Indeed, the scene in the kitchen that day was one of utter confusion. Kennet, now twelve, had his hands over his ears and an eye on his mother, who stood by the sink with the baby. She just stood there. Doing nothing. She ought to have been blowing her stack. Instead, she looked like she’d given up. And if Ingrid had given up, little hope was left in the world.

Kennet spied the woman at the screen door just before she raised a fist and gave three quick raps. She held his eyes through the mesh and called, “Hello?”

His hands holding his head together, Kennet only stared.

The woman’s gaze narrowed, then she came in, plump and neat in a print dress and straw hat, a handbag beneath her elbow. “Mrs. Fiskare?” she said.

“That’s me,” Ingrid said, as if she wished she were anybody else.

“I’ve come about the job,” the woman said. “I’m Marta Toivonen.”

Her speech was tight and precise, as if all the words were packed into the front part of her mouth.

A little curiosity came into Ingrid’s face and her chin tilted. “Toivonen is a Finnish name.”

“Yes, ma’am. Born in Finland, lived a bit in Sweden.”

“But your accent sounds British.”

“I spent most my life in England.” As Marta took in the kitchen’s chaos, her face betrayed no emotion. Kennet still had his fingers dug in his hair. Minor had a bloody nose. Nalle had a hacking cough. Little had wet his pants. And the baby, Trudy, wailed with the red-cheeked pain of new teeth.

“I haven’t started lunch,” Ingrid said faintly.

“I see,” Marta said, and put down her handbag. She assessed the damage and went for Minor. “Let’s sort this first. Sit down, ma’am, you look fit to topple.” She pinched the boy’s nose and tilted his head back, then addressed Kennet. “What’s your name?”

He told her.

“You look like a smart young man. I bet you know where ice is.”

Kennet got her some and followed her direction to wrap it in a clean dish towel.

“And who are you?” Marta asked her patient.

“Edik,” Minor said through his pinched nose.

“Erik,” Kennet said, puzzled. Minor rarely, almost never introduced himself by his proper name.

“We call him Minor,” Nalle said between coughs, “because we have an Uncle Erik, too.”

“Cover your mouth, dear.”

“We call our uncle Major,” Minor said thickly.

“Is that right?” Marta said. “I spoke to a Major Fiskare in the hotel, but I thought it was his rank.”

“He’s Erik Major. I’m Erik Minor.”

“Keep your chin up, dear. Now hold the ice like that and pinch with your other fingers. No, like this. There’s the way. Now then…” Her efficient gaze settled on the unfortunate Little. “And what’s your name?”

“Emil,” he said, just as Kennet, Nalle and Minor answered, “Little.”