“Bye, Mum,” she said.

“Aye well. Good luck then,” said her mother grudgingly as she left, and Isla reminded herself that her mother loved her and wanted the best for her, even when it felt unpleasant.

A nor’wester was blowing down from the arctic circle straight into Mure and made walking in a straight line quite difficult, but it wasn’t far to the little Seaside Kitchen, down two cobbled streets and on the seafront.

The little café was always warm: the baking ovens through the back never really quite cooled down, and on freezing winter mornings it was cozy even before she lit the golden lamps that, together with the cheery spotted tablecloths and the pretty pictures on the wall, made the café so inviting. Iona would already be brewing up coffee, and together they could make a start on the scones, pies, tarts, and cakes for the day, while Mrs. Laird popped off the freshly baked bread. The coffee machine would hiss and grind in a comforting fashion, and the day could begin. And it wouldn’t be long before the first chilled worker arrived, fresh from milking or a fishing boat or waiting on the earliest ferry of the morning.

Chapter 2

T wo hundred miles to the east, the expensive sheets of the bed were ruffled and crumpled. A pale figure was lying on them unconcerned and snoring heavily. The thick scent of stale beer was in the air.

A short man with an exceedingly tidy haircut entered the vast room, paused in front of the bed, and coughed loudly. Nothing happened.

“Ahem,” said the man.

There was an unpleasant hacking cough from the bed, followed by a snorting and some grunting. A large arm grabbed the shiny coverlet and pulled it over.

“Go away, Johann,” came a very croaky voice, muffled beneath the covers.

“Johann has been sent away,” said the man.

There was a pause in the room.

“Huh?”

The young man who emerged from the covers had fair hair sticking up in every conceivable direction, a very tiny amount of stubble, and a confused look in his round blue eyes, which became markedly rounder as he registered whom he was talking to.

“Pappa,” he said, and there was a notable tremor in his voice.

He clutched the covers round him. The man staring at him looked disappointed. Again.

“Uhm,” said the boy, whose name was Konstantin. “I mean, hello. Good to see you. You don’t normally . . .”

He glanced around at the large, lavish suite. There were pillars in the corners, gilt on the cornicing, and vast, ancient mirrors lining one wall.

Unfortunately there were also underpants and socks on the floor, empty bottles, books scattered everywhere, a snorting, piglike dog called Bjårk, who hadn’t woken up yet but had left muddy paw prints all over the wildly expensive rug and black-and-white tiled floor, and at least four towels.

“I don’t normally come here, no,” said the boy’s father, whose name was also Konstantin. There had been Konstantins, in fact, all the way back to the early seventeenth century, when they had first become dukes of Hordaland and the grand castle had been built on the beautiful Forgalfanna peninsula. Titles in Norway had been theoretically abolished. Of course, everyone still knew. An unbroken line. Which, the older Konstantin reflected sadly, was about to be broken when he kicked his dissolute only son down the 118 curved marble steps of the grand entrance hall. “Because it’s a revolting pigsty.”