‘He would grind my daughter’s bone into meal,’ Glynis says from the ground, his hand pinching his boxed ear. ‘He would take her when I am not guarding her body. You know this is true, Raghnailt, and you know what we do is right.’

‘We are taking this burden off your hands,’ Eoin says. ‘We must break his back.’

‘He is done, he is,’ Genevieve says.

‘You will not be alone,’ Eoin says, looking at her. ‘We all love you.’

Gabriel nods beside him, only coming up to his shoulder. ‘We do, Raghnailt,’ Gabriel says. ‘We love you.’

‘You can come visit us every day,’ Eoin says. ‘Our mother is dead, our uncle missing, perhaps fled the country. A feminine presence, soothing in the corner, would be very welcome to us lonely boys.’

Raghnailt is shaking her head. There is an emptiness in her chest like her body is someone else’s. I am losing my son, she thinks. I cannot stop it. I cannot save him, and I will be in pain forever.

‘It can’t happen,’ she says. ‘It won’t happen. It’s impossible. You can’t.’

‘We love you, Raghnailt,’ Áoife says. ‘I am sorry I hurt you. Give me your hand, and let me kiss your cheek. Let us be friends. Forgive me.’

‘You are a good kin,’ Genevieve says.

‘You were always good to us,’ Albus says. ‘Always kind.’

Raghnailt wheels round, but the mob is behind her as well. She is enclosed within them, but now they are covering her in their love. Her breath is sharp; panic overcomes her again. She is the centre now. I have wanted love my whole life, she thinks, and this is how it is given to me.

‘You are all mad,’ she yells. ‘This is a false reprieve. The sickness is still here. Just because you have come together in the sunlight you think it is over, but it is here, creeping through you now. Give me my son back. Go to your homes this instant.’

‘But we can’t,’ Genevieve says. ‘There’s no one left.’

‘There is no choice,’ Áoife says. ‘It is already done.’

‘I could get no peace in my house,’ Glynis says, on his knees now. ‘There’s always someone knocking, a friend or an unknown, and what am I to do? Embrace a dead wife? Will she keep me warm? She used to hum in her sleep, even musical then. She lies there, now, blue, before the hearth, forever quiet and cold. I cannot sleep next to her any more. You would condemn me to that loneliness?’