Paul laughs. ‘It’s different from the version I remember. Didn’t he—?’

‘Bedtime.’ Eric scoops up Sorrel and heads for the stairs.

‘Bedtime for us too.’ Grace rises. ‘Come on, kids.’ She kisses Martin. ‘Great adaptation,’ she whispers. ‘Don’t be too long.’

Outside the moon is shining on the olive trees; there is a dense scatter of stars in the sky. The bushes rustle quietly as they brush past them. When a dark cat-like shape bounds across the path Grace stops, shocked. It vanishes up a tree, the wide tail disappearing into the leaves.

‘What was that?’

‘A pine marten,’ Charley whispers. ‘There are tons of them here, Izzy’s been watching them for days. She says the fathers eat their own babies.’ She sounds disbelieving.

Blake is hitting the bushes with a branch from an olive tree; he looks absorbed.

‘Careful, you might hurt something,’ Grace tells him; he glances up, surprised, as if he hadn’t realized what he was doing.

She shepherds the children into the stone building and shuts the door. The bedrooms are whitewashed, each with a view of the garden, a shower and wide, soft beds. Martin comes in after an hour; he starts snoring as soon as he lies down. Grace lies awake, disappointed and relieved at the same time. The scent of sage and thyme drifts through the open shutters; from somewhere in the garden the glass plates clash together gently, making discordant music in the dark.