The toast pops up, half black, and Anna takes a knife to it, buttering savagely. “Gay,” she says, licking a finger.

Maeve picks a green apple from the buffet. “Got it. Thanks for the heads-up.”

But when she looks back, something’s gone wrong outside. Dan strides forward and almost rips the camera from Justin’s hands. Maybe he didn’t realize he was being filmed after all? Maeve stiffens. She can hear him yelling, even through the glass.

Beside her, Anna shakes her head, but she doesn’t seem bothered. “Oooooooh, he got in trou-ble!”

Maeve shines her apple thoughtfully on her sweater. Maybe she’s too sensitive to conflict after living with Iain for so long. Out in the yard, Dan goes back to what he was doing and Justin composes himself, flexing his shoulders, smoothing his jacket against his chest. He’s a stylish kid. Seems a shame for him to be stuck out here in the middle of nowhere.

She’s pulling away from the window when Karo walks in, efficient and businesslike in a pom-pom hat.

“So,” she says. “And then there were seven.”

“That’s it? No more arrivals?” Anna says. “All by our lonesome?”

“Skeleton staff will still come in a few days a week. All part of the charm of being here off-season, my dear. Think of it this way: we have an excellent opportunity for ghost stories.”

“The shadowy trees outside my studio are an A-plus location if you’re looking to be spooked,” Maeve says.

“You didn’t come to dinner! I wanted to introduce you around.” Karo steps to the coffee urn, fills her cup. Then, turning to Anna, her tone conspiratorial: “Did you get your footage?”

Anna shakes her toast.

“I’m hoping it’ll turn into a performance piece. I have to sneak up on him.” She turns to Maeve. “Her artiste—Sim Nielssen. I’m trying to get a peek at his installation.” Anna points her thumb out to the lobby, toward the heavy oak doors Maeve noticed on her way in. “He won’t let anyone in there to see.”

“You have to wait for the surprise,” Karo singsongs. She sips her coffee, and her face changes. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? To have a secret project.” A fleeting sadness to her tone, before she recovers almost as quickly, leaning out to the lobby. “Ah! Here’s my boy.”

Maeve swivels despite herself, but it’s Justin at the front doors, meticulously brushing the snow from his sleeves. He has a skier’s sun-bleached streak through his hair. She watches him navigate the ring of chairs in the lobby, heading in their direction. He doesn’t look any worse for wear after whatever strange argument just occurred. He’s still got the camera in his hands, at chest level.

Then Maeve realizes he’s filming—capturing the three women as he walks.