Some men experienced a variety of night terrors. Others were plagued by one horrific dream over and over. Kennet experienced the latter. In his recurring dream, he was being chased down by a mob of angry Belgian civilians and German mothers, all demanding retribution for the deaths at Chenogne. Over time, the pursuing riot expanded to include inmates from Mauthausen, even more terrifying in their near-death state of desperate starvation. All of them coming after Kennet. After his survival. After his gold. After his soul.

He still hadn’t regained his sense of smell or taste. That and the lack of sleep had him walking around in a robotic daze of mild confusion. The war was over, yet he remained constantly braced for something to happen, bewildered that nothing was happening.

Holy shit, I’m bored, he thought. And if that wasn’t the definition of a royal SNAFU, someone would have to tell him what was.

The day a letter arrived for him, postmarked from St. Petersburg, Florida, with A. V. Davis-Reyes in the return address, he stared at it dispassionately, for a good minute, before making the connection and realizing it was from Astrid. Even then, he went on staring as if the letter were the electric bill. But finally, he opened it.

Dear Kennet,

I hope this letter finds you whole and well and unharmed. I expect it will find you changed. I know it will find you grieving. Marta wrote to tell me about Nalle. My heart hurts. I’m so sorry. That dear boy. I’ll always remember him best from the day we made a fika on Tre-O. He was seventeen then? He seemed so much older. All of you Fiskare boys were mature, but Nalle especially so. He had a serenity. As if he viewed the world from some higher place.

I remember when he sat on the rocks, singing “South American Way” as he gutted and fileted the fish we caught, while a cloud of gulls wheeled around him. Like he was being visited by angels of the river.

I remember when he dove over the side of the boat to fetch my hat when the wind blew it off. Holding the brim in his teeth as he climbed back aboard, grinning around the straw, as if it were a cutlass. Another pirate of the river.

I remember when he told me to move into the shade because my shoulders were getting red. And I remember how he’d always look up and around, making sure your sisters were safe. Making sure others were content. The host of the river.

I remember the night we toasted marshmallows, and how Nalle looked standing beneath the portrait of your grandfather, the Old Bear and the Teddy Bear. How serious he was, reciting your funny masterpiece of alliteration. The poet of the river.

He was a real prince.