She raised her head, looking for the boy, but he was no longer here beside her. There, in the fuller darkness of the back hall, she saw him and the little girl, the suggestion of them in the shadows. And more, others, their forms less distinct, but present nonetheless. She turned her head to see the door out to the hall, to the foot of the stairs and the front door. The shadows moved, took shape, dissolved, reformed. More children, watching.

I should fear them, Sara thought. But she did not.

They’ll find you, Mary had said.

Sara lifted the chisel in her left hand, the mallet in her right, and placed the cutting edge on the grouting between the flagstones. She lifted the mallet and struck the head of the chisel with all her strength. The sound hit her ears hard, made her wince. She did it again, and again, and the chisel’s blade sank between the stones.

By the time she had worked her way around the first stone, splitting the grouting, dawn light soaked the kitchen. Her shoulder and back ached, along with her knees, and blisters had begun to form on her palms. She brought the chisel back to the starting point and hammered down between the stones once more. It took less effort than before, and as it deepened, she tilted the chisel away so its blade worked underneath the stone, raising it a fraction. She hammered it in further, lifting the stone a little at a time, until there was just enough room to slip her fingers underneath.

Sara shuffled around to the other side of the stone, ignoring the shrieking pain from her knees and back. She wedged her fingers under the stone and pulled it up and towards herself. The weight was less than she’d expected, but heavy enough to pull a grunt from deep in her chest. She moved aside and let the stone fall away, cracking as it hit the floor. A square of bare sand now lay exposed, dark and damp to the touch, with a deep red stain to one corner. She explored the sand with her fingers, compacted and dense, then lifted the chisel and mallet once more.

The next few stones were easier, some smaller than the first, some larger, the grouting giving way with less force. As sunlight crept over the kitchen, she worked, chipping and lifting, until she had cleared perhaps three feet squared of hard-packed sand, flagstones scattered around, some whole, some fractured. The red stain at the centre, brighter now, like a butterfly trapped in the grains.