SAIF, FOR ONCE, wasn’t thinking about Lorna. Instead he was staring, for the umpteenth time, at his most recent letter from the Home Office, asking him to come in for a visit. It wasn’t for him—he had his indefinite right to stay. It wasn’t about the boys. Which left . . . what? Was it his wife?

A scientist by bent, a doctor by profession, he had been rigorously trained not to speculate but to deduce, carefully; never to jump to wild conclusions.

It was proving extraordinarily difficult.

UP AT THE hotel, it was quiet—Gaspard was talking to suppliers, and there was no dummy lunch service that day. And Isla knew today was the day the Christmas trees arrived—everyone on Mure knew, it was quite the excitement—so was happy to be heading down to the port to see everyone.

She pulled on her old gray coat, which looked jollier when she added her tam-o’-shanter and a red scarf. It had been a present from Flora the year before, and she thought it was a little showy—red was such a big color—but it suited her dark hair and pink skin, and it was made of very good lambswool.

Just as she left the Rock she happened upon Konstantin, who was out throwing a stick across the wide white lawn for Bjårk, who was gamboling toward it in a leisurely fashion. He was rather overweight for a dog, but Konstantin tossed the stick over and over again regardless, his long arm stretching up into the air of the now bright blue sky, sending the stick far and true.

He looked boyish and, for the first time, truly carefree, not shackled to a kitchen he despised, in a world he didn’t understand. The hangdog look was almost completely gone.

She found herself watching him for a while; there was nobody in the hotel on this side, he obviously didn’t realize he was observed.

“Sing med myg!” he shouted. “Mitt hjerte alltid vanker . . .”

He sang loudly and quite well. To Isla’s amazement, Bjårk immediately sat his capacious bottom down on the snow, pushed back his head, and howled loudly along to the sky.

“I Jesus føderom . . .”

“Aooo!”

Isla couldn’t help it, she giggled aloud, and Konstantin whirled round, his cheeks bright red, his white teeth showing.

He stopped as soon as he saw her and his face immediately took on that closed look again, and she remembered once more with horror how he had overheard her talking to Iona.

In fact, for an instant, Konstantin hadn’t recognized the shy little scullery maid who hated him in this pink-cheeked laughing girl in the beautiful red scarf, her long dark hair streaming underneath it down the back of her coat. His first instinct was to smile, then he’d realized awkwardly who it actually was and set his face.

Bjårk had no such compunction and bounded up to her happily. You couldn’t really ever say a Mure person was frightened of dogs; there were so many dogs it would be ridiculous, like saying you were frightened of sand, but nonetheless Isla remained a timid sort and her mother had always warned her away from them. Gingerly, she put her hand out a little. Bjårk sniffed it, disappointed as soon as he worked out there was no treat in it, but nonetheless wormed his way under her hand and pushed his ears in her direction so she could scratch underneath them, which, slightly tentatively, she did.