"Don't look so eager, proles," Cecil drawled. "The storm means Mrs Mayberry isn't here. Our lord and master sent her home after lunch. So it's cook it yourself night tonight."

Nicholas and Uri let out a groan.

"So why aren't you cooking it?" Liz asked.

Cecil flashed her a smile. "I always find the female of the species is so much better at that kind of thing."

"Pighead!"

"Go on, admit it, did you really want to taste my cooking? Besides, I looked in a minute ago, little Isabel is coping just fine."

"Isabel's cooking supper?" Nicholas asked. He hoped it had come out sounding like an innocent enquiry.

Cecil's smile broadened. "Yes. All by herself. Say, Nick, why don't you go and see if she wants a hand, or anything else?"

Nicholas could hear what sounded like a chuckle coming from Uri. He refused to turn and find out for sure. "Yes, all right," he said.

Liz was giggling by the time he reached the door into the kitchen. Well, let them, he thought; he didn't mind the steady joshing the others gave him now, it was all part of a day at Launde Abbey. Funny what you could get used to if it went on long enough.

Isabel Spalvas had arrived at the same time as him, a mathematician from Cardiff University. At first he didn't even have the nerve to meet her eyes when they were talking—not that they talked much, he could never think of anything to say. But mortification at his own pathetic shyness eventually bullied him out of his shell. They were going to be under the same roof for two years, if nothing else he could talk to her as if she was just one of the boys, it was often the simplest approach. That way at least they'd be friends, then maybe, just maybe…