Kennet winced. A door banged shut on both your apology and your candy seemed the worst thing that could happen to a fellow. Minor’s whole face was clenched up. Kennet hadn’t seen his little brother cry in a long time, but he was pretty close to tears, and it made Kennet feel desperate. Minor was always so devil-may-care when he got in trouble. Now he looked like a bleeding cut and the whole world was iodine. Kennet recognized the attitude—he felt that way whenever he displeased or disappointed Emil. But where Kennet seemed to learn lessons quickly and course-corrected for the next excursion, Minor just couldn’t help sailing straight into bad weather.

Minor was always in trouble, either for the door of his mouth being loose on its hinges, or an utter disregard for rules and social niceties. Growing up, Kennet had watched Minor pull fabulous pranks at the hotel with a fascination equal parts horror and admiration. It was Minor who put baby Nalle in the dumbwaiter and hauled him up and down between floors. Minor who dropped toys down the laundry chute and when that got boring, tried dropping himself. (He took the plunge from the ground-floor linen closet, when the metal chute was an angled slide and not a death drop—Minor was a daredevil but he wasn’t stupid.) Minor filched pairs of men’s shoes left outside rooms at night, shined them himself and pocketed the tips. He turned Do Not Disturb signs to the Maid Please Make Up Room side. Tall for his age, with a flair for the dramatic, he dressed up as a waiter and delivered bottles of champagne (stolen from the bar) to rooms occupied by couples. Or he brought breakfast trays to rooms occupied by single ladies, hoping to catch them in their underwear.

Sometimes, he got away with it. Most often, he got caught, the penalty for which was få sina fiskar varma—getting your fish warm. And with the same mix of dread and appreciation, Kennet watched Minor get the business end of Ingrid’s wooden spoon or, when they were older, be summoned to the pantry to be strapped by Emil.

Minor neither sulked over the hidings nor learned from them. He didn’t pretend he didn’t care—five whacks of Emil’s old razor strop on your butt made you care deeply about your misdeeds. But Minor seemed to treat it all as a game, and what was more, so did Emil.