Grace looks away. Paul’s face falls and he drains his glass. Melissa wants to smile; Grace seems immune to her husband’s charm. She glances at her, at the glittering eyes, the sodden dress, and the seeping hand. The story about the washing machine is far-fetched; she recognizes trauma even if no one else does, something complicated that Grace is keeping to herself. Melissa passes salad, salmon, bread, none of which she has eaten herself. Grace might have had a minor car accident and, having damaged the car, be too frightened or embarrassed to confess, as she herself would be, though she’s never seen anyone so unafraid, so little abashed.

“Well, I think you look amazing,” she whispers, conscious that her words sound trivial, as if trauma could be erased by a compliment, but Grace’s expression softens as she stares down into the garden. Melissa follows her gaze to the children dancing around the bonfire. Izzy’s voice carries the loudest, she sounds happy. Melissa’s mouth stretches into a smile so wide it feels dangerous. She puts her hands to her lips as if to hide her teeth while Grace turns her gaze to her. The assessment feels detached but not unkind.

“Izzy’s having fun,” Melissa confides. “She adores the younger ones. It’s like she’s turning back into a child herself.”

“Mine don’t tell me much. They’re quieter if anything, a bit grumpy. Growing up, I’d hoped.” She taps the table with her fingernails. Thin lines of dried blood are embedded in the folds of skin that border each nail; trauma as she’d thought. Melissa looks away.

“Which do you think, Eve?” Grace raises her voice. “Are our children growing up or getting younger? We can’t decide.”

Eve turns from Martin and glances around at the group as if confused; there is a pause while she visibly gathers her thoughts. Eric leans forward, watching.

“Both.” She opens her hands. “Their thinking has become more complex, even in the time they’ve been with me; they’re all very capable of quite abstract reasoning and questioning. They can be challenging at times.”

“Is Izzy challenging?” Melissa asks, praying her daughter hasn’t been rude.

“She might query the lesson plan a little, why a particular goal, for whose benefit, that sort of thing, pushing the boundaries. She doesn’t always do what I ask, but that’s good in its way; a sign of maturity.”

“A bit of a rule breaker then.” Paul looks pleased. “Like her dad.”

Is that how you see yourself? Melissa stares across the table at her husband’s flushed face—a bit of a rule breaker?

“On the other hand, they run down to the garden after the sessions like a bunch of little kids.” Eve laughs. “Eric’s hoping they’ll use his new playground, nearer the house.” She glances at the swing and the slide, the wooden cabin; stark shapes in contrast to the distant softness of the trees just visible against the sky. “We’ll have to see.”

They all look down into the garden then; the small figures of their children are silhouetted against the embers of the bonfire as if on a darkened stage. The scene recalls another: a group of performers at Glyndebourne with Paul’s firm last year—Faustus. As the singers had gathered at the glowing entrance to hell, the music swelled and a sense of danger had billowed into the darkness. Ash stirs, the drool from his mouth seeps into Melissa’s top. The barbecue has gone out; the evening feels colder. The candles are half burned down. She shivers, resisting the urge to get up and call the children back into their lit circle.