There was no answer. She tried again, harder.

“Hello?” she said. Then, louder: “Hello?”

She touched the door, which, to her horror—she had been hoping to turn back and say she hadn’t found him—started to creak open. It was too late now; she was stuck there and would have to hope for the best.

“Uhm . . . Chef sent me upstairs to . . .”

There was still no sound of movement from inside the room. Curious, she pushed the door farther and glanced inside. The bed was completely unmade; possessions were strewn everywhere. But the room was empty of people. And the window was flying open.

She frowned. Surely he wouldn’t have made his escape; they were three stories off the ground. And it was only a job, not prison, whatever he thought. She blinked. Had he gone?

Isla found herself going to the open window, her heart beating quickly. She was struck suddenly by the most horrifying thought: What if he’d fallen? Tried to climb out and slipped on the wet pipes?

It was freezing in the room. The wind blew right in off the sea, and there were little flecks of rain bouncing off and around in the maelstrom. The curtains were dancing; papers were jumping off the desk.

Slowly she advanced.

“Uhm . . . Konstantin?” she said, the odd consonants taking shape in her mouth.

As she moved there was a sudden flurrying noise and a wouf!! as a massive, hairy something exploded in her face. She screamed and dropped her phone.

“What?” came a voice.

Shocked, she’d fallen back a few paces and tripped, sitting heavily down on the unmade bed. There was little space in the room for anything else. A bemused-looking figure with rumpled hair appeared at the window, standing as if in midair, only half his body visible. Isla was so shocked she could barely speak. With his white shirt and pale skin, she thought for one terrifying moment she was looking at a ghost.

“Oh,” he said, eyes wide. “Santa got my letter!”

He had a slightly flat, barely traceable Scandinavian accent. Isla jumped up as if the covers were hot.

“Wh-where . . .” she stuttered. Konstantin showed her that the window of his room let out onto a flat gable—dangerous, unfenced off, but wide enough for his big dog to stand and, she could now see, have a gigantic pee.

“I don’t think you can let your dog pee on the roof.”

His face puckered. “Well, he cannot fly, so you see I have no choice.”

Isla blinked. He shivered and jumped back in through the window, encouraging his clearly overweight dog to do the same behind him, even as he scrabbled and whined for help, and Konstantin ended up hoofing him over ungraciously.

“So what are you, the welcoming committee?” he said, still smiling. He was used to having a certain effect on young women.

“You’re needed downstairs,” stuttered out Isla, pink to the tips of her ears. “It’s time to work.”