“Seen this one before?” He’s got his hand out low, careful. He turns to wink at Emma. “This is a proper mini-beast. Fancy saying hello?”

She’s flying past me before I can think to grab her. At the sight of whatever John’s holding, she goes very still, a near-silent oh falling from her mouth. My placid sorry, I’ll handle her smile becomes a real one when I lean over John’s hand too and see a glossy green beetle with a red face.

“Not invasive?” I ask quietly.

“Nah, I should think not. Looks like a bloody-nosed beetle to me, as Lute as they come.” He grins, and his face explodes with creases. “I’m not using profanity in front of your daughter, Lady Treadway, that’s honestly what they’re called. I’ll snap a picture and find out for sure. That’s what they’re paying me for, after all.”

“Is that what they’re paying you for?” I grin back. “Not the paperwork and repairs and cataloging and protecting endangered birds and—?”

“Oh, you stop. There are far worse jobs.” The light in his eyes dims a little.

This is the way we reference the war, in asides, quiet gratitude, and humility, sharing postcards and emails we’ve gotten from those off fighting, well-tended vegetable gardens, and meticulous ration books. Never directly. But maybe that’s just how people behave around me because of my American accent, the voice of the enemy. Don’t mention the war.

Or maybe it’s more that we can’t face the full reality of it, the images we get in the news—all those occupied countries, cities gone dark in military curfew or reduced to rubble, bloated bodies washing up on the shores of practically every continent, refugee camps growing and burning down and growing again, rows upon rows of draped soldiers ready for sorting and sending home.

While here on Lute, everything is perfectly fine.

Partly to reassure myself, I pat John Ashford on one broad shoulder on my way to scoop Emma up. Her eye has turned to track some seabird or other down the drive—John’d know the taxonomy—and if I don’t grab her now, she’ll be chasing it, and I’ll be chasing her the whole way to the docks.

“I’ve got your bags loaded if you ladies care to ride along.” John motions to the back of the truck. I hadn’t even noticed our luggage lined up inside.

“Oh, gosh.” My stomach drops the way it always does when someone goes out of their way to be nice. “Thank you. You really didn’t need to—”