The noise from the crowd was remarkably pleasing. Not everyone clapped and many had glowering expressions and folded arms. But I’d won over enough people that there weren’t tumbleweeds blowing across the stage. That was enough for me.

I strolled to the front and made a sweeping bow. I wouldn’t let anyone see that I was disappointed at not winning. I turned round and Carnegie gazed sourly at me as I bowed my head. He managed to drop the medal round my neck without brushing my skin. I wondered if he’d practised that move beforehand.

The drum roll started up once more and lights danced across the stage, finally stopping in a circle round Byron. Rather than looking happy, he looked uncomfortable.

‘And the winner of the 2016 Sidhe Highland Games is Byron Moncrieffe!’

Naturally the applause for Byron was the loudest and it seemed as if the very walls of the auditorium rocked. There was a large group of girls – and older women – who screamed his name and flashed considerable cleavage. I shot a sidelong look at Tipsania but she was staring ahead, not looking at the supposed love of her life. I couldn’t work out why she wasn’t happier. She hadn’t won, and she’d still have to navigate the minefield of dealing with her relationship with a Wild Man, but Byron was about to release both of them from their awkward charade. That could only be a good thing, right?

Byron strode forward, his discomfort unable to disguise his confident, sexy, swagger. There were more girlish screams but he didn’t pause to acknowledge the crowd. He simply walked up to the Carnegie MC and shook his hand. He wasn’t even smiling.

‘Byron Moncrieffe,’ Carnegie purred, thrusting the microphone in his direction. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Fabulous.’

He didn’t look as if he felt fabulous. His mouth was pressed in a grim line. My skin buzzed with Kirsty Kincaid’s stolen Gift as I recognised the lie. Going by Byron’s expression, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he punched Carnegie rather than shaking his hand. Maybe it was supposed to be Sidhe stoicism in the face of victory, another one of those damned honour ideals which had about as much substance as an eyelash in a hurricane.

Carnegie picked up the winner’s gold medal and it caught the light, glittering and twinkling as it spun. I felt a moment of bitter regret that I quickly quashed. Byron deserved this moment, much as it galled me to admit it; when it really counted, he’d been better than me.

He bowed his head, permitting Carnegie to drop the medal over his head. Byron’s hand briefly touched the metal disk then he turned to face his adoring public. The roar of cheers was extraordinary.