Twenty minutes later, the dishwasher has been loaded, the coffee has been poured and the saffron biscuits have been set out on the living-room table. Kore and Eirik are back after a quick visit to the annexe and Marike says something about getting a room and being considerate of their less fortunate friends when she sees them canoodling.

Harry glances their way, a look that signals equal parts discomfort and curiosity.

Marike herself seems to be in fine spirits for once, and her Danish accent is barely noticeable tonight. And yet, Karen knows the only thing standing between this version of her friend and a scary harpy, hissing in an incomprehensible North Jutland slur, is a failed kiln firing. But tonight, Marike Estrup is radiant and there is no sign of the anxiety that will slowly but surely creep over her as her exhibition in New York draws nearer. Karen leans back in her armchair. Be present. It’ll all be over eventually.

Someone has dug out a bottle of Groth’s whiskey and another of rowanberry liqueur and everyone has managed to find somewhere to sit, on the green sofa, in one of the well-worn wingback armchairs or on the old hope chest, which she still hasn’t found the time to lug up to the attic. Her first decision after taking over the house from her mother was to get that monstrosity out of the way: that’s nine years ago now.

Sigrid has sat down on the floor with her legs crossed and her elbows on the coffee table. Karen studies her long black hair – dyed so many times it’s completely lustreless – her tattoo-covered, skinny arms, the ring in her nose, which catches the light from the candles in the brass candelabrum when Sigrid nods eagerly in response to something Kore says. She and Kore actually look a lot alike, Karen realises. At least as far as their hair colour, tattoos and piercings go. Sigrid’s father wouldn’t like that comparison, Karen muses and smugly sips her drink.

Eirik, on the other hand, couldn’t be more different from his partner. In honour of the festive occasion, he is wearing a pink sweater vest over a white shirt he has paired with a subdued grey-striped tie. The creases in his grey trousers are razor sharp. As ever. Good old Eirik, Karen thinks to herself, his sartorial choices are as dependable as his friendship – without him I wouldn’t be here today. Her throat tightens and she lets her eyes move on. With a shudder, she realises her mother and Harry are wearing identical sweaters again, this time Christmas themed with juniper bushes. At least they look happy, she tells herself.