“I’m sure she wouldn’t,” said Flora, watching Mrs. Laird cackle once again. “But yeah, let’s not take the risk.”

“I wish . . .” said Lorna. “I wish I could give him up.”

“There are men here,” said Flora.

“There are men everywhere,” said Lorna. “Have you seen the Highlands Tinder?”

Flora allowed that she had not.

“Loggers. Fishermen. Farmers. Renewable power analysts. Rig workers. Ferrymen. The Highlands has about ninety percent of Britain’s available men and a lot of them are fit.”

“But . . .” said Flora softly.

“But none of them are him.”

“You do look beautiful,” said Flora again.

“Thanks,” said Lorna, reminding herself not to drink too much. The temptation to go over to his house would be huge, and the repercussions potentially disastrous. The idea of waking the boys was so unutterably traumatic and disgusting she couldn’t bear it.

“More fizz?” said Flora eagerly.

“No,” said Lorna regretfully, covering the top of her glass with her freshly manicured hand. “No, thank you.”

The doors to the kitchen were suddenly flung open, and Flora turned her head interestedly to watch the food come out. Instead, she was greeted with absolute mayhem.

IN BJÅRK’S DEFENSE, he had been cooped up in Konstantin’s bedroom a lot, and even when he was taken out, it was for gloomy walks around the small headland north of the hotel, as Konstantin looked out at the wind farms across the water and felt terribly sorry for himself.

It wasn’t entirely his fault that he needed some exercise, plus he was desperate for company. Back at the palace it was considered perfectly normal for Bjårk to wander the hallways, almost always ending up in the kitchen, where the staff spoiled Bjårk as much as they spoiled Konstantin; there was always a tidbit or two for them, as he obligingly accepted treats, hugs, and confidences.

“Let’s go!” a voice shouted loudly, which sounded very much like what they called out—“La oss gå!” —in Norway when they were chasing stags through the woods, or racing their horses across a crisp snowy field, just for the fun of it, as the low winter sun made everything sparkle like diamonds. “Let’s go” was a call to arms, a call to run.

And Bjårk, lonely, bored, on his way to the kitchen to see what smelled so absolutely wonderful, couldn’t help but respond to it.

Like a big furry bullet, he shot straight through the kitchen and through the door, bang, straight into one of the waitresses, who shrieked and toppled the artful collection of plates on the wide tin tray. The noise it made was unbelievable. Someone in the room screamed as well, so surprised by the sudden cacophony. This startled Bjårk so badly he plowed headlong into the nearest table, knocking it straight over, drenching several white shirts with bright red wine. Someone else started yelling. Now there was a rampage.

Gaspard appeared at the door.

“Mon dieu! The dog! The dog!! Breeng heem to me! I shall keel him and serve him as delicious next course!!”