They weren’t in the end, though. They were the ones to break up that tidy procession of volunteers with violence. Chaos. They set the new tradition, not us.

“Where are you sleeping tonight, Marit?” I reach for her arm. She flinches. “We’ve got plenty of guest rooms. You’re more than welcome to—”

“Does the pub have rooms over?” She stares at her still-unshod, bandaged feet, then back up at me. “Thank you. I’ll get a room, I think. After everything is all clear.”

“Of course,” I say. I don’t look back, but I feel Hugh behind me. He’s polluted the whole damn house today. She doesn’t feel safe inside because of that warm welcome he provided her.

“The Dane’s Head. The Dane, like, you cut off his head?” She’s found her refilled pint. She sips it more slowly now, grinning around the rim. “We should have known when we saw that.”

I hear voices rising into shouts behind me.

I turn, heart pounding.

No death, only Max sprinting gleefully through the crowd. He’s escaped his jail cell. He dances around people’s legs, a little more manic than is strictly safe on a day like this, but everyone smiles at the sight of all that exuberance. Pure joy, what a tonic.

The kids are following on his heels, sprinting, yelling for him to come in voices that sound like imitations of Hugh’s.

“It’s okay!” I shout. “Let him play. And stop running! Oh God, be careful!”

They’ve reached me by the time my panic crests, landing hugs around my waist, Charlie’s head pressed to my back, and the relief that sweeps through me is close to euphoria.

I beam as Charlie squeezes me tighter and tighter and tighter still.

“Did you see your pony?” Emma asks, and I can’t breathe.

I pry Charlie’s hands a little looser.

“I did,” I say, trying a new tack. “But he’s gone now.”

That appeases her, but Charlie blinks up at me as if startled.

“You saw them,” he whispers. “The bright people.”

I squint, confused, but as I shake my head and start to answer, it comes back to me, dimly at first. I can’t look at them directly in memory, but there they are in the periphery.

The dreams. The encounter. All of it.

I stare down at Charlie, and the shock must show on my face because he squeezes me again in sympathy.

“Have you been dreaming about them?” I ask him.

He nods, silent.

I crouch beside him, letting Emma clamber on my shoulders. “For how long?”

“Forever.”

I turn, my nose pressed to my daughter’s cheek. “Sweetie? Have you been having funny dreams?”

Emma shakes her head against me.

“She thinks she can see them in the daytime,” Charlie says. “I used to get mixed up when I was little too.”