She picked up a serving spoon in each hand and stood for a moment with them crossed over her chest. Then she stepped to him and touched him lightly on each shoulder. “I dub thee Lord High Fisherman of Silver and Gold. If you’re ever broke, you can sell it. Or if you’re flush but you can’t stand the sight of it, sell it and throw the money in the river.”

He laughed then, and slid down the wall to sit, arms wrapped around his knees.

Still clad in her blue robes, Astrid picked up the length of tweed and her tone turned shrewd and expert. “Now this is quality. You’d be a fool not to use it. So well-made. Thick and warm. You should make it into a winter coat.”

“You take it.”

She shook her head, but her arms held the tweed a little closer, her hand stroking its weave.

“I insist,” Kennet said. “To the victor go the spoils and to the queen goes her tribute.”

“Well…”

“I have a winter coat. I have two, for crying out loud. My Army-issue monster, and the one I bought before I left for boot camp. I’ll be warm forever. You take the cloth. Make a coat and line it with the blue damask if you want. Take it or I’ll throw it all in the river.”

“You would, too.” She folded the tweed carefully. “Thank you.”

The harsh light of the single bulb threw a halo around her head. Her nightgown moved like liquid around her body. It made him remember their first boat ride in 1941, with the family on the Marianne III. How they’d stood together and the wind off the river made the hem of Astrid’s dress ripple and flap against Kennet’s leg.

“Do I scare you?” he heard himself ask.

If the question startled her, she didn’t show it. “No.”

“Then please hold me.”

She knelt between his feet and took him in her arms, rocking him against her for a long time.

“You don’t scare me,” she said, stroking his head.

Jacques’ Trap

The Fiskares made a grand dinner with the new fish-handled silverware, which was spectacular when laid next to Ingrid’s plain, bone-white china.

“Credit goes to Boyd,” Kennet said. “He found it.”

“Did you keep any for yourself?” Major asked.

O’Hara laughed. “I’m only an expert finder of things.”

“Now where have I heard that before?” Kennet mumbled to Minor.

“Shut up,” Minor muttered back.

“I think it’s great,” Little said. Since O’Hara’s arrival, Little had been looking at him with circumspect fascination. As if O’Hara were a circus lion that had strolled into the house. Trained, but unpredictable.

“Boyd, sit here,” Little said, indicating the chair next to his, eliciting some discreet raised eyebrows. This had always been Nalle’s place and kept deliberately vacant.