He honks. The tourists jump comically at the sound of it, like three neon marionettes. John chortles. Even I muster a faint smile, but mostly at John. John Ashford likes his toy truck. He likes his life, all of this, his job here as warden, overseer of plants and animals and relics and everything else that falls under National Trust. “Beats retirement,” he always says, and I believe him. Lute would be the best place in the world for someone like him even if there wasn’t a war decimating nature preserves and historical sites practically everywhere else.

The hikers amble over, and very slowly, I realize they shouldn’t be here. The sight of campers on this stretch of the heath isn’t unfamiliar, but Jo said we never make holiday rentals or camping permits available in the week leading up to the Day. It’s a locals-only kind of deal. Maybe that’s why the tallest man of the group is striding forward alone while the second man turns away and the woman in cargo pants hangs back to examine a tuft of heather.

The man has snow-blond hair and chalk-white teeth. Before he even speaks, I start trying to figure out what country he’s from.

“Nice weather!” He looks up at the sky as if to demonstrate.

Overeager. Yep, they’re squatting here.

John won’t rat them out for camping without a permit. He’s not the type. Sure enough, he just smiles. “Lady Treadway here’s looking for her son. Seen anybody of the seven-year-old persuasion wandering—?”

“Six,” I correct, my pulse ratcheting up again. “Sorry, he’s six. He’s got dark hair, same color as mine, three and, um, three and a half feet tall? Maybe more?”

“Meters?” the hiker asks wryly, noticing my accent, testing me.

My mind goes blank. I’m still useless at metric conversions. Failing the British test here.

The Scandinavian guy laughs, waving his hand. “No, no, we saw him.”

My heart leaps. He turns, pointing.

“Small kid, headed straight down this path.” He kicks the gravel to demonstrate. “Straight into the forest there. Small forest.”

“Yeah, the grove.” I squint hard, like if I strain enough, I might be able to see through the tufted hill and past the thick oaks and snatch him up, safe and close.

God, this terror. It’s always there, isn’t it, waiting for a reason to bubble over. From the moment he was born, I’ve had an endless store of fear held ready, just in case, and having a second child only quadrupled it.

“Righto.” John knocks on the door of the truck, and the man backs affably away. “You kids have…” His grin pinches a little. “Yeah, you be safe.”

He drives us off with a nod. I turn back, watching clouded bemusement dissipate from the hiker’s expression. The woman waves. Even though I detect sarcasm in the gesture, I wave back. I have to, in this case. Comes with the title, and you never know who’s a journalist. The British press is vicious, even in wartime.