Still, I wouldn’t want the kids to find out. Not Hugh either. He’d lecture: “Now that we’re parents, we have a responsibility to look after ourselves.” At least he never frames it in terms of motherhood, the ideal of female self-effacement. We’re co-parents, both of us equal. He’s been good, so I should be good.

I really should. Just not yet.

“Thank you,” I mouth, then, “I’ll grab those biscuits now.”

Jo heads toward the glass door that leads into the shop.

I stand to join her. “The kids’ll be almost as excited as Hugh. It’s gonna be hard to ration them.”

“Oh don’t ration too much.” She says it abruptly, like she was considering not saying anything at all and then dared herself. “Not this week. Just let them enjoy themselves.”

I realize what she means and swallow hard, willing the words You don’t believe in all this back into my throat. It would be rude to say it aloud with Mrs. Wickett here. Elsie Wickett’s in her nineties, a Lute by birth. I’m essentially a guest here, compared to all the others. I would hate to act disrespectfully toward her beliefs.

But I have to find a way to press Jo a little. It makes me feel queasy, not knowing where she stands, like I’m on a raft alone, drifting farther and farther out to sea while everybody else stays on land.

The glass door hisses shut, and we’re alone in the shop. Before I can find my voice, Jo reaches behind the counter for a pack of digestives and murmurs, “What have you told the children about the Day?”

“The children?” I echo, surprised. “Nothing.” I shouldn’t have to justify myself, but I find myself scrambling for an excuse. “It feels like Hugh’s story to tell.”

I pull out my ration book and set it on the counter.

Jo keeps her eyes on me as she flips it open and marks it. “And has he told it?”

“He, well, he doesn’t like to talk about it. Understandably.” I feel like I’m defending us both to a detective. “We’ve just said there’s a special day here, so we’re going on vacation to celebrate.”

She lets out a breath, nostrils flaring. “You’re not going on holiday now, though.”

I look away to put my ration book in my jacket pocket. It slides in above the cigarette, but I pretend it needs more nudging so I can keep my eyes averted. “I told them we’ll celebrate here.”

“If he won’t tell them, you need to.”

“Tell them what?” My voice comes out in a shout. “Emma’s three. She doesn’t even know what dead means.”

Jo backs up half a step. “You may be right.”