“Absolutely not. No. It’s gorgeous outside.” My voice comes out harsher than I’d intended. I force another smile. “It’s a wide, flat lawn. As long as we stay on it, it seems as safe as the house to me.”

“Has anybody died yet?”

I stare at Avery’s young, open face and everything around us takes on an air of unreality, like I’m looking at a portrait of her or a close-up of an actress in a TV show. She just asked that. Out loud. Right in front of the children, with the same level of emotion you might use to ask what the chance of rain was today.

Emma doesn’t seem to have noticed. She’s picking apart the edge of a throw cushion with her feet kicked up, but Charlie’s still watching me intently, waiting for an answer.

“Three people.” I say it lightly, but I do say it, and I glance at him so he knows he’s included in this conversation. It might carry more darkness or weight if I tried to hide it from him. Charlie’s smart. And like it or not, three dead is a fact.

“Who?” Avery worries a corner of her bottom lip with her teeth.

Charlie’s staring out the window now, but I know he’s still listening.

“I’ll tell you in a bit,” I whisper to Avery. “Would you mind just popping down to Sally to see whether we’ve actually got anything to make jelly? I’m happy to do it.”

Avery laughs. “You know she’ll never let you.”

It is literally stirring powder and water together. She’d let one of the children do it before she’d let me.

I need to make some changes around here. But not today.

Avery bounds away like she’s on a trampoline, long legs defying gravity. I picture her two years ago in her recital video, dancing Giselle with that company in Devon, light as air. Truth be told, she seems just as happy now. They’re resilient, these Lutes. They pick themselves up and carry on.

At the window, Charlie peers slowly over his shoulder at me. “Can we do bubbles?”

“Bubbles.” I let out a breath. “Yeah. Of course.”

I hurry to hunt for bottles of bubble liquid, to do it, do something. They should be in the chest on the far side of the room. I lift the lid, take out a wadded badminton net and rackets, a long splintered box with boules inside. Images flash—someone being bludgeoned by heavy balls, strangled by the net—each more ludicrous than the last.

Maybe peanut butter sandwiches weren’t the best idea. They wad up more than other foods. We could choke on them.

“There!” I locate three full bubble bottles and toss one to Charlie.