Children’s books were stacked on the nightstand, along with a few small toys and a framed picture of Zé Davis-Reyes in uniform. Kennet picked it up, studying the soldier.

“What does Reyes mean?”

“Kings,” she said. “Why?”

“Just wondering. Davis is his mother’s name?”

“Yes. It’s typical in Brazil to combine your parents’ names.”

“I see.”

Astrid’s nightstand had a stack of books as well, the tome of Lord Byron poems on top. Plus her clock, a water glass, and a large mussel shell. Nestled in its opalescent blue cup was the little Hildur.

“I wanted to show you something,” Kennet said.

“What?”

“Treasure.”

She said nothing, but her eyes glittered above a smile that was positively mercenary. He took her hand, pulled her out of the chair and led her to the storage area of the attic. A single bulb on a pull chain illuminated the accumulation of clutter and boxes. It took a few minutes to locate the wooden crate Kennet had shipped from Austria. Then he had to run back downstairs and get a hammer and the scissors.

Astrid sat on the dusty floor, nightgown tucked around her knees, patient and curious as he pried the crate open and carefully cut the cords around the cloth-wrapped bundles.

“Oh my goodness,” she breathed as he revealed the first set of fish-handled silverware. “It’s gorgeous. Where did you get it?”

Her hands reached to help unwrap more little bundles as Kennet told about the monastery in Kremsmunster, with its great hall of Nazi wealth. Soon he and Astrid had cleared a rough rectangle on the attic floor and set an imaginary table. Kennet set the large serving pieces in the center while Astrid pulled the smaller pieces of cloth through the napkin rings.

“It’s magnificent,” she said, stepping back with hands on hips.

“It’s stolen,” he said. “Never stole anything in my life until I became a soldier.”

“To the victor go the spoils.” She picked up the piece of blue damask and began to wind it around herself, draping it like a Roman toga. “You could have a lovely tablecloth and napkins made from this.”

“Or a gown.”

“It drapes beautifully.” She turned a slow circle. “What do you think?”

“You’re a queen,” he said.

“And you’re a pirate.” Their gazes held a long moment and Kennet felt his chest loosen just the tiniest bit.

“So, pirate, will you allow the treasure to grace your table?”

“I’m not sure.”

“It’s less cumbersome than a severed head.”

“What?”

She smiled at him. “The queen does not begrudge trophies of war. On the table or not, I declare it yours.”