He pulled on his hat and headed out into a wild, windy day, utterly despondent. All of Colton’s dreams, all of everything he’d invested in this land he loved so much. He’d entrusted it to Fintan and he’d mooched around being depressed and ignoring the business, and now it was all going to be ruined because he’d just been too damn sad to do it properly.

Which made him feel even worse than he did before.

Outside, he was fully at the mercy of the elements, and the weather reflected his mood. There was absolutely no difference between sky and sea at all; everything was a tempest in gray and steely blue, the line in the horizon merely a suggestion. No ships were to be seen, just a simple single spiraling world of ferocious North Atlantic fury, the hills and the crags equally gray as the spray hitting them. Gulls and terns huddled together against the tempestuous fury. As Fintan walked over to the tiny pier, seals splashed around in the shallow water, barking like dogs and looking excited at the influx of new creatures and fish the storm would land them.

Fintan ignored them. Where would Gaspard be? Propping up a corner of the Harbour’s Rest bar was entirely possible, if Inge-Britt was even awake.

Burying his hands in his arctic overcoat, Fintan headed slowly against the wind in the direction of the Endless Beach. Nobody would be crazy enough to go out on a day like this, surely. But then who could predict Gaspard’s mood? Fintan decided to take the long way round, try to work out a little of his panic and bad temper, and hopefully by the time he reached the Harbour’s Rest he would have calmed down sufficiently not to carry on yelling at everyone: he was so tired—so very, very, very tired—of being so angry, of being so sad, of being so lonely.

FINTAN MADE OUT the figure from afar; it was the only black shape on the white sand, the gray sky and sea, the heavy hail and rain, swirling around it—it was as filthy a day as could be imagined. He stepped forward a little, then a little more. The figure was trying to light a cigarette, an absurdly futile task on a day like this, or in fact on quite a lot of days on the Endless Beach. He was cowering behind a sandy dune, but it didn’t seem to be doing much good. Fintan watched him. He was absolutely furious—it was clear, even from a distance—flicking angrily at his Zippo and kicking the sand in dismay.

He moved forward. As soon as Gaspard spotted him he started screaming at him, first in French, then, as he grew closer, in English.

“What the hell have you done? What is this nonsense! You breeng me here, you breeng me to this place in the meedle of nowhere, and I cook for you and want to make things nice for you, and you make me look eediot, eediot in front of whole world. Thees is funny for you? Thees is a joke with all your friends, watch Gaspard, he fall over now, ees this funny? Ees it?”