brattiest brat in the history of terrible brats,” he said quietly, as Eilidh poured coffee. She looked like she’d been having a very stressful morning. “Would you like another kid? You’ve already got one, it shouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Most people wait till after eight A.M. on Christmas morning to try to give their children away,” said Flora. “Oh dear. We have some lovely presents for you, darling!”
“Is there ice skates?”
Flora blinked. “No . . .” she said. “There might be Shopkins.”
Agot sighed and her chin trembled. “I haaate Shopkins.”
“This is something of a change from her birthday,” whispered Flora.
“I know,” said Innes.
“When she loved Shopkins more than anything on earth.”
“I know.”
“That was only two months ago.”
“Seriously, you don’t even have to keep her, you can sell her to pirates,” said Eilidh, looking a tad too longingly at the champagne Joel was unloading into the fridge.
Agot looked around at the adults, then ran out of the room.
SHE HAD GONE to Flora’s room, her favorite, because it still had Flora’s old Highland dancing trophies and ribbons. Agot had just started dancing, but Flora had found her, on occasion, holding up Flora’s gold medal and announcing, “I would like to thank everyone for this award.”
Flora followed her now, leaving Joel to start breakfast while Eilidh cuddled Douglas and made lots of cooing noises about how nice it was to remember what it was like to have a lovely baby.
Agot was lying facedown on the duvet. She wasn’t doing performative crying, making a big loud fuss about everything so people would hear. Instead, she was sobbing gently, like a real child, rather than the changeling she sometimes resembled.
“Hey,” said Flora. “What’s gone so wrong?”
“Miss Lorna said . . .” sniffed the child. “Miss Lorna said if we were good and wrote to Santa Claus, we would get the thing that we wanted. And I was so very good.”
“Were you?” said Flora doubtfully.
“I did not shout in class! And I did not do chatting chatting chatting, and when Miss Lorna said, ‘Agot, no chatting,’ I did not do chatting. And I took hands with Hamish when it was time to take hands, and I did not say yuck yuck yuck. I was very, very good—ask Miss Lorna!”
“I will do that,” said Flora.
“Everyone says, ‘Agot is very naughty,’” said Agot, looking heartbroken.
“They don’t say that,” said Flora, stroking the girl’s long pale hair.
“Yes,” said Agot, with a resigned look. “‘Agot, she is very naughty and spoiled.’”
“Oh, sweetie.” Flora took the small body in her arms. “Well. You’re still one of the very favorite people I’ve ever met.”
“You love Bugglas now. Everyone loves Bugglas now.”
“There is room,” said Flora. “There is room to love everyone.”
“My mummy and daddy didn’t have room. Then they did.”
Flora hugged the little girl harder. “Grown-ups are complicated,” she said. “And they are very sorry about that. But everything is all right now, isn’t it?”
“But! I did try,” wept Agot. “I did try to be good for Santa. So I could go ice-skating. But he brought me . . .”
And her voice wobbled, on the brink of total collapse.
“Stuuuupppiidddd Shoppppppkinnnnnnssss.”
FLORA STAYED WITH her until, to her surprise, Agot actually dozed off on the bed, having been up at regular intervals till midnight and from two A.M. onward. Flora rather fancied joining her, but it was a very busy day. She tucked the child in and went back to the sitting room, where the pleasant smell of scrambled eggs from the yard and locally smoked salmon was filling the room. Eilidh had given in to temptation and poured everyone a mimosa, which Flora reluctantly refused.
“There’s nowhere for her to skate!” Eilidh was trying to explain. “If I’d given her the stupid skates, there would just be a big tantrum after that!”
“Well, she’s having a sleep,” said Flora. “I’m sure she’ll feel better after she’s woken up.”
“Ready for the big day?” said Innes.
Flora grimaced. It had seemed such a good idea at the time. “You’re asking the wrong person,” she said.
Chapter 66
Fintan woke up curled in the strong arms of Gaspard, snoring gently beside him. It took him a moment to remember, just as he was waking, that they were sleeping in the hotel Colton had paid for, that he had funded and built. That he was betraying the man he loved.
Who was dead.
Suddenly Gaspard’s tattooed arms felt like a trap, felt too heavy on him. He stared at the handsome, scruffy, dissolute Frenchman, whose face, unfurled from its customary snarl, looked younger and