The Fiskare boys exchanged glances. Ingrid was famous. Ingrid was known. Ingrid was a legend. If the symbol had meant, “Royal duchess abides within,” the boys couldn’t have been more impressed.

An awed wonder squeezed Kennet’s chest as he went inside and heeled off his shoes in the hall, looking around his home as if seeing it for the first time, with the newfound knowledge that kind lady lives here.

He stood in the kitchen door, watching Ingrid wash dishes at the sink, her back to him. Little sat at the table with crayons and paper. Trudy sat in a blanket-lined orange crate, cozy and contained, sucking on a Zwieback and banging a set of tin measuring cups. Every now and then, Ingrid made an O of her fingers and blew soap bubbles at her daughter, who laughed when they stuck to her hair.

A warm, golden scent emanated from the oven. The big soup pot bubbled on the stove, along with the coffee pot which was always filled. Next to the stove lay two rows of upside-down cups, and a plate of doughnuts, covered with a clean dish towel.

Kennet was a gangly fourteen, walking the line between boy and man and always falling onto the wrong side of things. He hadn’t been a demonstrative child, and became even less so as he entered his teens. But now he came up behind his mother, slid clumsy arms around her waist and set his brow against her shoulder. He breathed in her lemon scent, reveled in her famed reputation, and loved her terribly.

She made a little laugh in her chest. “Nalle-bear, where have you been?”

“No, it’s me,” Kennet said.

He felt the surprise in her body as she turned abruptly, breaking the belt of his arms. “Goodness,” she said. “What’s the matter? Do you feel all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said.

Her damp hand brushed his brow anyway. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

He was sad that she thought he’d only come to her this way if he were ill or in despair. Sadder that it was his own doing. “I just wanted to hug you,” he said, wishing he could explain better. Wishing he could tell her how proud he was to be her son. How humbled he was by her fame. How important her coffee pot, cups and plate of doughnuts were at a time when jobs were scarce, money was tight, brows were constantly wrinkled with worry, and strange men knocked on doors looking for anything to get them through.

Kind lady lives here.

Kennet stood on the sidewalk outside his house, looking down at the white cat.

Astrid took his hand. “Do you still have those troubles of mine?”

With his free hand, he patted his pocket. “Safe here.”

“I’d like to tell you about them.” She squeezed his fingers. “But I’m afraid you might not like me afterward.”

“Why, did you murder someone?”

“No.”