‘In that case I’m right on it!’ Carly’s sardonic voice was sweetened with the West Country cream of a mission. ‘Grandpa Norm’s got at least three and “Swallowtail Gig” is the only tune he knows; he plays it every Christmas and birthday. I’ll text Janine.’

‘You’re all right.’ Luca flashed his most defensive big smile, holding a hand up.

‘It’s no bother.’ Carly’s thumbs were already flying over the screen. A moment later, she was reading out a reply scattered with emojis. ‘They’ve already set out. Janine’s sending one of the kids back for it. Norm loves the wassail. He’ll be made up there’s a fiddler.’

As they all moved across the orchard, Luca fell in step beside Pax with a quiet, ‘Thanks for that.’

‘I’d like to hear you play.’

‘Has something happened?’

Don’t think about it. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘You look upset. I’m worried about you.’

Their jaws hardly moved, aware of Bridge and Carly navigating buggies in front of them, hailing village friends.

‘I’m fine.’ Again she wondered if he’d come along to police her drinking.

‘Liar.’ His phone rang again. As before he didn’t look at it, simply cancelling the call.

‘Who is that?’

‘Don’t change the subject. Tell me what’s going on?’

‘It’s an old village ritual, Luca,’ she said loudly, deliberately misunderstanding. ‘It dates back to the Anglo-Saxons.’

‘Aleš thinks it’s devil worship,’ Bridge laughed, turning around.

‘It’s an English apple-growing tradition,’ Pax explained. Don’t think. Talk. ‘A procession comes to bless the orchards and ask for a good harvest next autumn by putting cider-soaked toast in the tree branches. There’s a king and queen, usually village teenagers, who lead the songs and light the big bonfire.’

‘Were you ever queen?’ Bridge asked.

‘Years ago.’ Don’t think.

‘Who was your king?’

‘I forget.’ Don’t think. Pax felt the memory pinch painfully, looking across the apple treetops to the dark silhouettes of the horse chestnuts on the green, the same arboreal audience that had witnessed her night as consort to a long-gone doctor’s son who she’d kicked when he’d tried to French kiss her behind the cider tent, even though he’d looked like Billy from Neighbours and it had given her butterflies. She couldn’t have been more than eleven because her father had still been alive. Not that he’d come to watch that year. She’d relayed it all afterwards, exaggerating the beauty and high drama, missing out the tongue-kissing thing.

She sensed Luca’s eyes on her. The sides of her mouth were palpitating with the need for alcohol now. She looked around for Kes to stabilise her, spotting him with Ellis clambering over the drystone walls. Breathe, Pax. You love him.

‘My hacking buddies’ son and daughter are this year’s king and queen,’ Bridge was telling them. ‘Their mums keep trying to set them up, but you can’t force your kids to love each other, can you, Luca?’

‘Terrible idea.’

Pax realised Luca was standing too close. It made her want to reach for his hand. She crossed her arms and watched Carly rolling back as Bridge rattled on.