This was not one of those times. The wind that had nearly blown Konstantin and Bjårk Bjårkensson off the roof the previous week was bucking harder. The ferry that day had taken a few tries to get to where it needed to be, and even then the passengers disembarked a trifle green. Gusts were flapping smaller cars out of the way—the farm’s and the Rock’s Land Rovers could be trusted to take them the few miles up the narrow bumping track that served as the inland road, but you wouldn’t want to be in a little tin can, however much Flora might have hankered after a chic little pastel Fiat 500.

Gray clouds dropped out of the sky as night was now falling at four P.M. Sheep huddled close to the mountainside, trying to keep themselves warm, and Flora inhaled the scent of sleepy warm baby beneath her in the car and lightly twirled one of his fine black curls, pressed beneath his best woolly hat with ears—all hats came with ears these days, Joel had observed, puzzled as to why.

“That baby is very hairy,” observed Agot from the opposite seat, where she was cross because she was in a baby seat “even though,” she complained the entire way, “I am not that baby.”

“He is.” Flora smiled. “Hairy babies are lucky.”

“Yes,” said Agot. “He is lucky he doesn’t have to sit in a stupid baby’s seat or eat stupid Dead Uncle Colton’s food. ”

“Agot,” remonstrated Innes. She had started calling him Dead Uncle Colton after the funeral, and although Flora had furiously tried to get her to stop, Fintan told her he didn’t mind it. In fact, it was comforting because she brought him into every conversation, every game she played. She didn’t lay a tea table for her dollies (who were usually to be heard getting strict tellings off—who knew where she had even learned them, given that Innes was useless at it and the primary school specialized in encouraging play, not discipline) without including Dead Uncle Colton in the family lineup and was absolutely convinced that he watched every single thing she did. Fintan found it an unending comfort. Flora, watching the little sprite, with her white-blond hair and tiny dancing figure, sometimes wasn’t entirely sure she didn’t see ghosts.

“That’s enough.”

Agot lifted her stubborn little chin and stared out the window crossly, pausing briefly en route to shoot Douglas an utterly filthy look. Flora sighed inside. They were meeting Pam and Charlie there too, so they could “discuss menus.” Please, please, let it go well.

Chapter 15

M eanwhile in the kitchen, all was chaos. Gaspard was shouting, and everyone, it felt like, was crying. The last week had been an absolute trial for everyone, like Big Brother without the calm, cooperative atmosphere. The Norwegian guy was absolutely hopeless, so there was never a pot or pan when you needed it. Kerry wouldn’t do anything without checking with Gaspard first and would stand around doing nothing except eating crisps, which meant Isla being in charge of cakes and puddings and going nuts. Tam was fine, but his job was bringing in supplies; he wasn’t around for long enough to help with anything really useful.