Chapter 53

I t felt all kinds of wrong, following a woman, but Konstantin just wanted them to be alone, that was all.

He wondered where she lived and what it was like, but he didn’t have to wait long. Up the second of the high cobbled streets in the village, behind the main street and the docks, Isla, with her friends carrying on, stopped at a tiny pretty cottage painted bright pink, with light glowing in the windows.

It was a small house, but cute as a button, and Konstantin smiled when he saw it; it suited her. Small and adorable, like a little mouse’s house.

He meant to stop her before she got home, and he could see her glancing around, presumably for him, but just as he was trying to work out a way to do that without startling her, the door flung open, revealing a tiny, furious-looking woman.

“What time do you call this?”

“Mum,” said Isla patiently, in that pretty voice he liked. “It was the MacKenzies’ nativity party! You were invited! You should have come!”

“Waste of bloody time, parties.”

“Well, anyway, I was working.”

“Yup. As usual treating you like a bloody servant. You’re meant for better than this, darling.”

“Mum . . . can we talk about it later . . . ?”

She sounded conciliatory, soothing. Tired. He could see what her loss had done to her, to them. He thought of how his father had tried to do the right thing, had tried to be kind and how he had let him down. He found he had a lump in his throat.

“Did you bring me anything to eat?” Isla’s mother sounded demanding.

“No, but I can make you an omelet if you like? We’ve got eggs.”

“Go on then. If you’re not tired?”

“No,” said Isla, sounding exhausted.

And the door closed shut, and Konstantin turned away, sad for all the little things.

Chapter 54

T he next morning, despite the threat of Mure civil war over the statue, and Christmas being two days away, Konstantin felt better. He was up early, playing with Bjårk out frolicking in the snow.

He contrived to be out throwing a ball on the side lawn near the entrance Isla always came in, despite the fact that it was both pitch black and minus 1 degree, which, though Konstantin could handle, Bjårk was very much not a fan of. Still, he had a plan that involved hot chocolate and some Norwegian ginger boller he’d baked before he went outside. He was ridiculously proud of himself: the idea that he could just go in and look up a recipe and then make it would have been, just a couple of months ago, as alien to him as flying in the air would have been. It was amazing, he thought, as he had left them to rise, that of all the things he would like doing in his life, working in a kitchen would be one of them.