She straightens and starts toward the kitchen without another word of her own, of reassurance, of judgment, nothing. She acts like you’d hope a friend would, like her opinion of me hasn’t changed.

I peek through the kitchen window as she goes in and spy the children happily coloring printed-out pages from cartoons we used to import from America before the war rendered them offensive. I could go in, finish my lukewarm cup of tea, but I feel exposed now, laid bare for Jo to see. I’ve known her for seven years minus a week now, but it’s still terrifying to have admitted that tidbit from my past. And on a day like this, loose lips all around.

And then there’s Matthew. Matty. Pure as a lily, sturdy as an oak. She guessed all that too. What’s to stop Hugh from guessing the same?

I look up from the window just as Jo comes back around the doorway. “Would you check on Elsie Wickett? Just see if she’s in the assemblage.”

She pronounces assemblage with a French accent, light and jovial, as if we were prepping a wedding.

I smile and duck away, drawing a few cool breaths while I walk back around the conservatory, scanning the crowd through panes of glass, like an old flickering movie.

I pick out Marit right away, sitting on a sunny patch of the lawn, staring out across the sea toward Sunnan. I don’t see Mrs. Wickett among the throng of older folks, though, or anywhere else. No sign of Matthew either.

When I come back, Jo’s still leaning against the brick windowsill, rubbing her ankle.

“Not here,” I say. “Do you want some ice for that? You’re not taking care of yourself.”

She lets out a slow breath. “I’m fine.”

“Are you concerned?” I ask. “About Mrs.—?”

“I am.” She blinks hard. “At this point, yes, I think I am concerned. I’d best go check on her.”

“No. You need to rest.”

“I’m fine!” She straightens, abruptly Olympian. “I got here, didn’t I?”

“Jo. Stop. I’ll be twice as fast.”

She looks annoyed, which means she’s about to give in.

“I would worry about you,” I say. That convinces her. “I’ll go. She might just be home waiting to be invited here, and it’s better that I do the inviting myself.”

“You be careful.”

I laugh. She laughs.

It’s a shared joke now, this awful day, our complete powerlessness. And it is funny. It’s ridiculous.

“Take your coat,” she says, reaching into the kitchen to grab it for me. “It gets brisk mid-island.”

I know. I live here too. She means well, though. She means everything.