Directly across from the bay, you’ll see Heart Island and its beautiful castle, built by George C. Boldt, owner of the great Waldorf-Astoria Hotel…

“My goodness,” Astrid said, materializing at Kennet’s elbow. “Look at that. It’s like something out of Europe. No, don’t get up,” she said to Minor, who was scrambling to his feet.

“That’s Boldt Castle,” Kennet said. “It’s a replica of a castle along the Rhine river.”

“Boldt poured a million dollars into it,” Minor said. “But then his wife died and he abandoned the project.”

“Just left it?” Astrid said. “It’s not finished?”

“Nope. It just is.” Minor did get up now, excused himself and moved toward the cabin.

“Enjoying the tour?” Kennet said, strangely shy, now that he was alone with her.

“The delivery was a little chaotic,” she said. “I hope there won’t be a test later.”

“There will, but it’s true-false. You’ll do fine. Here, practice question: precisely one thousand islands make up the Thousand Islands archipelago. True or false?”

“False?”

“Correct. One thousand eight hundred and sixty-four is the official number.”

“What makes an island officially an island?”

“It has to have one square foot of land above water, all year round. And it has to support two living trees.”

She pretended to write it on her hand. “One foot. Twelve months. Two trees.”

Trudy came up to the helm, making Kennet wonder if he’d ever get more than sixty seconds alone with Astrid, or if he’d have to start chloroforming his siblings.

“Here,” Trudy said, putting a nail into Astrid’s hand. “You have to drop it overboard for Old Nick.”

“Is that so?”

“Tru,” Minor called from the cabin. “Come back here.”

Trudy scowled. “Why?”

“I think I just saw a mermaid.”

She was gone in a flash, leaving Astrid laughing. “You are all delightful.” She looked at the nail in her hand. “I know this tale. Whenever you cross a river, you drop a bit of steel and say, Nick, Nick, needle in the water! Thou sink, I float!”

Astrid weighed the nail in her palm a few times, then tossed it over. Beneath the river’s undulating surface lived Old Nick, the Scandinavian maritime devil, king of the river.

“My father called him Fossegrim,” Astrid said. “Same god, different name.”

“Ah, but we Fiskares have our own versions of folklore. We think of Nick and Fossegrim as two different gods.”

Fossegrim was the mischievous fiddler, playing enchanted songs on the violin, seducing men, women and children with his beautiful music. He’d joke around with your soul, but meant no real harm. He was too busy with his music. Old Nick was the unforgiving deity who demanded obeisance and tribute. Kennet never went on the water without throwing a bit of metal overboard.