The Brogan children went to sleep early that night, though for long hours afterwards Billy could hear them clattering out of bed to gather at the windows and watch the snowy skies above. Billy stayed up later. His mother and father had hidden more gifts in the cranny at the back of the kitchen larder, and as she went off to dig them out, his father brought out a bottle of bourbon he kept hidden for celebrations like this. He poured a measure for himself, then one for Billy as well.

‘Drink up, son. There’s something I want to talk about.’

Billy tasted the bourbon, pretending not to wince as it burned the back of his throat. ‘Some of the Buckingham’s finest, eh, Pa?’

Billy’s father nursed his drink. ‘That’s what I want to speak about, son. Now, I know you. I know you better than anyone, excepting your ma, so don’t go getting up in arms about this. It needs saying. I need to get it off my chest.’ He paused, steeling himself with a breath. ‘I don’t know how you get your suckling pigs and venison. I don’t know how you get these bottles of bourbon and half-bottles of Moët et Chandon. I don’t know how you bring such big tips every time you come home. Now, don’t get me wrong, son, it isn’t that I’m not grateful. I got eight of you bairns, and your mother to think about too. What you do for this family, it’s appreciated more than you’ll ever know. But . . .’

‘Pa, what is it?’

Billy’s father sensed the wariness in his son’s voice. He hesitated before going on.

‘I’m worried for you, son. That’s what it is. You don’t fool me. We look the other way, but maybe that’s not right either. Maybe we’re all complicit. Robbing from where you work, it’s . . . not the Christian thing. There’s right and there’s wrong. Now, what those toffs of yours are throwing away, well, maybe that’s not theft. Who knows? Maybe that hunk o’ red deer got dropped on the kitchen floor, and your dandies are too proud to eat it, all because of a bit of dirt. Well, I’ll never say no to that. I’m a proud man, but not so much as I’d deny my children. But . . . there are lines in life, son. Do you know what I’m saying? There are lines we mustn’t cross, not if we’re good, God-fearing people. And, son, when you come home with your pockets full of silver—’

‘Oh, Pa!’ Billy exploded. ‘It’s Christmas night! You might just say thank you and—’

‘Now, Billy—’