The Northern Lights Lodge. Julie Caplin

She turned a slow circle in the room. Then she frowned. ‘There were some,’ she rubbed her fingers together and then stroked the fabric on the sofa, ‘very luxurious cushions.’

      ‘Velvet,’ suggested Lucy, remembering the jewel bright colours from the pictures.

      ‘Ja, that’s right. Lots of velvet cushions and colourful throws. I don’t know what happened to them.’

      ‘Oh, this is lovely,’ said Lucy, distracted by the beautiful shine of the burnished chestnut wood of semi-circular bar in the next room. A young man glanced up from his task of putting away glasses on the shelves suspended above the bar. Behind him on the stone wall, stylish shelves of varying lengths were offset at different points and on each one bottles were arranged in attractive groups, interspersed with little pots of herbs in polished brass planters that glowed in the subdued lighting.

      ‘This is Dagur. Dagur, this Lucy, our new manager.’

      ‘Hi, welcome,’ he said, a quick, easy smile lighting up his pale blue eyes as he gave her a brief salute, making her drop the hand she’d been about to offer. It seemed that things here were a lot more casual and less formal than she’d been used to in her previous hotels, not that that was a bad thing.

      After a brief exchange, Hekla and Lucy moved on again, skirting through reception down to a cleverly designed glass corridor that linked the main hotel area to another building. Somehow the ultra-modern glass construction, bridging the separate buildings, could have been transplanted from a skyscraper in Manhattan and should have been totally out of place, but worked surprisingly well in the rural landscape.

      ‘And this is the library,’ said Hekla, coming to a halt in the centre of the room.

      ‘A library,’ said Lucy, turning a slow three hundred and sixty degrees, her neck tipped backwards as she looked up at the rather grand high-ceilinged room with a balcony all around the top housing shelf upon shelf of books. She looked again, her face breaking into a delighted smile.

      ‘That is so cute,’ she said to Hekla, pointing upwards. All the books had been arranged by the colour of their spines to create an eclectic rainbow with shades of red, running into oranges, yellows, greens, blues and purples.

      ‘We Icelanders love our books,’ said a voice from behind them. When Lucy turned a dark-haired, stocky woman uncurled herself from a button-backed armchair, a book in her hand.

      ‘Hey Brynja,’ said Hekla with warmth. ‘This is Lucy, the new manager. Brynja is one of our receptionists. It’s her day off today.’

      ‘Hey,’ said Brynja.

      ‘I love that you have a proper library,’ said Lucy, taking another look at the brimming bookshelves. ‘And so many books.’

      ‘Ah, it is a big tradition for us. You have heard of the jólabókaflód.’

      Lucy shook her head.

      ‘You would translate it as the Christmas Book Flood, jólabókaflód’ explained Hekla as Brynja nodded.

      Lucy grinned. ‘A book flood? Now that sounds awesome.’

      ‘Everyone gives books for Christmas,’ explained Brynja, her sharp dark eyes flashing with enthusiasm. ‘Lovely to meet you Lucy. If I can help in anyway, let me know.’

      ‘Thank you. It’s going to take me a little while to find my feet.’

      As soon as she said it, both Brynja and Hekla in complete sync looked down at her shoes.

      Lucy laughed, realising that despite Hekla’s amazing command of English there were still language and culture differences between them. ‘It’s a figure of speech.’

      Brynja nodded, her sharp eyes thoughtful as if she were carefully cataloguing the idiom and adding it to her own personal lexicon.

      ‘So you weren’t bothered by the huldufólk?’ asked Lucy, thoughtfully realising that Brynja, despite her day off, had not been planning to leave.

      Hekla looked awkward again as Brynja gave her an older sister sort of look.

      ‘No,’ said Brynja with alacrity. ‘I might not believe but then,’ she lifted her shoulders, ‘things happen and then you think that perhaps they do exist and it would be bad to ignore them in case they do.’

      ‘So,’ Lucy was struggling to get her head around this. ‘What you’re saying is that people don’t necessarily believe in huldufólk but they don’t count out the possibility that they might exist.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Brynja. ‘That is exactly right.’

      Exhausted by handover and introductions overload, along with Hekla’s boundless enthusiasm, Lucy snagged a quick sandwich from Erik, the hotel’s chef. With his huge broad shoulders and brawny frame, he looked an unlikely figure in his whites as he grinned at her from behind a huge bushy beard. When her eyes widened at the size of the half loaf of rye bread stuffed with thinly sliced lamb that he handed her, he let out a belly laugh and a stream of Icelandic, which she guessed translated as she needed feeding up. He wasn’t wrong there. Food had been low on her agenda for months.

      Deciding she needed a break and some fresh air, she wrapped herself up in her newly purchased down coat, which Daisy had insisted she buy, and took the still warm sandwich wrapped in foil down to the shingle beach in front of the hotel. She ought to give her best friend a call.

      Huddled into her coat, Lucy perched on one of the rocks. The bracing air around her seemed to sharpen her appetite and the delicious smoked lamb sandwich disappeared without touching the sides. It was probably the biggest meal she’d eaten in a long time, although she’d burned so much energy just thinking this morning.

      ‘Hey Daisy.’ Thankfully she could still tap into the hotel’s WiFi and make a WhatsApp call.

      ‘Lucy, how is it?’

      ‘Stunning, interesting … there’s a lot of work to do, but I can do it.’

      ‘Atta girl, that’s the Lucy I remember. What’s it like then? What are the people like?’

      ‘So far, so good,’ Lucy said, neutrally. ‘I’ve got an assistant manager, Hekla. She’s … very enthusiastic with a real can-do attitude, which is…’ Lucy refrained from her natural inclination to say irritating, Daisy wouldn’t approve, ‘kind of refreshing.’

      ‘Ha!’ Daisy laughed. ‘I know you, Miss Organised and Practical. She’s irritating the hell out of you.’

      ‘Actually … she isn’t. She’s so friendly, she’s made me feel incredibly welcome already.’

      ‘She sounds adorable.’

      ‘Mm, not sure I’d go that far but bless her, she works really hard and I don’t think there’s been much in the way of direction over the last year.’

      ‘Well, if anyone can offer that, it will be you.’ Daisy’s voice held laughter and sunshine but the words made Lucy pause. The quick observation wasn’t a criticism, but it scratched at her. Predictable, organised, Lucy Smart, which could also be read as routinised, unimaginative, dull.

      ‘I’ll do my best.’ She softened the clipped delivery with a sigh, looking back up at the striking architecture, the combination of modern and traditional blending into the rugged landscape. ‘The hotel is … well gorgeous. It’s got so much potential but it needs a lot of TLC.’ She paused. ‘You should see the guest rooms. You’d love them. So cosy. Honey-coloured wood and then every room has a proper stone fireplace or a wood burner. Loads of sheepskin rugs everywhere and these really pretty woven wall hangings with those Scandinavian love heart patterns picked out in white. I’ve even got a wood burner in my room’

      ‘Hygge!’ squealed Daisy. ‘Oh I want to come. It sounds gorgeous.’

      ‘And another reason for my call. Tell me more about the hygge thing.’

      ‘Ha! I knew