I rustle my son’s messy brown hair. He swats at me. I smile and stop, trying not to feel even more stung. I get it, I do. Charlie’s temperamental where affection’s concerned. He comes to me when he needs holding, soothing, cuddling, and then he inches away again, secure in his own space. None of this is new. But maybe I need soothing.

It’s a selfish thought. The kind my mother would have had.

I swear to God, you were put here to torture me, Nina.

Stop. You’re nothing like her.

I gasp at the clap of a shutting door and turn to watch Hugh walk quickly, casually, through the conservatory and into the house—off to see to a few things after all. My eyes wander up the house’s façade to the window of his study. Reflected clouds drift across the glass. I can’t see him, but I know that’s where he’s gone. So much for family time.

“Have some salad.” Sally nudges the bowl in my direction.

I’m starving and the salad looks amazing, but a sour feeling settles into my stomach at her gesture, drowning out the hunger. I hate feeling like I’m a guest here. I don’t know what to do to change it.

Sometimes I can stand the awkwardness of my position—Lady Treadway, whatever the fuck that means—but not today.

I’m not so different from Hugh, really. All I want to do is run. Some things never change.

Sally’s watching me. She leans in with a wink. “We could add Pimm’s to the cordial, if you fancy it?”

I force a laugh and a lie. “Oh God. Later, maybe. I’ve promised Jo a visit.”

“Did you?” Sally looks confused for a blink, then turns smartly away and starts doling out food to the kids. “Right, then, who’s hungry?”

I kiss the kids on their humid little heads, one after the other, half hoping they’ll cling, show a little need for me, but they’re too busy reaching for their drinks. Max noses my leg, then returns his attention to the table, ever vigilant.

Emma will need a nap in an hour and a half. I’ll be the one to draw the curtains and sing to her, but in the meantime, it won’t hurt to go see Jo. A ten-minute walk, a cup of Earl Grey, a sense of normalcy restored, then home.

As I turn onto the village track, I ready myself for a public appearance, facing the gathering outside the Dane’s Head, but this time, the whole village has gone queasily silent. The shutters are still closed at the Tinkers’ house, and the pub looks shut now too. The sign swings back and forth as if somebody smacked it, making the Dane look like he’s nodding. There’s a line of red at the bottom of his silhouette—his neck, severed. Funny I never noticed it before. How grim.