“So what ees this,” said Gaspard, indicating the first butter, and Fintan took him through their processes: the difficulties of getting certified organic; how their cows were smaller, given the grass was not lush this far north but hardy and sweet; and how highland cows were some of the best out there. Gaspard mentioned something about how Brittany cows could almost certainly beat his in a fight, but Fintan didn’t really notice and, after the first bite, neither did anyone else.

Konstantin had originally been slightly taken aback by the shabbiness of the vast old farmhouse kitchen, with its range, piles of papers, back copies of Farmers Weekly, old horse brasses on the walls, a clutch of Agot’s plastic toys in the corner, and old boots lined up by the fire to dry. It wasn’t shabby chic; it was just actually shabby. The plates were mismatched, half from Eck’s old wedding service, with delicate tulips painted on them and scalloped edges, and half modern pastels Flora had ordered from the mainland for the Seaside Kitchen, with the farmhouse benefiting from the overspill and the chipped. There weren’t quite enough chairs, and even the few available were mismatched and a little wobbly on the flagstones, with the rugs here and there.

But it was filled with the scent of the coffee brewing in the little pot on the stove top, as well as the fragrance of warm bread rising in the air, and the sounds of the crackle of the fireplace, the comforting swish swish swish of the dogs’ tails, the ticktock of the ancient grandfather clock in the corner, the gentle twitter of BBC Radio nan Gàidheal in the corner, the pouring of tea into cups, and the clatter and chatter of old conversations steeped into the walls: the daily chat about the weather forecast, the grain price, the good health of sheep.

Sitting down on the least comfortable chair—he had somehow been last to choose; having been used to being offered the best of everything, it was very confusing—Konstantin found his eyes heavy, practically drifting off, as people ate and talked and the clock ticked in his ear. It had been a very stressful time.

“Konstantin? Konstantin?”

There was a voice that sounded like it was coming from far away. He was sure, suddenly, that he was, once again, in trouble for something—knocking off the bursar’s hat or spilling champagne down the exiled princess of Romania again. When he opened his eyes, though, instead he saw a group of people smiling at him. He blinked.

“What do you think of the cheese?”

“I haven’t had any cheese.”

“Your plate is empty.”

Everyone looked at Bjårk, who was licking the inside of his mouth reflectively.

“He likes it,” said Konstantin, blinking.

Gaspard’s face was grave. “You know,” he said, “of course, the only cheese I would really wish to sell is French.”

“We do know,” said Flora brightly. “But you’re not going to!”

“But if I have to—if I absolutely have to serve something else . . .”