“I think you want it to prove where you were and break the curse. It can’t. And even in the story, after the curse was ended, Hildur still got away with murder.” She lifted her hand and lightly touched the gold with a fingertip. “Some of the people responsible for this will get away with it, too. But you did your job. You gave everything you could. Your strength, your hunger, your terror, your sleep. You gave your taste and smell. You gave your sanity. You gave friends. You gave a brother.”

She moved behind him, wrapped arms around his waist. “It was enough. But if you’re not convinced, then give the gold and let it be enough. Lagom. Not too much, not too little.”

Kennet cupped the tooth, glancing toward Grennell Island and Tre Önskningar, where Erik and Boyd were saying each other’s names.

I did a good thing for them.

Not too much and not too little.

Kennet squeezed his fist, wished for the lovers everything they deserved, and lobbed the tooth into the St. Lawrence River. Then he twisted in the circle of Astrid’s arms to look back at her.

She gazed up at him, golden hair tousled and silver eyes shining. Eyes filled with love. Maybe something growing within, right here, right now.

Now backward is won.

“I’m Kennet Fiskare,” he said. “Fisherman and pirate. I was conceived in a casino in Aix-les-Bains. My namesake uncle is king of the river. The gold in my veins is inherited from my father, who got it from a Hun’s tooth. My table is set with Czechoslovakian silver. My flame is kept in the pocket of a Russian boy.”

He turned all the way around and took Astrid’s face in his hands. “I don’t need any more gold or spoils of war. You’re my greatest treasure and it’s lagom.”

“I know.” She held his head and kissed him. “I know who you are.”

Taking hands, they walked away from the river. Past the train station and across the main thoroughfare of Clayton. Up the wide front stairs of the small hotel where they reached to touch the tail of the carved wooden fish.

The doors closed behind them.

The fish swung on its chains, contemplating wishes.

The river flowed on while Fossegrim played his music and Hildur got away with murder.

Old Nick counted a new gold tooth among his immeasurable wealth.

And the Fiskares, fishermen and pirates alike, went on telling their tales.

June 1947

All Here

Spring had been reluctant to show her face this year, but now, at last, the sun shone warm over Clayton Village Cemetery. The surrounding fields exploded with ox-eye daisies, cornflowers and poppies, inviting a multitude of bees and butterflies. Songbirds competed for attention, swooping among the trees, landing on stones and markers to call for a mate or mark their territory.