“Did you happen to see which way the children went, Igor? I’ve lost track of Ash.” Her cheeks burn. Eric was right. She should keep a closer eye on the children; perhaps she should have kept them inside as he’d said.

Igor lifts his head and stares at her then Martin. He frowns and shrugs heavily. She hurries along the path Eric mowed earlier, Martin keeping pace.

“It’s as though we’re in a fairy tale.” Martin stares at the donkeys in their field as they pass, and at the pond glittering in the sun. “I’ve never seen donkeys in a London garden before; it’s impossible to believe we’re in the middle of a city.”

“My father bought this place for the garden; he was mad about trees. He taught us to ride on those donkeys.”

“It must have been fantastic to grow up with so much freedom.”

“We didn’t; the nanny kept us on a leash.” It sounds like a joke, though it wasn’t funny. She doesn’t talk about it much, but Martin feels like a friend somehow and she hasn’t many. She lost touch with her old crowd years ago; Eric didn’t like them, he found them phony. Family is enough for him, family is everything, but she misses her old friends at times.

“Actually, Eric thinks our kids have too much freedom.”

“Is it possible to have too much?”

He calls it neglect, but she doesn’t tell Martin that; she pushes the gate open and they are immediately in the little wood. The quiet is dense, like entering a soundproof room with thick green walls.

“Poppy! Sorrel!” The words don’t carry very far; perhaps Eric’s right, they should cut down some trees. “They’ll be here somewhere.” It’s dark under the crowded branches, too much undergrowth, so many thorns. She begins to hurry, her feet catching on roots, her breath hot in her throat. For a place where the children spend most of their time, she doesn’t come here often enough.

“Girls?”

A soft giggle comes from the right, the red of Poppy’s jacket flares beneath a young horse chestnut tree. She steps closer, Martin holding aside the brambles. The children are grouped in a patch of green-gold shade; Ash is sleeping on Izzy’s lap. The young girl is leaning forward, her body sheltering his, her long hair brushing his face. She is talking quietly, telling a story from the look on their faces. Poppy is lying in front of her playing with Ash’s foot, Blake is flat on the ground with mud on his face. Charley has her back against a tree, her eyes on the puppy in her lap, Sorrel near her.

“See?” Martin whispers. “Babes in the wood.”

“I hope not,” she whispers back, light-headed with relief. “We don’t want them to starve to death under the leaves.”

His snort of laughter is so loud the children look up, except for Ash, who is sleeping, and Izzy, who smiles.

“Thanks, Izzy. Hello, my little one.” She bends to take Ash. He feels warm in his green onesie; he whimpers then settles again, his cheek against hers, his mouth on her neck. There are little scratches on his hands, new ones, easy to tell, she knows his skin by heart. She kisses Sorrel’s head and reaches for Poppy, who moves out of range, flushing angrily. The children get to their feet, they seem dazed. Blake looks cross. Martin rumples his hair but he shakes him off, moving closer to Izzy. Poppy maneuvers herself to her other side. Sorrel takes Charley’s hand; allegiances shaping up.