They have reached the wide gravel sweep in front of the house. The sharp stones hurt their feet and slow them up. Izzy flashes past them with an easy burst of speed, her trainers scattering the gravel.

‘Thanks, Izzy,’ Melly calls. ‘Tell her we’ll play rounders instead.’

Izzy doesn’t reply; she is running up the wide stone steps that lead into the house. Sorrel has disappeared already. Above them the house stands serene; the windows of every floor up to the attic are wide open to the sun.

Grace

The pencil makes soft scraping sounds that melt into the silence of the attic. Grace prefers writing with a pencil, the ideas seem to flow better. She brought a stool up from the kitchen and a camping table she found in the garage. She has placed them by the window for the breeze, though today there is almost none. She is nearly at the end of her story; this is the hard part. House or prison? Warm weather or cold?

Her own kitchen was bleak the day they left, the flat no longer felt like home. Martin had been gone for several weeks – was that why? Her concentration wavers, she glances outside. Blake is practising his serves, Charley lying in the sun. The others have disappeared. Grace looks down at her writing, growing less certain. If the story begins in a home with the woman, should it end in prison with the man? Or is that too predictable? Begin in a kitchen overlooking a garden and end, with less certainty, in another garden.

The door to the attic opens. She hears the light patter of footsteps run up the wooden stairs. She puts the pencil down, listening to the harsh breath sounds. Boxes are moved in the next-door attic room, then silence descends again punctured by ragged breaths. Hide-and-seek, that delicious waiting fear. This is the perfect house for it; she starts writing again. A few minutes later there is the quiet click of the attic door shutting. Footsteps ascend, slower, stealthier ones. The seeker, playing the game. The steps reach the top of the stairs, pause, then enter the adjacent room. A bike or a pram is wheeled out of the way, boxes are moved.

‘Got you!’

Grace’s smile lasts until she hears Sorrel’s scream.

‘I hate this game.’

‘Which one?’ Izzy sounds amused.

Grace gets up quietly.

‘Hide-and-seek.’ Sorrel is crying. ‘No one came to find me last time.’

‘But I’ve just found you,’ Izzy says; there is laughter in her voice now. ‘We can play something else if you like. How about the flying game?’