She smiled over her shoulder, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

She was tired. Not physically tired. Just tired of him.

What am I going to do with you?

“Can I show you something?” he said.

“More treasure?”

“No. No, it’s…the opposite of treasure.”

“All right.”

He headed toward the door but was compelled to look back. “Don’t go away?”

She pointed. “I’ll wait out there for you. In case it’s noisy.”

When he came back, she was sitting on a box, waiting patiently among the clobber and clutter. She gave a little laugh when Kennet handed her his war notebook. The second version, with all the new entries carefully transcribed in order. In pen and ink. A permanent record.

“This time I really was expecting a severed head,” Astrid said, fanning the pages with her thumb. Almost immediately her photograph dislodged and wafted to the floor. “And here it is.” She held the picture out with a critical expression. “Shoddy sword work, Private Fiskare. Aim for the neck next time.”

“No next time,” he said. “There better not be.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m afraid I picked up Minor’s habit of making jokes when I’m nervous.”

“Am I making you nervous?”

She held up the notebook. “This is.”

“It ought to. The only other person who read it got killed.”

“Who?”

“My buddy, Hook. I let him read every word. All my fears and doubts and less than noble thoughts. I feel like it cursed him.”

“You don’t have that kind of power,” she said. “Magic books are only in stories. Curses aren’t real. Words have magic—they can transport you to different places, they can inspire or educate, but they can’t bless or curse. Your friend died because he was in war, not because reading your diary brought him bad luck.”

“Sounds so simple when you say it. I don’t know why it’s hard to believe.”

“Maybe…when you’re in a situation where so much is beyond your control, you compensate by giving yourself power. Even if it’s silly things. It comforts you.” She pointed toward the chain around his neck. “Like how your father gathered and wore his little fish.”

“And it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.”

“Right up until he found out Nalle died, it did make a difference. It got him through the days. It did its true job.”

“I guess.”

“He wore it with the best of intentions. Just like you invited Hook into your thoughts with good intentions. And invited O’Hara to Clayton with the same.”

They looked at each other a long time in the weak light of a single bulb.

“Are you inviting me to read this?” she said, holding the notebook as if giving him a chance to take it back.