Sophie stared blankly at the other woman. His dad? Lucien had told her that his father was dead.

"Are you sure?"

Kate nodded. "He got a call a couple of days back and flew straight out."

"Do you know when he's coming back?"

Kate shook her head. "I don't. He's handling all of his calls and emails from Norway, and asked me to cancel his meetings. He's been a bit weird lately, but then I suppose you would be if your father had just been read his last rites, wouldn't you?"

There was the sound of a trilling phone from the reception desk. Kate shrugged apologetically and clicked briskly back to reception to take the call, leaving Sophie alone and frowning outside Lucien's office.

He'd definitely told her that his father had died, but Kate had seemed pretty certain of her facts just now. Had he lied? And why? Sophie made her way out slowly out of the building, but she didn't turn towards home. She turned the other way instead and headed towards the string of shops further along the road, towards the little travel agents she'd often walked past on her way to lunch.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Lucien kicked the snow from his heavy black boots as he stood outside his father's attorney's office. The streets of Tromso looked impossibly festive, snow-capped wooden buildings housing cosily lit shop interiors, glossy fir garlands draped with illuminated red hearts strung from building to building as far as the eye could see. It was a far cry from the sophisticated gloss of Christmas in London. Not that he was especially fond of Christmas wherever he happened to be in the world. It was a time for families, and for children, and for people who could suspend disbelief and enjoy the childish magic of a fairy tale for a little while. He'd spent his last few Christmas days alone at work, and he'd prefer to spend the time there again this year rather than here. He'd rather be anywhere but Norway at Christmas.

He pushed open the old, half-glassed door, not looking forward to seeing the elderly man who waited beyond it. He'd been here as a child, tagging along with his father, but never as a grown man.

The middle-aged receptionist glanced up as he approached the small, old-fashioned window hatch, ducking slightly to make eye contact with her.

"I have an appointment." The Norwegian words came naturally to him; it was his mother tongue, even though his slightly rusty accent probably marked him out as a stranger in Tromso nowadays.

She nodded, wide eyed. "Just a moment."

Lucien eyed the small, empty waiting room and paced to stand by the window. She clearly knew who he was and who he was here to see, but that didn't come as much of a surprise. The woman reappeared a moment later, smoothing her hand over her short curly hair. "This way please."

Olaf Karlsen stood as Lucien entered his office, much older and more weathered than the robust man who hovered amongst Lucien's childhood memories. His handshake was reserved but firm as he gestured for Lucien to take a seat opposite him at his desk.

"It's been some years, Lucien."

Lucien's mouth twisted a little. "Yes."

"May I ask if you've visited your father since you've arrived home?"

"Not yet." He regarded the older man levelly across the table. He was here in this office at Olaf Karlsen's request, just as he was in Norway at Olaf Karlsen's request.

"This is delicate, Lucien." Olaf looked down and withdrew a letter from the drawer of his desk. "Your father gave me this several years ago. He instructed me to give it to you in the event of his death." He pushed the pale envelope across the desk slowly.

Lucien made no move to pick it up.

"He isn't dead yet."

"No." Olaf stroked his short grey beard. "No, he isn't. But he's very unwell, and unlikely to pull through."

Lucien didn't want to hear any of this.

"Keep it."

The attorney fixed Lucien with his pale, steady gaze.

"Off the record... I have remained friends with your father over the years, and given his failing health I feel certain that he would wish you to have this sooner rather than later."

Something about the older man’s demeanour left Lucien feeling seven years old again. If he refused the letter a second time, he sensed that the attorney would accept it. There was a small but undeniable part of him that wanted to know what lay inside the envelope. There was nothing his father could say that would change or influence things, yet he still didn't push it back across the desk.

It had been Olaf who'd called him a few days earlier to alert him to the fact that his father's condition had worsened significantly, and Olaf who'd suggested that he held something in his office that would be of interest to him. The attorney had leaned on his seniority and family connection to appeal to Lucien, with the added lure of the mysterious something waiting for him.

In truth, Lucien would have come just on the plain statement of fact, without any of the other inducements. His father was actually dying. He seemed to have been half way there for as long as Lucien could remember, but it had always felt like more of a vague possibility than something that would actually happen. And in every way that counted, he had been dead to Lucien for years.

He hadn't set foot inside the hospital since his arrival in Norway, but he'd called. He'd called twice a day to check on him, but as far as he could tell his father was so heavily sedated now that he would barely be aware of his presence anyway. Not that this was a bad thing. There was nothing left to be said as far as Lucien was concerned.

He nodded once at Olaf Karlsen and picked up the letter, shoving it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

He'd take it, but that didn't mean that he had to read it.

Sophie had never experienced such immense cold as when she stepped out of the airport, wheeling her suitcase behind her. She'd anticipated it of course, and dressed as appropriately as her wardrobe allowed; jeans, thermal layers and her cherry red coat, but her London winter attire was insufficient protection against the freezing bite of Tromso in December. She cast envious glances at the people milling around her, all far more suitably dressed in padded, waterproof jackets and snow boots. Her own fur boots would offer little protection once they became sodden. She'd flung most of her other warm clothes into her suitcase the day before, not really knowing how long she'd be gone for nor how her arrival would be received. No matter. Lucien was here alone, dealing with his father's illness, his death, even, and the single thought in Sophie's mind was to get to him. She'd been so focused on reaching him that she hadn't permitted herself to stop and wonder if he would want her there. It was only as she settled gratefully into the warmth of the back of a taxi that she allowed herself to consider in detail how he might react. Would he be glad to see her? Or would he be outraged? He was the most infuriatingly self-contained person on the planet; she didn't expect him to welcome her with open arms. She was acting on instinct. If Lucien had taught her one thing, it was to take a risk, not to wait for permission or instruction. And the thought of coming to Norway to be there, to be whatever he might need, for an hour or a day or a week, had come so effortlessly into her mind that she hadn't doubted herself.