“For being my brother and best friend. For standing by me. For being breathtakingly dumb, but kind and loyal and all those other sappy adjectives that mean the world.”

Kennet raised his empty glass. “Minor mine, you are so fine.”

Minor raised his. “It ain’t no trick to love my Nyck.”

They tottered out of the restaurant and almost immediately ran into Pierre.

“Well, good evening,” Minor said.

“Again,” Kennet said.

“I think I left my cigarette lighter on the table,” Pierre said. “Did you see it?”

Minor glanced at Kennet before answering. “No, but I’m an expert finder of lost things. I’ll help you look.”

“And I’m an expert finder of ways back to the hotel,” Kennet said. “Goodnight, boys.”

Alcohol had never been a loyal friend to Kennet but tonight, it nestled him into dreamless, heavy sleep, tender as a lover. When he woke in the wee hours, the booze hadn’t left any of its usual calling cards: sour stomach, pounding head, raging thirst, bone-deep regret. He felt light and fresh as he rolled over to the sound of the door quietly opening and closing. Minor moving on soft, socked feet, in and out of the john, undressing, sliding into the room’s other twin bed.

“Have a good time?” Kennet yawned.

“Mm.”

“Hair stand up on the back of your neck?”

Minor laughed softly. “No, but something else was standing up—” The laughter turned to a guffaw as he caught the pillow Kennet hurled at him.

“Keep that fish tale in school,” Kennet muttered.

Minor threw the pillow back. “Don’t drop a baited hook if you’re—”

“Goodnight, Minor.”

Kennet returned to deWrenne Atelier to collect his commission. His cousins had done a beautiful job. Nestled in the palm of his hand was a one-inch replica of the Hildur. It had a little loop at the bow so it could be threaded onto a chain.

“I’ll need you to ship this,” Kennet said. “It can’t come from my address in the States.”

His cousin smiled, delicately touching the rims of his glasses. “Certainly.”

Kennet wrote the check, gave the address in Rio, then reached in his inside pocket for a small envelope. He held it tight a moment, hoping he’d said all the right things.

Dear Asta,

Forgiven. Please, please don’t tear yourself apart. I have no regrets…other than I should’ve fought harder. Made more of a stand. Moved the earth.

For that, please forgive me.

You left Clayton with my entire heart in your hands. Believe me when I say you still have my heart. And now you have my boat.

Remember this, Asta. Just her and him on the Hildur. Unhurried hearts harkening to the hushed history of helping hands holding hard to happiness.

It was our golden time and I won’t ever forget.

I still love you.

Nyck