‘It was considerate and thoughtful of the girls to put us first, and give us the bigger room. They’re most unselfish,’ Brigid remarked.

‘I should hope so, they were always traits I encouraged in my daughter and granddaughter when they were growing up,’ Imelda declared, taking ownership of the locker beside the double bed, placing her clock, tablet container and book beside the lamp.

Pity you didn’t practise them yourself, Brigid thought crossly, as she unpacked her nightgown and slippers. It would have been an unaccustomed luxury to spread herself out in the comfort of a double bed. Her beds in the convent and the Four Winds were single divans. Sleeping in the double bed in the hotel the previous night had been a real treat.

She felt grumpy and resentful, the high of Rosslyn wearing off at the prospect of spending a night in such close proximity with her sister. It had been Imelda’s choice to share a room on the trip to Mull. She should have drawn her boundary and said she wanted a room of her own. It was her own fault, Brigid acknowledged, and that made her even more vexed. She glanced out the window, trying to ignore her irritation. A scatter of twinkling house and street lights dotted the darkness outside, and the hint of dim shadow in the distance, where Iona lay, made Brigid wish for morning’s reveal as she drew the curtains on the window that was at the front of the house, while Imelda did the same to the window facing the ferry jetty.

Keelin’s knock on the door brought her back to earth.

‘Are you ready for dinner?’ her niece called.

Brigid, being nearest the door, opened it to allow Keelin to enter.

‘Just unpacking, dear.’ She smiled at her beloved niece and her heart lifted. How Imelda and Keelin could be mother and daughter was a mystery to her. They were chalk and cheese. Keelin had inherited her father’s gentle traits, for sure.

‘Oh my goodness, the aromas that are floating up the stairs are to die for. I’m ravenous,’ Keelin groaned. ‘Isn’t it a stroke of luck that our host is a real chef?’

‘I’m famished myself,’ Imelda declared, running a hairbrush through her hair, and touching up her lipstick.

How Imelda could be famished was a mystery to Brigid. Her sister had scoffed her way through sweets and chocolate bars for the entire car and ferry journey.

Are you hungry, Mère?’ Keelin smiled at her.

‘I’ll certainly enjoy my dinner, Keelin, I haven’t eaten since lunch, apart from the Danish on the ferry.’ She refrained from saying, unlike some people. ‘Eating between meals is not our way in the convent, so I’m used to it.’