“I get it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I like your face. Very much.”

There was a very long pause after that, as a flustered Isla dried and redried a cup because she had forgotten what she should do with it.

Konstantin found himself staring at the suds. “My dad sent me away,” he said.

“You’re kidding.”

“I think he got sick of looking at me. I think I was quite annoying.”

“He sent you here?”

“Well, I had to go somewhere. First away to school, then, when I still wouldn’t be what he wanted . . . he sent me here . . .”

“He turned you out?”

Konstantin shrugged.

“Oh God,” said Isla. This was her worst fear, that her mother would just tell her to go, because where would she go?

“Well, it could be worse,” said Konstantin. “You know, I like the mince pies you have here.”

“Oh my God,” said Isla. “I can’t believe . . . No wonder you were miserable.”

“I sometimes think,” said Konstantin, “that my mother was my only protector . . .”

“Yes! My dad, he just thought . . . he thought I was great. He thought everything I did was kind of cute and funny . . .”

“. . . even when I was naughty . . .”

“Sometimes I think he liked it when I was naughty. Like we were ganging up against my mum . . .”

“Yes! We were a gang and then . . .”

There was a silence and Isla looked at the hurt and the pain in his eyes, and suddenly, without realizing it, he slammed his hand down hard, and it splashed into the water and sent white soapy bubbles everywhere, including onto Isla’s nose. She looked at the mess for a second and he looked at her, worried about her reaction.

The next second, she too had splashed in the water, her hand sending a great big gout of foam up onto his hair.

Surprised, he laughed and immediately splashed back, and in two seconds they had gone from feeling miserable to laughing almost hysterically and having a massive foam fight.

As he rubbed some off her nose while trying to get some more of the foam down her neck, she found herself suddenly, willingly, drawn closer and closer to him, and she reached up a finger to wipe the big daub of suds off the tip of his nose, and suddenly he took her hand, gently this time, and put it on his cheek, looking at her, his blue eyes full of intent, his hand large and soft and warm. Color flooded to her cheeks, but she did not turn away, and instead turned and looked up at him, eyes wide.

He looked at her trusting face, eyes wide open, and got such a start. He brought his other hand up—still damp, but that didn’t matter—took her little heart-shaped face in it, tilted it up toward him as she moved toward him, a little closer, a little closer, without either of them taking their eyes off of each other. There was noise, of course, outside from the party—fiddles and Nollaig songs—but here in the little back utility, it felt quiet suddenly, and everybody else seemed very far away.