Underneath Eilidh had written, The prince built us an ice rink!

Isla stared at it for a long time. He had really gone and made an ice rink. He had really gone and done something for someone else, no thought to himself, just so that Agot would be happy on Christmas Day. This wasn’t something she would ever have thought him capable of before. She blinked, stared at the photograph for a long time.

As she finally turned away from his door, suddenly she heard boots. It couldn’t be. She steeled herself. He was coming back to pick up his stuff, that was all.

He walked slowly: after the excitement of seeing Agot, all his miseries were back. His face was sad, his back stooped, as he got to the top of the stairs. Even Bjårk looked disconsolate next to him. Then he glanced up and saw her, and his face changed completely.

“Were you . . . looking for me?” he asked.

There was a long pause.

“Gaspard was—was wondering where you are,” stuttered Isla.

“But not you.”

Isla shrugged. “I thought you’d be heading back.”

“Where?” said Konstantin instantly. “Where? You know the truth about me. I got thrown out of my own country. Thrown out. And I have heard nothing. Not from my dad, not from anyone. They were more than happy to see the back of me. And now everybody here thinks the same. You’ll all be happy to see the back of me too. So it hardly matters where I go, does it?”

He walked straight past her.

“But you have loads of friends! Everyone knows you,” Isla found herself saying.

“Everyone knows me,” came the voice heading into the room, “and nobody gives a damn.”

And he pushed the door shut behind him.

“I do,” said Isla in a very small voice. “I give a damn.”

There was a squeak as the door pulled open again.

“What?” said Konstantin. “What did you just say?”

Isla was flushed.

“Tell me!”

“I said I give a damn,” she said very quietly.

“You didn’t when you stormed off.”

“I didn’t say I don’t think you’re a jerk.”

He looked deep into her eyes. “But you make me not want to be a jerk,” he said.

“Well, I’m not sure it’s working.”

In response he took her face in his hands.

“I need to ask you,” he said gently, as the mood instantly changed. “I need to check and I need to tell you that my intentions with you . . . are not exactly pure. But. Can I say good? Or at least better. But you make me want to be—”

Before he got to the end of the sentence, she grabbed him and kissed him, hard.

Chapter 70

O f course Gaspard was yelling for them before thirty seconds were up, and no, it couldn’t possibly be, but—was that a smile? A tiny hint of a smile on his face as they catapulted down the back stairs. Surely not.