“Well, I’m guessing it’s too late for planning,” said Joel reluctantly.

“Oh no, there’s retroactive planning for the lights! We just diverted the money instead, but it’s all totally allowed. Oh, this is so wonderful! When are they going up?” Mrs. McGlone cleared her throat. “Will you be needing . . . someone important to turn them on?”

“Oh God, I suppose I’d better book someone,” said Joel.

“Oh,” came the voice. “I see.”

“Or perhaps . . . I don’t know . . . maybe you could do it?”

“Oh, do you really think so?” came the voice in full gush again. “Well, I must say it would be an absolute honor! Let me clear my diary! This is wonderful.”

And she hung up, leaving Joel staring at the computer, fervently pissed off. This was all he needed.

Fortunately for Joel, every company in the world, it seemed, that did lights on the mainland was already booked up and booked out. Except, unfortunately, Mrs. McGlone had rushed straight to the Seaside Kitchen, and the island’s equivalent of Instagram had now announced to absolutely everybody that they were going to get proper Christmas lights! On the promenade! In memory of Colton, and she was going to do the switching on, wasn’t that wonderful? “I know, I can’t believe they asked me, you’d think they’d want a celebrity!!”

Then she would give a little pause so the person would say, “Oh, you are basically a celebrity,” which, to give her credit, most of the time they kindly did, and very soon Joel couldn’t leave the house without Jonny from the fiddle band coming up and offering to play for him, or one of the kids from the school running up wide-eyed and saying, “When are the lights coming? Are the lights coming today? Is it today? ”

THE NEXT DAY Joel headed up to the Rock with Flora to grab some paperwork, dodging the Murians who came their way to express gratitude and thanks for something that hadn’t even happened yet.

Flora had contrived to find herself there as usual—this was not surprising, but seeing Fintan there too was—and she beamed with delight when she saw him. “Come eat!” she said, smiling. “There is some good stuff going on here. We’re going to show all those bastards.”

Indeed there was. Instead of the usual shouting and screaming, there was an atmosphere of quiet reverence.

“What’s going on?” whispered Joel.

“Disgusting things,” snapped Gaspard, who was unwrapping something white from a pot with the steamer on.

“It’s lutefisk,” whispered Isla. “He likes it.”

Konstantin was standing there shrugging. “What? It was just a suggestion.”

“Ten days! The fish has been there for ten days, ” said Gaspard crossly.

“I didn’t make you make it!”

“You said, ‘Gaspard, you couldn’t make lutefisk,’” growled Gaspard.

“Exactly!” said Konstantin, frustrated. “So, that is the end of it.”

“That is the challenge !” said Gaspard.

“French people,” said Konstantin crossly.

“Exactement,” said Gaspard. “French people will not eat fish that is ten hours old . Thees ees ten days old .”