Gaspard had never gotten the point of mincemeat, and he wasn’t about to start now.

“Where is the young prince?”

“He’s not a prince,” said Isla automatically, then wondered why she was defending him. “I don’t know. He might be gone.”

“He is not gone. There are no planes, no boats, nothing. He is lazy. Go wake him up.”

Isla flushed. “I don’t think—”

“Allez! Allez! Now! We have much to do! Go!!”

Isla slinked out of the kitchen, despondent, and mounted the beautiful stairs. Everything looked even more spotless than usual. Gala on the desk was already busy, checking in the very first customers with a broad smile. It was actually happening! After three years, the doors of the Rock were finally open! Bertie the boatman was bringing people round from the village. There was a mix of people who were genuinely interested, people who were there for an ironic break, and, after all the fuss in the papers, some Norwegian star spotters, locals, and even, which would have surprised Joel, some of his old party friends, who were tiring themselves of the London lifestyle and wanted to see what the big draw was up here. The ferry had come in—a special service—but, to Candace’s pure annoyance, wasn’t going back again. The captain was staying for his Christmas lunch too. There was a small group of old friends of Colton’s: graying, fit-looking men who smiled ruefully at one another and traded sad anecdotes. And there was Candace, standing crossly in the middle of the foyer, her plans in ruins. The fact that she had had an unbelievably comfortable bed last night was just irritating.

The waitstaff was already fetching coffee and shortbread for the drawing room as people waited to get checked in to brand-new rooms. There was a palpable air of excitement.

All the way up in the eaves, everything was quiet, the rooms empty. Isla remembered the very first morning she had come here, how shocking she had found him. Well, now it all made sense, she supposed. She hadn’t liked him then. She shouldn’t like him now.

But even so. She remembered his face as the statue went up, the boyish enthusiasm he’d allowed to run riot. Even how nifty he’d gotten with a knife. The look of concentration when his too-long hair flopped over his face. The way his hand had felt in hers . . .

She almost let out a groan. The room was empty. Of course it was. He had gone.

And she was alone, but it was worse than before. Because before, she hadn’t known what she was missing, hadn’t realized there was something bigger out there, hadn’t ever—she hated to admit it to herself—hadn’t ever fallen in love, even if it was with a cad.

Almost out of habit, she glanced at her social media, even though she was terrified of seeing anything about herself in it. Konstantin was in loads of papers, but she ignored it all.

Then she saw one thing, on Eilidh’s Facebook account. It looked impossible, but it was true. A picture of two blonds: Konstantin holding Agot’s hand as they . . . Were they skating ? The clear winter light was hitting their hair; it was beautiful.