“I’m not sure,” I say, realizing as the words come out how useless they are. The last thing anybody needs today are tentative plans. “I just need to check with Hugh. We probably will, but either way, we’re hoping people will gather.”

Gather doesn’t seem like the right word. Huddle. Convene. Shelter. Not that Alder House is safe. That illusion’s been stripped from it forever. It’s a place of horrors now, just like everything else here.

“Thank you,” Gemma says. “We’ll see how we … Yes, we’ll see.”

She holds the door, and Tom waves goodbye from the sitting room, leaning on the sofa like his legs are giving out.

The door shuts, and I exhale. I walk away with smart little steps, job done, but my hands have begun to shake, my teeth chattering, the June day gone Siberia cold.

Job done, and what’s next? Who’s next?

Matthew is waiting for me on the path, staring away at the northern sky. As I approach, he falls casually into step beside me.

“You didn’t need to wait,” I say. “I’m fine.”

I draw my arms around myself to mask my shudders.

He glances at me, quickly away.

“Thank you,” I say.

He nods.

We walk in silence for a few minutes, then I think, I hope I handled that well, and when Matthew answers, “I’m sure you did,” I realize I’ve said it out loud.

I hear something behind us. A clip-clop.

“Pony,” I murmur, turning.

Matthew squints at me in question.

“I heard a horse,” I say. I still hear it. Clip-clop, clip-clop, approaching the high street, just out of view. “Do you hear that? There aren’t any horses on Lute.”

“There aren’t,” he agrees.

He listens, shakes his head. Nothing.

The sound drops away, and I blink, bewildered.

He’s watching me. “That’s not to say you didn’t hear it. Lute goes a bit funny on the Day.”

The pub is dark, but the door is a little ajar, I see now. I peek inside as we walk past. Nobody’s there. There are a few casks of ale sitting in crates by the side of the building, untouched.

“People were there earlier?” I ask.

“It wasn’t a good idea,” Matthew said. “They were trying their best, but.”

“Too many memories,” I say.

He scratches his beard in answer.

“I would guess there aren’t many places left without bad memories on this island.”

He keeps walking.

I speed up to catch him. “This was last time, though? The pub?”

“Three dead. Back to back to back, all within…” He thinks. “An hour. Less.”

“Not yours.” I’d always assumed his was the burned-up cottage by the lighthouse, but maybe I was wrong.

He glances at me. “No. We were … No.”

That’s all I’m getting and more than I have any right to expect.