“And,” said Polly, pouring herself a glass of chocolate milk, “it has so much tannin in it that when they dig up old British bodies, their stomachs are like little leather bags.” The room fell silent. “Sorry,” said Polly, “Nina told me that and it kind of stuck.” She took a sip of milk and waved the glass. “I’m going upstairs to get changed. You good for a bit, Laura?”

Laura nodded, and Polly disappeared. Laura forced herself to take a sip, despite the steam rising from her cup. If hot tannins would help, she was all for them, leathery tummy or not.

Maggie went back to poking about on the stove, where something delicious was cooking, and Anna and Libby went back to their conversation. It was about a show Laura hadn’t seen, so she let her attention wander. This was clearly the busiest room in the house, and the copper pans hanging above the island looked like they got a lot of use. Laura felt her heart rate slowing, her panic abating. Most of the details of this room were different from her own childhood kitchen, but there were enough similarities to offer touchstones: a recipe card box, a blue cylinder of salt—she’d dressed as that little girl for Halloween one year—a jelly jar with loose change in it.

Herbert the dog was standing to one side of the oven, watching Maggie stirring and tasting. Everything about him was relaxed apart from his eyebrows, which tracked his lady’s every move. There, thought Laura, is a dog who knows the value of patience. She heard a click and looked.

“Your rice cooker is finished,” she said to Maggie, then blushed. “Sorry, you probably noticed already.”

Maggie reached over and unplugged the rice cooker. “Nope, totally didn’t, thanks.” She looked over her shoulder at Laura and smiled. “Do you want to help me?”

Laura jumped up. She took great comfort in being occupied, being useful.

Maggie pointed to a wall cabinet. “The bowls are the big ones in there, blue and white.” She paused. “Or whatever there is, they don’t all match.”

Actually none of them matched, though several were blue and white. Laura counted heads and came up with five. She put the bowls on the counter. “Forks and knives?”

“Forks and spoons,” replied Maggie. “Top drawer near the table.”

Polly reappeared, carrying a plush-coated gray cat. “Oliver was in my room again,” she said, sounding mildly annoyed.

“How is that possible?” asked Maggie, fluffing the rice with a fork. “You shut your door, didn’t you?” She waved her wooden spoon. “Come and get it.”

“Yes,” said Polly, “but there he was, smack-dab in the middle of the bed, like a fluffy gray brioche.” She shook the cat gently; he squeezed his eyes at her. “Shedding!” She dropped him gently on the floor, where he re-smoothed himself and sauntered off, unconcerned.