Like a dragon, the train hissed out a cloud of steam. The station agent set out his little step. Marta moved forward, peering along the windows of the passenger cars. Emil and Major Fiskare followed, hats in hand, each favoring a leg.

Trudy waved at everyone and no one. Little stuck his hands in his pockets and moved closer to Nalle, which he did when he was feeling shy. Nalle ruffled Little’s head and smiled a sad smile.

“Ready?” Minor said, dropping his cigarette and stepping on the butt.

Have at me, Kennet thought, regarding the hulking, snorting train.

Time, already slowed, began to pull apart in places, stick together in others, as if Kennet were trying to simultaneously participate up close and observe at a distance. A girl began to descend the steps, reaching gloved fingers to the station agent’s proffered hand.

It’s her.

Astrid, slender as a church spire in a pale blue dress. Laughing as she hugged Marta. The wind off the river blew the skirt of her dress into swirls. She held the crown of her hat down with one palm as she turned to shake hands with Emil, then with Major. She bent from the waist to extend a hand to Trudy, rose a bit to shake with Little, then straightened all the way up to be greeted by the tall Nalle. Nalle tucked a hand under her elbow and led her toward Kennet and Minor.

Children of hotel proprietors are trained from birth to welcome strangers and put them at ease. Kennet had an array of polite conversation at his disposal, but as Astrid Virtanen came nearer, he felt all of it dissolve and drain away. He had no script. The pages of his book were blank.

“This is my brother, Minor,” Nalle said.

Minor sighed. “I have a first name, you know.” He put out a hand. “I’m Erik Fiskare. So nice to meet you.”

Kennet seethed behind a smile. Minor rarely, practically never introduced himself by his proper name. Not unless the person was special. It was happening already. Minor’s undefeatable good looks and charisma would win the day. They always did. It was over, and Kennet was about to slam the book of his life shut when Astrid turned to him, looking up from beneath the brim of her hat, which she still held by the crown.

The curls waving around her ears were blonde, but Kennet knew that already, from her picture. Under smooth, arched brows, her eyes were grey. He hadn’t known that.

Something—perhaps his mother’s exasperated spirit from beyond the grave—made him put out a hand and say politely, “I’m Kennet Fiskare.”

Her gloved hand went into his and the pretty smile she’d given Minor turned into something to rival the sun.

“I know,” she said, looking him full in the face.