But he’s not my child. He’s a grown man. Lord of Lute, passed out in the middle of the afternoon on the damn Day.

I shut the door to the bedroom, softly, and start away.

Then I stop, considering. I riffle through the ring for the skeleton key that fits all the bedroom locks.

I’ve never used this key before. I use it now.

There. He’s safe. He’s stored away, he’s not glaring at us from the doorway, unnerving everyone in sight.

Hugh’s simply not up to this. The best thing for him is rest.

7:00 P.M.

“The wood was full of fairy folk going about their business. They took no notice of the children.”

Charlie lies faceup alongside my knees, folding blades of grass, listening to me read. Emma sits nestled in my lap, staring out to the elms, hard, determined to find a fairy there. And hey, if there are ghosts on the Day, phantom corpses and horses and armies, who’s to say fairies won’t show up? Magic mixed with the awful.

I haven’t felt so peaceful all day. I get the sense of everything being exactly where it should be. Every person, perfectly placed, my children, here, snuggling. They will stay with me for every remaining second the sun remains in the sky. I’ll make damn sure of it.

“I haven’t read that for ages!” Jenny Pike leans down to see the cover, then waves to Brian. “Dad, do you remember reading me this?”

“Vaguely.” He laughs over his shoulder. “Something about a big tree.”

“The Faraway Tree,” Jenny fills in. “My kids grew up too fast for all the books I wanted to foist on them.”

“You should reread them yourself,” I suggest, smiling. “That’s my plan.”

“You’re right. Life’s too short.” She continues on with a wry wink and joins her husband behind the bar, peeking at the old frayed leather watch on Ian’s wrist.

“Seven of the clock,” she calls out to general cheers.

Close now.

Two and a half hours to go, we do not say. Three people here among us will die in the next one hundred and fifty minutes. We do not say it.

It takes Jo limping from around the corner of the house, her shadow stretching like an opera cape behind her, for me to actually realize what time it is. We should be inviting everyone inside for dinner.

I’m about to eject Emma from my lap to rise and ask Jo if we’re ready when Brian raises his pint glass and the gathering falls into a sudden hush, like a field of crickets when a cloud passes over.

“Shall we salute them?”

In the little universe surrounding me, people raise their glasses. Every little bit of party chatter has slipped into a silence as smooth and firm as marble. Even Pixie and Max stop chasing each other, sensing the change.