“We used to throw pennies,” he said, “but after nineteen twenty-nine, nobody in their right mind was throwing money away. Paps said there was already enough gold in the river and Old Nick would understand. In hard times, any metal would do.”

“What do you mean enough gold?”

“Well, when Napoleon was exiled, his family smuggled all his wealth out of France and sailed with it to Canada. The ship sank in the St. Lawrence and the gold was never recovered.”

“Really?”

Kennet smiled. “So the story goes. My grandmother’s family was French Canadian. They talked all the time about Napoleon’s gold. My father and Major elaborated the legend for us kids, mixing it up with other famous shipwrecks in the St. Lawrence, all of them supposedly sunk with a fabulous hoard. So I grew up thinking the river is full of golden treasure, all of it guarded by Old Nick.” He shrugged. “It makes a good tale to tell tourists.”

They stood quietly a while. The sinking sun was turning some of the smaller islands to shadow, silhouetted against indigo and lavender and apricot. The skirt of Astrid’s dress blew about her knees. The occasional hearty gust made the fabric caress Kennet’s leg.

“When my father said Old Nick lived in the river,” he said slowly, “I used to think he meant my Uncle Kennet. Everyone called him Nyck.”

“Tell me, are there any Fiskare men named George?”

He laughed. “Not a chance. Every boy is doomed to be some combination of Emil, Erik, Björn or Kennet. Plus a family nickname, to make it even more confusing.”

“Where does your uncle live?”

“In Montreal.”

“Are you close? The way Minor is with Major?”

“No.” Kennet hesitated. “No, see, Uncle Nyck lives in a sanitarium.”

“Oh. Goodness.”

“He fought in the war and when he came back, he was…”

“Changed?”

“Yes. His body came home, but his mind was still in France. Still fighting.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It bothered me. Being his namesake but having no relationship with him.”

Kennet was an observant child, and he noticed how people shook their heads when they spoke of Uncle Nyck and the war. Voices dropped into mumbles, glances went sideways and down-ways, and deep sighs followed.

“Uncle Nyck lived far away to begin with,” he said, “plus all this sad, secretive mystique surrounded him. So I guess it wasn’t such a stretch to believe he was Old Nick and lived underneath the river. That way, when I dropped pennies and nails overboard, I wasn’t bribing a god. I was just giving my uncle a present.”

“That’s both sensical and sweet,” Astrid said.

“I like everything and everyone to have a place.”

“Does anyone call you Nyck?”