a number of items: his favorite frost-cup and the household’s ale-goose, both pulled from the ashes; his paintbrushes and pigments; Sigurðrsnautr; and the single unburned dragonhead from Friрleifr’s cradle. Then Svanhildr removed her treasure necklace and placed it gently across Sigurðr’s withered chest, keeping only the healing rune that he had given her.

Svanhildr and Einarr also considered placing the arrowhead necklace into the grave, but ultimately decided against it. It would go to Friрleifr, a talisman to protect the child as he grew into a man.

Einarr filled in the grave by himself. Bragi and Svanhildr, the baby clutched tightly to her bosom, stayed with him as he worked through the night. Just as the sun was rising, the last shovelful was put into place and Einarr slumped exhausted, to look out over the ocean at the sun rising like the condemning eye of Урinn. The boy Bragi had fallen asleep and Einarr, unable to keep the awful truth to himself any longer, confessed to Svanhildr how the fight had started.

When he was finished, Svanhildr touched her husband for the first time since the longhouse was burning. She couldn’t offer any words of forgiveness, but she took his hand into her own.

“I don’t know why I did it,” said Einarr, tears running down his face. “I loved him.”

They sat not speaking for a long time, Einarr weeping, until finally Svanhildr spoke. “Friрleifr is a good name,” she said, “but perhaps not so good as Sigurðr.”

Einarr squeezed her fingers and nodded, and then broke into new sobs.

“It is proper that we never forget,” said Svanhildr, looking down on the sleeping face of the rescued baby at her breast. “From this day forward, this child will carry our friend’s name.”

XXII.

Keeping a low profile is not easy for a burn survivor at the best of times, but it becomes exponentially harder when he is in a fabric store with a wild-haired woman holding up swaths of white cloth against his chest, measuring out the proper amount for his angel’s robes.

When it came time to pay, I stepped between Marianne Engel and the cashier, thrusting forward my credit card. Funny the sense of independence it inspired, given that payment would ultimately come from one of her accounts anyway. Still, I could live with the illusion.

After we had procured all our costume-making supplies, we ran a rather strange errand to a local bank. Marianne Engel wanted to add my name to the access list for her safety deposit box, and the bank needed a signature sample to complete the request. When I asked her why she wanted it done, she answered simply that it was good to be prepared, for God only knew what the future might bring. I asked whether she was going to give me a key for the safety deposit box. No, she answered, not yet. Who else was on the list? No one.

We went to a coffee shop to drink lattes with no foam, sitting on an outside deck while Marianne Engel educated me on the Icelandic version of Hel. Apparently it is a place not of fire but of ice: while English speakers say that it’s “hot as Hell,” Icelanders say helkuldi, “cold as Hell.” This makes sense: having spent their entire lives hammered down by the frigid climate, how could they fear anything more than an eternal version of the same thing? For the burnt man, might I add, it is particularly attractive that the notion subverts the Judeo-Christian idea that the means of eternal torment must be fire.

That Hell is tailored to the individual is hardly a new idea. It is, in fact, one of the greatest artistic triumphs in Dante’s Inferno: the punishment for every sinner fits his sin. The Souls of the Carnal, who in life were swept away by the gusting fits of their passion, are in death doomed to be carried on the winds of a never-ending tempest. The Souls of the Simoniacs, who in life offended God by abusing the privileges of their holy offices, are doomed to burn upside down in fiery baptismal fonts. The Souls of the Flatterers spend eternity buried in excrement, a reminder of the shit they spoke on Earth.

It made me wonder what my version of Hell-if I believed in such a thing, that is-would be like. Would I be doomed to burn forever, trapped inside my car? Or would Hell be a never-ending stint on the dйbridement table? Or would it be the discovery that when I was finally able to love, it was already too late?

As I contemplated this, I spotted one of my secret fraternity coming down the street. It was a strange feeling, the first time that I’d seen another burn survivor in public, and one whom I knew, no less: Lance Whitmore, the man who’d given the inspirational talk at the hospital. He came directly to us and asked whether we’d met before. I couldn’t blame him for not recognizing me, because not only had the contours of my face changed while healing, they were also hidden behind my plastic mask.

“It’s nice to see one of us out in the daylight,” he said. “It’s not that we’re ghosts, exactly, but we do a pretty good job of not being seen.”

We made small talk for perhaps ten minutes and it never seemed to bother Lance that we drew curious stares from nearly everyone who walked past us. I don’t doubt that he noticed, but I admired the way he could pretend he didn’t.

I was in a white robe and my wings were made of stockings stretched over coat hangers, trimmed with silver tinsel. Marianne Engel adjusted my halo (pipe cleaners, painted gold) before rolling up my angelic sleeve to administer a shot of morphine, which flowed through me like the slightly curdled milk of human kindness. Bougatsa ran around nipping at our heels, and I wondered how the brain of a dog might process such a scene.

She was also dressed in a robe-or, more accurately, a dress that hung and bunched so loosely that it looked like a robe. Her hair was somehow even wilder than usual, despite being tied with a band that encircled her temples and came together in a knot on her forehead. A wide tail of fabric escaped her curls and cascaded down her back. She gathered this excess material into the crook of her elbow, letting it drape over her forearm as a waiter might hold a napkin. In her other hand she held an old-fashioned lantern, without oil, and around her left ankle-the one with the rosary tattoo-was a circle of leaves. She explained that it was to represent the laurel crown that should be on the ground at her feet, because a real one would impede her movement around the dance floor. I asked her who she was.

“One of the Foolish Virgins,” she answered.

The party was at the oldest, most expensive hotel in town. A doorman with top hat opened the taxi door and took Marianne Engel by the hand. He bowed deeply, before looking at me quizzically as if trying to understand how my burn makeup could be so convincing. “Are you to be Lucifer, sir?”

“Excuse me?”

“The only fallen angel I know, sir.” He bowed curtly. “Well done. Might I add the voice is an excellent touch?”

As we entered the lobby, Marianne Engel took my arm. The lights were low, and dark streamers fell from the ceiling. Spider webs clung to the room corners and dozens of black cats patrolled the place. (I wondered where they got so many; did they raid an animal shelter?) Guests were gathering in the main ballroom. There were half a dozen skeletons moving about, jangling their painted white bones on black leotards. Marie Antoinette, with powdered wig and plunging dйcolletй, was talking to Lady Godiva, whose long blond hair fell over a flesh bodysuit. A Canadian Mountie was having a whiskey with Al Capone. A woman dressed as a giant queen carrot, waving a vegetable scepter, stood beside her boyfriend the rabbit. A drunken Albert Einstein was arguing with a sober Jim Morrison and, in a far corner, two devils were comparing tails. A waiter glided by with a silver tray and Marianne Engel deftly plucked a martini glass, taking a gulp before kissing me on my maskcheek.