Isla thought it was a good chance to ask him more about himself, but he skillfully deflected every question.

“No—tell me about you.”

She shrugged. “There is nothing to tell about me. Well, I was born here. In the house my father was born in and his father and so on.” She smiled.

“And is your father still there?”

Her face changed immediately. “No,” she said. “He died. When I was small.”

Suddenly she had his full attention. “How small?”

“Eight,” she said, the very memory of it making her want to roll up in a ball all over again. It had lessened, of course, a bit. But one of the massive benefits of living on Mure was that everyone knew her, and everyone had known Roddy too and liked him very much. And she never had to tell anyone why she was so quiet—she didn’t used to be—and she didn’t have to explain how her world had been torn apart, because everyone understood.

She hid her face a little, carried on drying in silence. She didn’t want to see his pitying face.

But when she looked up, his face wasn’t pitying at all. He was nodding.

“I was fourteen,” he said, his voice sounding slightly strangulated.

“Your dad?” said Isla.

“My mum. Cancer.”

Isla nodded. They were both quiet for a little while. It was, somehow, oddly relaxing to be able to tell people who understood. Because most people went, “Oh, I’m so sorry, that must have been terrible,” which of course was true, but they didn’t feel it, didn’t really know what it was like to have your world cracked in two.

“How was your mum?” said Konstantin.

Isla bit her lip. She had to defend her mother. She knew other people had harsh words for how bitter Vera Donnelly had turned and how she’d taken it out on the wee lass. She wasn’t stupid. And she would never ever have spoken to anyone on Mure about it, not even Iona.

But somehow, in the presence of someone from somewhere else—someone who understood, someone who, for all his annoying ways, was clearly and very simply kind—she felt something she hadn’t felt for many years.

She wanted to talk. She wanted to speak.

“Very . . . very difficult,” she stammered.

Konstantin nodded and didn’t say anything, waiting for her to go on.

“I think,” she said, “she was so very angry at him for dying. He died young, didn’t leave us with much. And it was just me. I think she might have taken it out on me. I don’t think she meant to,” she added.

“Do you look like him?”

“Apparently yes,” said Isla dryly. “But not in a way she likes.”

Konstantin nodded again, adding more hot water to the suds. “Yeah,” he said. “Your looks come out in all the ways they hate. It hardly seems fair, does it?”

“I can’t help my stupid dad’s face,” said Isla, then laughed suddenly. “Sorry, that sounded so furious.”