‘Thirty-two.’ The hesitation had been only fractional. They had spent every morning and afternoon walk to and from school this week learning this times table.

‘Nine times eight.’ She glanced up at him as she scooped up the carton of oat milk and replaced it in the fridge, along with the jam, cheese and pickles.

‘. . . Seventy-two.’

She gave an impressed nod. He hated the numbers higher up the ladder. ‘Eleven eights.’

‘Too easy,’ he scolded. ‘That’s a cheat one.’

She shrugged. ‘If you think that, then you’re totally ready. You’re going to slay it today and that gold star will be yours.’

‘Nils will beat me. He always does.’

‘Not this time. You’ve got this. He got the fours and the sevens and the threes, but you got the fives, sixes and nines. And now the eights will belong to you too.’

He stared at her. Could it be true? Could he really beat his old foe? She gave a nod in silent affirmation and he slid off the chair. ‘Good boy – shoes on. And tell your sisters they’re wearing their hats. No arguments. It’s bitter out there this morning.’

He darted out of the kitchen, hollering up the stairs at the twins as Bell rinsed the coffee machine’s foamer before the milk dried to a stubborn crust. Twenty seconds later, there came the stampede of tiny feet down the stairs.

‘Let me see,’ Bell said as they skidded to a stop in front of her, mouths pulled back in rictus grins to show their gleaming milk teeth. ‘Very good,’ she smiled, wiping a bit of toothpaste from the corner of Tilde’s mouth and taking the hairbrush from her hand. ‘Now who’s having plaits today?’

‘Me!’ Elise’s hand shot up first.

Hanna and Max didn’t mind the girls wearing the same clothes – as was often their wont – but they liked their hair to be worn in separate styles to impose some sense of difference between them. The point of the exercise was to promote the girls’ individuality but it was a helpful marker of distinction for the outside world too: they really were truly identical. When she had first started, it had taken Bell several weeks to confidently know which twin was which, but now she saw their differences easily. Both had what Max called his ‘buggy’ blue eyes and long limbs, but whilst Elise had their mother’s self-composed Mona Lisa smile and confidence, there was a tiny crook to the left in Tilde’s grin, and her left foot was fractionally pigeon-toed – the faintest strain of a palsy? It was common in twins.

With practised deftness, Bell quickly brushed Elise’s white-blonde hair free of her bedtime tangles, ignoring her dramatic squeals of protest, and plaited it into pigtails. Tilde had a half-ponytail with a blue gingham beribboned band. ‘Okay, very smart. Now boots on. Hats on. Gloves on. Quick-quick-quick.’

Linus walked back in, fully dressed and with his backpack already shrugged on his shoulders. His lips were moving but no sound escaped them as he ran through the eights again.