Jude had no idea who Irina was but before she could ask, a door at the other side of the room was pushed open and a miniature person staggered in. Momentum carried him a few rushing steps, legs bandy and arms outstretched, and then he toppled into a soft heap in front of Jude and Danny. He stared up at them, dark curls and dark eyes and a mouth that was deciding whether to open into a wail.

“Up you get,” said Danny matter-of-factly, and put her hands under his armpits, lifting him to his feet. She turned him so he faced Jude. “This is Alfie,” she said.

Liam’s son. Liam’s almost-black eyes and his wide mouth. Jude bent slightly toward him, seeing his white teeth, his long lashes, his soft cheeks. He was wearing striped dungarees that had paint splatters on them, and a buttery-yellow T-shirt.

“Hello, Alfie,” she said, self-conscious and shy.

Few of her friends had children. She wasn’t really sure what to say to a one-year-old, or what to do. She pointed to herself. “I’m Jude.”

“Say hello to Jude,” said Danny, lowering her son to the floor, where he sat splay-legged.

He just stared at her, unblinking. Then he put his hands, fingers outstretched, over his entire face. His eyes glinted through them.

“He’s like his father, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Jude. Everything felt unreal.

“Did you ever see pictures of Liam when he was Alfie’s age?”

“No.”

Of course Jude hadn’t. She’d only been inside Liam’s house once and had never met his parents.

“Tea for two.” Vin came in carrying two large mugs and put them on the table. “Fennel.”

“Thanks.” Danny barely glanced at him, but she let her hand trail down his arm. “Can you take Alfie for a bit, while we have our talk.”

Our talk. That sounded ominous. Jude took a sip of her tea, which was surprisingly pleasant. She was very tired, she realized.

“Sure.” Vin bent down, hauled Alfie up and onto his shoulders. Alfie yelped and clutched his ears. “Come on, mischief, you can help me.” Vin made the sound of a motor, an airplane maybe, as they passed through the door.

“He doesn’t understand,” said Danny, looking after them, her face briefly softening.

“It must be very hard.”

“It is. Have a seat.”

Jude glanced around. There was the wicker contraption, several mismatched chairs pushed against the table and a stained beanbag. She pulled out one of the chairs and sat. Danny took the wicker throne, sighing and settling back against the cushions, tucking her legs under her. She was wearing wooden bangles that knocked against each other as she lifted her mug to her mouth. Her fingers were heavy with rings. There was a silence.

“You’re a tattooist,” said Jude.

Danny looked amused. “And you’re a doctor.”

“Yes.”