It’s not only a selfish thought but a stupid one. There are three left to go. It could be all of us, and that’s not even counting Hugh.

My husband, Lord Treadway, still watching from the bow window upstairs. Even when I can’t see his dark profile, the movement of the curtains, I can sense him standing there, and something bitter surges through me. I wish he would come down so I can get a good look at him, see if I still recognize him after everything I’ve just learned.

I don’t want to leave the children again, and I don’t dare physically move them more than I need to. I will not walk them up those stained steps. Not today. God, maybe not ever.

I think of Matthew. I don’t know why. I shouldn’t think of him. I don’t know where he is right now, if he’ll come back tonight or return to his hermitage to stare at those photos in peace, and it bugs me. I’d thought I would feel better, clearer, but I feel worse knowing. I ache and fidget like I’m coming down with something.

Maybe it’s the panic. That’s mounting too. I can’t sift through all the tangled yarn.

The day drifts onward, every minute a picture-pretty agony. Sally leaves and comes back with more sandwiches for everyone who’s gathered now. Jo limps out bearing blankets that she lays out on the lawn with swift efficiency, along with a Snakes and Ladders box that the children pounce on.

The islanders smile vaguely at the food but don’t step forward, and that’s when I see Sally staring at me, prompting.

I stand, carefully, everything so cautious now. “Please, if you have any appetite, help yourselves. We’ll serve a proper meal around…” I turn to Sally. “Seven? Is that doable?”

“Of course, milady,” she says.

My title was voiced more loudly than usual, I notice, brassy with pride. I’m glad she’s had the chance to be bolstered by that, at least, even if I still don’t understand it.

PC Brian’s here, taking a quick break. He’s chosen an egg sandwich, bless him, slowly chewing every bite to a pulp with a thick line creased into his forehead. He’s frightened of choking. Smart of him.

I wait until he’s swallowed to ask him for the time.

He checks his frayed leather watch. “Three twenty-two.”

The vicar’s wife, Mary Warren, wanders over, staring at the sky. I hadn’t realized she’d stayed behind rather than leaving with her husband to supervise the children. She blinks down at us with a sad smile. “I’m trying to work out the maths.”

“Six hours, sixteen minutes left,” Charlie says.