She glances at the coins of hardening cake mixture on the stovetop, the sticky bowls in the sink. Grace had been wearing a suit at drop-off, makeup and nail polish, one hand neatly bandaged. Eve had felt dowdy by comparison, but Martin is smiling at her as if she wasn’t sweaty, with her apron around her waist and hair in her eyes, possibly a dab of flour on one cheek.

“We finished with a chapter from a novel and Blake predicted precisely what happens in the end.”

“Which one?” A storyteller, he leans to hear.

“Lord of the Flies.”

“Isn’t that a bit—”

“Dark? It was only the first chapter. Izzy brought it in; I don’t think she had any idea.”

“You obviously brought out the best in him.” He nods, taking the second cake and inspecting the empty plate. “Unusual.” He traces the ellipse on the glass, the black circle in the middle. “A hand-painted plate; are you an artist as well as everything else?”

“It’s from a village in Greece.” She laughs. “The eye is supposed to keep people safe from the glance of a blue-eyed intruder. I bought lots.”

“Do they work?”

“We’re okay so far.”

“Gosh, a dimple. I haven’t seen one of those for years.”

The blood rises in her cheeks. It’s been so long since anyone mentioned her looks, she’s forgotten how to manage a compliment.

“Sorry, the writer in me. I notice faces.” He puts the plate back on the table. “Where’s the village?”

“In the Peloponnese. We have a house out there.” Does that sound like boasting to him? She never knows; she begins to bite her nails as she did when she was a child. “It’s very run-down,” she adds quickly. “The garden’s wild.”

“Sounds exactly like my kind of place.” His eyes meet hers; his smile deepens.

“Let’s find your children.” She gets to her feet, flustered. “It’s time I woke my son.”

“Grace didn’t tell me you had a baby.”

“He’s almost three, but he seems younger; he hasn’t started speaking yet. I’m worried it could be dyslexia, like his sister Poppy.” She begins to bite her nails again. “I think my husband might have had it as a child; it can run in families; I expect you know that.” She’s talking too much, drinking in his interest the way you swallow water when you hadn’t realized how thirsty you were.

“I didn’t say a word till I was five.” Martin grins. “I’ve made up for it since. I wouldn’t worry; he’ll be fine.”

He’s kind, the sort of man who understands. “I’ll introduce you.” She leads him outside, but when they reach the little makeshift bed under the willow tree, the heaped nest of blankets is empty. Ash has disappeared; his red tractor is lying on its side in the grass.

“He’ll be down in the garden,” she says breathlessly. “He must have gone to find the others. They’ll be together somewhere.”

Martin follows, gazing around as she walks rapidly toward the meadow, passing Igor at work under the hood of a large green truck. His dusty-looking head is close to the engine, blue overalls smeared with oil.