“I’d assume so,” Wilson says. He takes a step toward the doorway and then turns around. “You sure?”

Ruth nods rigorously, as if to reassure him, Wilson thinks. He frowns.

“Really,” she says brightly. “Go, go!”

“We’ll be back,” Wilson says.

Dusk has gotten deeper, and the driveway is icy; it makes him uneasy to think of his mother making this trek to the stables alone. Across a blue field of snow Wilson can see the barn lights glowing, and he can imagine his mother inside, her white hair bound, her fingers bare and raw and numb against the horses’ noses as she strokes them, speaking to each one as she passes, he is sure, a dog or two at her feet, a cat in the rafters. He breathes in deeply and turns around to look for Isabelle behind him. He extends his hand. She gives him her fist; she has pulled her fingers up into her gloves. Behind them, the windows of the house are lighting up one by one, as Ruth wanders from room to room turning on the lights while she waits for the kettle to boil.

Isabelle has cut each half of her English muffin into fourths. On one piece she has spread raspberry jam, on another clear honey, and on another clouded honey, and on yet another marmalade. The raspberry has been the best, so far. She sits forward and puts the marmalade in its place and gives the lazy Susan a little spin to see what her other options are. The blackberry jam she hasn’t yet used; this she takes and spreads on another bit of muffin.

“Did you want another egg, Isabelle?”

She glances up from her muffin. Her mother has a knife poised against a soft-boiled egg, ready to crack it open, but Isabelle shakes her head; she has muffin to eat.

“Eleanor?”

“Thank you, Ruth, dear, no. But Wilson will have it, won’t you, Wil?”

“I suppose you could twist my arm,” he says. “I’m not going to be able to eat dinner, though!”

“You sure, Isabelle? This is dinner, for you,” Ruth says.

Isabelle nods again, chewing, and reaches for another spread from the lazy Susan.

“Marmite!” her grandmother exclaims. “A girl after my own heart!”

“Do you like Marmite, Belle?”

Isabelle pauses to inspect the brown stuff now on her knife. She has never had Marmite before, and it smells terrible, but all eyes are on her, so she spreads it on thick. She looks up and nods.

“God,” her father says. “I hate the stuff.”

Isabelle puts the muffin in her mouth and starts to chew. A taste like rubber fills her mouth.

“You like it?” her father asks.

She looks from her father to her grandmother and nods. She wants to be a girl after her grandmother’s heart, though to swallow this bitter mouthful is a struggle. She reaches for her tea and takes a large sip; it burns her tongue.