“Somebody tried to get past. A Roman objected. And before you knew it, it was a right scrap. A sword fell as if flung downward by the gods themselves, a spear was thrust to prevent the swell of bodies, and when clearer minds prevailed and everyone stepped back, seven people were dead, bleeding into the heath. Not just the ones who’d signed up neither. Random folks. Men and women stabbed. One Roman, bludgeoned by his own shield.”

He’d shrugged there, an admission of his flights of fancy.

Then his face went slack. “A child. Trampled.”

Sadness saturated the room, so thick I felt it ripple against me. This wasn’t a history lesson anymore.

“And that was it. Like it or not, Lute was taking its seven. The priests stepped aside, and so did the Romans and everyone else. No use fighting it. The sacrifice was set, and from then on, it was Lute alone that would decide who and how.”

There was a silence, a heartbeat, before I asked, “What happened to the Romans? Were they driven out?”

Ian laughed. “No! We’re likely part Roman. Jenny’s got that fiery Italian blood still.”

His wife whapped him, rolling her eyes.

At my bemused expression, Hugh filled in the rest. “The legionnaires stayed, they say. Married into the community. Gave up their allegiance to Rome.”

“Once you’ve been through the Day,” Jo had said, “you’re one of us.”

I clench my fists now, looking around.

Sally is scouring the steps, and I nearly shout for her to leave it, to flee the scene, to stop working for five minutes, for fuck’s sake, but then I realize she needs it gone. She’s got her teeth gritted as she scrubs. She won’t let me help, so I stay outside, at least, and bear witness, keeping the children in close range. I watch their every single minute move, making sure they’re not heading toward the edge of the green, where the island ends in a cliff face, watching the trees for falling branches, the sky for birds, the people passing for loosely held pointy objects—I can’t think of anything else, but I try with every blink. In the end, I force myself to imagine a protective dome around Charlie and Emma, just to get my breath back.

They should stay away from that hawthorn. I glare at it as it shifts in the wind, in the light. Its shadow has started to creep onto the lawn like a great clenched hand.

I sit on the grass with the children after they have a run around, Charlie picking at the hem of my dress, Emma resting her head in my lap, letting me pull my fingers through her warm, damp hair, and I catch myself thinking maybe it’ll be me. It would be so much easier if it were me.