Astrid leaned toward Little with a conspiratorial air. “Everyone’s mad for something. To the point where they’ll pay for it. Oh, thank you,” she said to Major, who was holding out his cigarette case.

She took one and Kennet reached for his lighter. Among so many useful things, Marta had taught him how to properly light a lady’s cigarette. Whenever he struck a match or flicked his Zippo, he always heard a tiny echo of her brisk, instructive voice, admonishing him to hold the flame still while the lady leaned in. Never to blow out a match, but shake it to the side and wave the smoke away.

Kennet held the flame steady and still as Astrid leaned in. Her fingertip touched his wrist bone, just once, lightly, then she leaned back and exhaled. Her smile went around every chair.

“I’m so glad I came,” she said.

“Well, we’re delighted to have you,” Emil said.

The rest of Astrid’s first week in Clayton, Kennet barely got a minute with her.

I need to talk to you, his eyes begged.

I know, her gaze replied. Soon.

He tried to be patient, give everyone their chance. It was easy to be magnanimous about Marta monopolizing her cousin. He was truly happy about their reunion. It was everyone else elbowing their way in for a piece of Astrid’s pie that irritated him. Major chatting her up in the bar as he made before-dinner drinks. Emil buttonholing her over dessert. Trudy and Little were completely besotted, and now Kirsten Lund had joined the junior fan club, dragging Astrid this way and that to show her the best Clayton had to offer. Even Nalle shook off his black armband of melancholy because he suddenly needed to pour his life story into Astrid’s lap.

Astrid was enthusiastic, attentive and interested. Or one hell of an actress. Kennet hadn’t decided because nobody was giving him a goddamn turn, only snatched minutes here and there. Still, they’d been memorable minutes. Like when he found Astrid in the sitting room, examining her own photographs on the little table by Marta’s armchair.

“Isn’t it funny,” she said. “Finding yourself in a house you’ve never been to. I walked right past these pictures and stopped short. Wait. That’s me. Here I am.”

“Here you are,” he said.

She set the photograph back on the table. “Tell me. Who is this?” She pointed to the sepia photograph of Björn Fiskare on the mantel.

“My grandfather. People called him the Old Bear.”

“Is he alive?”

“No, he died right after Nalle was born.”

She stepped closer, arms crossed and head tilted a little. The Old Bear stared down at her, dignified and unsmiling. “Do you remember him?” she asked.

“My first memory is of him. Sitting in his lap, playing with the fish on his chain. See?”