Poppy crosses off the days in her homework diary: five, four, three. She starts to feel excited. She used to hate Sundays, but it’s different now; everything’s different. She doesn’t care about coming last in spelling anymore, or having to work on her own because no one wants her to be their partner in science. She goes back to the woods after school to see the place where Izzy had been lying under the conker tree, her arms and legs spread wide. She had lain down next to her; the leaves had looked amazing, patterns and shapes she hadn’t seen before. After a while they’d heard her mother calling. It was funny because she’d sounded panicky and she never panics—she hasn’t got the slightest clue where she and Sorrel are most of the time. She was probably only worried because of what the other parents would say if everyone was lost. Poppy had looked at Izzy. Izzy had been looking at her and she was smiling; Poppy had smiled back. She felt brilliant. She had actually felt like bursting out laughing. Today the wood is very quiet. It’s getting a bit dark. Poppy lies down in the same place and closes her eyes. She stretches out her arms and legs as widely as she can. Three more days. She feels happier than she’s ever felt.

3. June

Eve

The weeks have settled into a shape, the days tilting toward the Sunday lessons. At least once a week Eve walks the half mile to the bookshop in Dulwich Village. She collects a basketful of children’s books, glancing at a copy of Martin’s in the adult fiction shelves. The new jacket carries a photo of him from fifteen years ago, looking like a young Harrison Ford. She sees the assistant watching and shuts the book with a snap, replacing it on the shelf.

Then it’s Sunday again, the fourth session. After a game of letter snap, she scatters photos on the table in front of the children. Jamie Oliver, Tom Cruise, Steven Spielberg, Richard Branson, Joss Stone, Keira Knightley, Holly Willoughby. “They all have dyslexia,” she explains. “But they’ve all got to exactly where they wanted to go.”

Blake is quiet, his eyes flicking between the faces. Poppy inspects the women closely, but Izzy glances at them briefly then laughs. Poppy laughs quickly, joining in. Eve takes the photos away and hands around the set of words she has cut up for them to use in their writing. Blake chews his pencil and begins to work; Poppy frowns, writing slowly. Izzy scrawls a few sentences then gets down from the table and starts to play with Sorrel, whispering behind her hand. Ash reaches to touch her shiny fall of hair; he looks dazzled, as if staring at a bright light.

Eve calls Izzy back to the table for the math session. Izzy and Poppy sit side by side, so close they are almost touching; her daughter’s face looks soft with happiness. Eve wants to tell her to be careful, hold back a little, she’s been hurt so often. Blake stares across the table at Izzy, looks down when he senses Eve’s gaze, then looks up again; Izzy exchanges little glances with Poppy. After half an hour, Blake stops writing and puts down his pen. Poppy looks out the window toward the trees.