I wasn’t there this morning as they boarded, after all, but I doubt anybody really noticed. I did debate going, standing on the dock and watching—Sally asked me, carefully, lightly, whether I planned to—but nobody explicitly said it was one of my responsibilities, least of all Hugh, who was completely preoccupied with getting us ready to go. We still weren’t packed until an hour ago, and Charlie was restless and Emma was whiny and then hyper, and in the end, I couldn’t get my head around the why of it. Why should any of them care that Nina Treadway turned up to wave from the shore as they set off on a boat?

It’s not like I’m close with any of the island parents. All our children are slightly different ages, so we never had that playgroup-bonding experience, and most of the mums have known each other since they were all kids themselves. Their families are dug deep in the community. It’s hard to break into their local shorthand, to keep up with their social rites. Even so, “You can see us off, then.”

At least I know that seeing the children off to Sunnan isn’t a Lute tradition, since this is the first time they’ve done it. The custom as it stood for millennia was for every single islander to remain on Lute for the Day, irrespective of age or condition. Not this year. There was an official island-wide vote, and this was the decision. Given the war, our diminished numbers, etcetera, etcetera, the children would be excused from taking part, along with a few adult caretakers, including Rev. Warren. He usually stays on island, apparently, which surprised me, given how pagan it all feels.

It’s kind of amazing that they’re keeping this tradition going, even in wartime. In other places, they call it Midsummer or Alban Hefin. Here, we usually just call it “the solstice,” and have cream teas out in neighbors’ gardens, but not this year. This is the seventh solstice, which makes it “the Day.”

It’s all so sincere in its fraught-ness, but who can fault them for their flights of imagination? It’ll probably be a helpful distraction, frankly, with so many loved ones still off fighting. I just hope the weather stays nice for everybody here while we’re away.

As we continue bumping along the dirt track, John Ashford whistling with gusto from the driver’s seat, I spot Matthew Clare, the lighthouse keeper, walking north along the cliffside, scruffy black hair blowing wild, shoulders held high against the wind, like it’s ten degrees colder for him than for anybody else but he still refuses to wear a jacket or even roll down his sleeves. Like he’s punishing himself.

No motorbike today. He must have been at the docks, helping get the kids off the island. I guess he’s staying, then.