“Just chop it,” she hissed. She couldn’t believe they hadn’t gotten more prep done this afternoon, but apparently Gaspard had been out and become distracted by a field full of wild garlic he hadn’t been expecting, as a result of which she was now chopping up head after head of them to stud the lamb. She smelled pungent, she knew, and it would be seeping through her pores for days.

She snuck a look at Konstantin. He was doing a truly horrible job, hacking away at the defenseless onion like it had insulted him in some way. Isla edged away from him a little. Konstantin noticed and hacked again even more viciously. Great. Here he was locked in a dungeon in a howling storm, and even the kitchen girl didn’t want to talk to him. He wanted to tell her that where he came from, the girls who worked in the kitchen loved him . . . then he started thinking of what was going on at home right now. The run-up to Christmas in Norway was incredibly beautiful. The Christmas markets went up early, and the delicious scent of glogg filled the air, as the warm, gingery mulled wine was poured over crushed almonds and raisins in the bottom of the glass and topped with a little aquavit that lifted the entire warming scent of Christmas in your two hands, steam curling off the top.

This year they had had early snow; you could see it on the hills, which were thick with it and dark fir trees that seemed to go on for miles.

They’d take the horses out and go steeplechasing even as the snow fell thickly and the night came on early, finishing with drinks before a roaring fire at the lodge his father kept up near Lillehammer. After Christmas, as the weather hardened, there was skating and of course skiing, the toughest courses, the fastest mountains, to build up your appetite for long hearty lunches filled with laughter and bonhomie at the best time of year.

Here the snow was pathetic, wet and bitty, he thought fiercely. It would barely lie at all, totally useless with all this wind.

Up until now he’d felt only cross and annoyed at being, according to him, kidnapped and forced into servitude.

Now it felt worse than that. He felt exiled from everything he loved. He thought of the pretty houses of Trondheim, of heading out into the woods to catch a glimpse of the northern lights, of sitting in the hot tub at his friend’s cabin. He was almost unbearably homesick. And he’d had to hide Bjårk in his room to keep him out of the kitchen, which wasn’t going to work well for very long, judging by the impassioned moaning that had started up as soon as he’d closed the door.

He heaved a great heavy sigh and looked down on his work again, just in time to watch the incredibly sharp knife Gaspard had brought him slice deeply into his thumb.