On his way back from the bathroom, Chris poked his head into the kitchen. He normally avoided asking Di if she needed any help, reluctant to offer her an extra chance to decline heroically, but tonight he had to talk to her.

“Want a coffee, Chris?” She began filling the kettle with her left hand, scouring a baking tray with her right.

“I’ll make them.” Chris managed to wrestle the kettle from her, and got out the mugs, which had the same speckled pattern as his and Vicky’s cups at home—Di had donated her spares. He decided to use this as a route into the conversation he wanted to have. After stumbling over a line about Di being generous, always giving things to others, he segued into “That bracelet you gave Vicky is nice.”

Was there a pause? Did she clang a saucepan to buy herself time?

“Yeah, I thought it would suit her.”

He stared at Di’s profile, bent over the sink. Her lips were pressed together, accentuating her overbite, and her dish-scrubbing had become more vigorous.

Chris didn’t know what he’d hoped for. Of course Di would pick up on the need to cover for Vicky, even if the bracelet hadn’t come from her. The three sisters had a shared radar for defending one another.

It doesn’t suit her, he wanted to snarl. Not at all.

“Did you buy it for her, or was it yours?”

“I bought it.” Her brush scratched manically at the saucepan. “Thought it might cheer her up a bit.”

“Cheer her up? Is she . . . Has she said something to you?”

“She’s just seemed a bit down since switching wards, don’t you think?”

“Switching wards?”

“Oh . . .” Di stopped her assault on the pan, her cheeks flushed. “I thought you knew.”

“No, I—”

They were interrupted by Vicky walking into the kitchen. She looked from one to the other, seeming to detect an atmosphere. “Everything okay?”

Di leaped in: “Fine! Chris is kindly making coffee.”

Vicky arched an eyebrow. The post-lunch coffees used to be his regular role, back when he’d had the energy and inclination to insist. Chris wondered if Vicky was thinking of the day she’d first brought him round here, how anxious he’d been for acceptance, and how they’d kissed in the car afterward, laughing about Chris calling Gav “Garth” and Di interrogating him about his intentions.

Now Vicky glanced at her sister and at Chris again, before her face smoothed into that exasperating blankness.

“Which one’s mine?” she asked, nodding toward the drinks.

—