Hugh turns to Matthew. “Matty, my old friend, admit it.”

My heart tries to burst out of me, to flee.

Matthew closes his eyes.

“You hate her, don’t you?” Hugh knocks hard on the table, like he’s calling a point to order. “You despise my wife. You resent her.”

I have to clap both hands over my mouth to keep from cackling in astonishment.

“Lord Treadway,” Sally starts, skittish as a mouse, but braver than anybody else at this table.

“No, no, the truth comes out on the Day.” Hugh walks slowly over to Matthew and stands behind him, watching with apparent pleasure as Matthew’s jaw stiffens. “You want her dead. Don’t you?”

Hugh presses his hands to Matthew’s shoulders and begins to rub.

Matthew’s hands ball up against the table, his teeth gritted tightly.

“Go on, you can admit it. No more secrets.”

“I think…” Matthew draws a breath, reining it in. “That you’ve had a bit too much to drink. Not that I blame you.”

“Oh, but you do blame me, don’t you?” Hugh lets go and crouches beside him, so close their noses are almost touching. “I didn’t kill your wife, Matty. I didn’t kill my father, I didn’t kill Julia, and I didn’t kill—”

Matthew’s fury bubbles over. It pulls him up, out of his chair. “Do not say her name.”

“There it is!” Hugh laughs, opening his arms wide as he stands to face him. “The truth! That’s why you did it. Admit it. You tinkered with our boat’s engine, and those, those machines of yours, those war contraptions, you used them to dismantle our communications, to keep us here, to trap my family in this hellscape and watch us die. Just say it, mate. Just say it and let’s have it all out today.”

“Why is Daddy cross?” Emma whispers.

I gasp at the sound of her voice. Jo was right; this is no place for them. I turn and nod to my friend, but shake my head when she moves to take the children.

I grab Charlie by the right hand and Emma by the left and whisper, “Okay, bedtime-time-time,” our old joke, and they don’t laugh, but they don’t protest either.

People are rising from their seats around the table now, carefully, trying to intervene. I blot out their voices and focus on each of my steps and each of my children’s. I’m still in my walking boots, but the little ones are barefoot. We round the corner carefully, we stop on each step so that I can physically feel their weight settling evenly, no slips, no disasters, until we’re up, we’ve nearly made it.

I look down the hall, scouting hazards, and stagger back a step.