“Hello, stranger,” said Konstantin, but Fintan didn’t look the same at all. He looked exuberant if anything.

“Happy Christmas, everyone,” he said jovially. “I know you’ll be wonderful today.”

They glanced at one another.

“But also . . . I wanted to announce that Flora is taking over as the proprietor of the Rock!”

They looked at one another.

“What, she wasn’t?” said Konstantin.

“She recruited me,” said Isla. “I thought she was.”

“Who are you?” said Kerry.

In response, Fintan went up and kissed Gaspard in front of everyone.

“I’m just some guy,” he said. “I might have some cheese to sell you.”

Gaspard beamed. Only Isla saw Kerry’s face fall even further and realized, finally, why the silent, stolid girl had followed the mercurial chef when all those around him had tired of it, and her heart went out to her.

“Okay, allez allez allez, ” said Gaspard finally, glancing at the clock. “Starters, please.”

AT ONE P.M. precisely, everyone was seated in the dining room, drinks in hand, canapés circulating, and finally the blessed lutefisk (with smoked salmon, if you’d rather) starter was plated up, and there was a moment, just before service, when Gaspard got them all together and held their hands.

“Well,” he said finally.

Isla was acutely conscious of Konstantin’s hand in hers. She waited for some inspirational words.

“You’ve all been completely, my God, so very, very not useful for so long. But now! Please let us say this will not be another terreeble deesaster. Bless you all!”

And no one said anything, then Konstantin kind of said, “Uh . . . amen?”

And they laughed, and Gaspard rang the bell, and service began.

EVERYWHERE WERE HAPPY faces, thought Flora, looking around as the courses came out, seamlessly and delicious. There were, miraculously, vegan options for the fussy people from London, but good hearty dishes for the older people too: a splendid local beef; goose, of course, delicious; an absolutely stunning lutefisk made in Konstantin’s honor; a chestnut soup of glorious lightness.

The cellar was cheerfully emptied; the new young waitstaff, if not always immaculate, cheerful and sweet. Flora kept looking fairly ferociously at Candace, who rolled her eyes at her. Yes, it was amazing. Yes, she was being chatted up by two frankly incredibly hot men to either side of her, Ed the policeman and Fionn the fisherman, neither of whom she could understand a word of, but really, did it matter when there was this much good food and laughter and quiet music and jollity? Dan had sent a couple of very strangulated, passive-aggressive text messages that had very much made her wonder if someone so uptight was quite right for her, and for God’s sake, she had barely meant to upset his mother. What, she thought, about all the times when she would deliberately want to irritate her in the future? That would be awful. And yes, okay, so she was going to have to file something—that irritating flea Iona was already taking pictures of her. And she didn’t normally eat carbs of any sort, of course, but was that why the roasted potatoes were so good? And “World’s Worst Hotel Comes Up Trumps” wasn’t a bad headline anyway.