But this hadn’t been the plan, you see. She was speaking to someone in her head. She said aloud, “You were just supposed to see that I existed, that I mattered, that I have a right to my children whether I want them or not.” She said it to the window, the street below, but the window and the street below took no notice. “I just wanted to make a point.” She banged on the glass. “Make you listen.” She imagined Joan on the pavement below, pleading. “I just wanted to make you see you can’t have everything, that you can’t just take what you want and expect everyone to make way. But you—” She stopped. It wasn’t true that Joan had always hated her. Joan hadn’t always hated anyone. Joan just got on being everyone’s friend; she’d never done a damned mean thing in her life. Joan was supposed to have come rushing over London and pleaded for him back. They were supposed to make an arrangement. She bit her lip.

Mother. Enid took a sharp breath in. Why hadn’t she called either? No matter how high she jumped, her mother’s gaze was always an inch higher, and now she’d sunk so low that her mother would never see her again. Perhaps she should write. She got half out of her chair and sat down again. What was the point? Hadn’t she made her views clear? She’d given Joan everything, even things that were not hers to give. Her perfect Joan, and her errant, awful Enid, who’d done nothing more alarming than be born and be loved by her father, perhaps more than he’d loved his wife. It hadn’t been her fault.

Perhaps she should send him back. It would be simple. A mistake, another note, a promise that it would never happen again. She pushed her fingers against her forehead. How absurd, to think this would be forgiven. They’d destroy her. They’d leave her with nothing.

She looked in on him, but he appeared to be sleeping. He was perfectly still, like Fagus; Fagus after the light had been shone in his eyes and he’d stopped being the great white hope of anything. No. She closed the door softly. Not like Fagus. Ian was a healthy, lively, full of hope young boy and he was here.

She returned to the window and the hours ticked by. Now what? she thought. It was like the day after childbirth, when excitement drifted away and she was left with what she’d been planning. Where were they? Why hadn’t they come running?