Agot looked at him like he was an idiot. “An ice rink.”

“I do not do ice rinks.”

Agot sniffed as if to say, So much for you then.

The artist smiled. Then he stood back. He looked at the little girl, then up at the top of the hill and back down.

Agot’s friends (and/or terrified acolytes) had come running up behind her, and the artist walked left and right, looking at them and the hill and back again. Agot put her soggy feet back in her boots and marched off without giving either of them a backward glance.

“I suppose they’re pretty tough up here,” said the artist, almost to himself.

They watched the little crowd weave its way to school, kicking, shouting, laughing, throwing snowballs, tumbling down, scrambling back up again. Parents didn’t need to walk their children to school on Mure, although some did of course. It was safe and close by for almost everybody. They made a merry sight in their red sweatshirts and hats.

“Hmm,” said the artist. “Okay. Okay. I can do it.”

Konstantin felt himself break into a huge grin. “Really?”

“Yes. For the children. Yes.”

Gunnar took out his phone and started taking lots of pictures of the site from all different angles. Konstantin could have skipped.

“Would you like a croissant before you go catch your plane?”

“Christ, no.”

Chapter 38

S o, just to get this straight,” said Joel, who felt a headache coming on. “You don’t actually know what’s turning up?”

They were down at the docks, two weeks later, to pick up the light installation. Gunnar had worked quickly but hadn’t answered any of Konstantin’s emails about what he was actually doing or how big it would be. They needed a power source on the hill, that’s all he knew. Joel was trying to pacify Mrs. McGlone, who was getting slightly worried about what Malcy would say.

“He’s an artist,” said Konstantin, in the hopes that this would prove enough. Innes was standing by with his truck, as was Ed the policeman, and they watched the ferry dock in some nervous anticipation.

It hadn’t occurred to any of them that he couldn’t possibly have such a group of people together loitering on the wharf on a workday without arousing frantic amounts of chitchat and suspicion, and indeed, a lot of people gathered in the Seaside Kitchen to keep an eye on them.

“Who is that new chap anyway?” said Mrs. Brodie suspiciously. “I’m just saying. He’s a bit of a ride and no mistake.”

“Elspeth!” said Flora reprovingly. She glanced out the window. Nobody, she thought, was ever handsomer than Joel, ever. His curly hair, his horn-rimmed spectacles, his long, muscular body . . . She sighed happily. But yes, sure, the blond stranger was cool too, if you liked that lanky Scandi look.

“He’s a ride,” said Mrs. Brodie again, and the Fair Isle knitting group looked up to see whom she was talking about, then vehemently nodded as one before going back to their intricately patterned wool.