Isla pulled Konstantin back just as they were preparing to enter the kitchen, flushed.

“I—I just wanted to say I don’t care. If you’re here forever or if you’re just passing through or . . . well. I’ve decided. I don’t care.”

He turned to her, hands outstretched. “Darling, I have nowhere else to go. I’m here.”

She looked back at him. “That’s not very flattering.”

He leaned over and kissed her. “And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Happy Christmas.”

She watched him go into the kitchen, put on the freshly laundered whites, and pick up his knife and swish it round, cheerfully and confidently, and her heart blossomed suddenly, full of excitement and thoughts and plans. Maybe . . . Could this happen? She scuttled after him into the kitchen.

FLORA ARRIVED IN her best red dress, the diamond bracelet, and the brand-new ring and with a smile the size of the Endless Beach, because after all it wasn’t every day you got engaged and became the manager of the loveliest hotel for miles around and stood in the foyer smiling and welcoming everyone in.

She’d tell the kitchen later. And also have some quite strong words with them about how they spoke on the record about the business.

There was an empty table vacated by the councilors, led by Malcy, with Pam and Charlie out in solidarity, but she’d managed to fill it, so the boycott was hardly going to cause them too much trouble.

Because otherwise it was such an interesting group of people: hipsters, possibly looking for a giggle; proper, serious-looking foodies with guidebooks, including one or two who followed Gaspard wherever he went; locals, of course; some older people from the mainland who had seen past the daftness of the videos and into the loveliness of the remote surroundings; and, she even noticed, some old flames of Konstantin’s, looking around for the “prince.”

She smiled. He may not be a prince, and he may have done some pretty questionable things, but she couldn’t help smiling, thinking about how happy Agot had been that morning.

At 12:45 P.M. , all the MacKenzies turned up, Douglas resplendent in a ridiculous baby-shaped full tartan outfit, courtesy of Marsha and Mark, of course, but gurgling happily in his increasingly heavy car seat. Fintan had changed back into a paisley shirt and soft jumper, and his face looked a decade younger. He shot straight off into the kitchen, for possibly the first time ever. Joel and Flora looked after him, confused.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

Joel laughed.

“What??” said Flora.

He shrugged. “It’s just . . . we always thought I was the type A in this relationship, Mrs. Booker.”

“People change,” she said, kissing him and closing her eyes with happiness just being near him, as she always did, because she always was.

“ NO FALLING DOWN ,” Gaspard was saying severely. Bjårk Bjårkensson was imprisoned upstairs just in case, which he was dealing with by steadily ripping apart every single one of Konstantin’s socks, which was going to make it slightly ironic that he wouldn’t be able to complain about getting socks for Christmas this year, because he wasn’t getting anything that year. Everyone was lined up ready to go. Kerry was looking more furious than ever as Fintan came into the kitchen.