“Come on, angel,” he whispered in his native tongue as he crossed the great figure beaming out brightly across the water, as he trudged up against the wind to the northernmost point of the island and into his little aerie at the Rock, very happy to have Bjårk’s shaggy company. “Now I need a miracle.”

And it occurred to him that he would have to make an offering to the angel before he could receive anything, which was a strange thing to think, but it crossed his mind nevertheless. It had something to do with this place: the interdependence, the kindness of the people.

It struck him forcibly that it was December 23, the day he would have been celebrating Christmas back home in Norway.

The last few years had been stiff affairs: long dinners of lutefisk and ribs, often with worthy charity leaders of the region.

But he remembered long ago when Christmas was still the most exciting thing in the world, when his mother made a treasure hunt through the palace for him and all the local children, excitedly hiding wrapped gifts in every crevice. He remembered her singing, her happy pleasure as she went to parties, looking and smelling magnificent. The palace had been filled with what felt like thousands and thousands of sparkling lights.

Christmas was on the twenty-fifth here, and nobody had so much as known to mention that today was the real thing for him. Nobody knew.

And of course he hadn’t heard from his father—wouldn’t, now that he’d brought down even more disgrace on the family name.

He had come; he had done everything he had been told to do. He could even, grudgingly, accept that his father was right. And now, he had been forgotten.

It hurt, formidably.

On the empty road, as the angel faded behind him, he had never felt lonelier in his entire life, like the only man in a world that had turned very, very cold toward him.

Chapter 64

T he next day was the prep day for Christmas, and Isla, though waking up with a sore head, arranged with Gaspard that she would come in early for the first shift so she could leave early too and she wouldn’t overlap with Konstantin. When Konstantin came down the stairs, he was slightly terrified not to see her there, even after Kerry reassured him she had just worked an earlier shift, which wasn’t ideal either.

Chopping and prepping in a cold kitchen wasn’t remotely as much fun without his little companion by his side. Konstantin had the sinking feeling that nothing would.

He vowed to go find her after he’d finished. Explain to her . . . or at least try.

But it wasn’t all false, that was the problem. He had hated it here. He hadn’t wanted to stay.

Until he’d met her. But would she believe that? He thought again of those awful pictures of him and the models. Okay, he’d thought it was pretty funny at the time. But that wasn’t who he was now, wasn’t how he felt, not at all. Isla was special. He just needed to figure out how to show that.