She is woken by stillness; the light is softer, the noise of the engine ticks to silence. Paul opens the door and glances around at an empty village square; he exhales sharply as if disappointed. “Well, this is it, according to the GPS. Eve said we should park by the café; the track leading to their house is too narrow. We have to turn left by a fig tree that’s down a lane opposite the church. I’ll lead the way.”

Outside he hands over her case; she is to carry it this time. He has worked out some equation to do with time and effort and has come to the conclusion she’s not worth the pursuit. She takes the case, relieved. Above them, the branches of a large plane tree spread out in a great canopy. Swallows skim like arrowheads above the outside tables of the café and disappear under the rafters. A couple of thin donkeys stand in front of an olive oil co-op across the road; an old man is sitting on the curb, jars of honey and olives on the ground around him. Grace sees the week ahead spreading out in the sun, a whole week. There will be time with the children, she and Martin might draw closer again. She’ll tell him that she’s missed him. She’ll ask about his work; she might even share her own. Her heart lifts. Paul has crossed the road with long strides and has vanished into a narrow gap between two houses. She hurries to catch up with him. Her case bumps over paving as she passes pink geraniums in pots and a tortoiseshell cat dozing on a wall.

“Fig tree,” Paul shouts, and turns left. She is close enough to see that he twists his feet when he treads on the fallen figs, crushing the flesh into stone as if enjoying the sensation. She picks up a fig that has fallen onto a wall; beneath the warm green skin, the pippy interior is sweet.

No one comes to Paul’s knock on the gray wooden gate; he tries again, thumping hard. A scatter of small birds fly up from the fig tree. The gate opens after another wait. Poppy is on the other side in a red swimsuit, her braids sodden, the freckles standing out on her pale face. She steps back silently then turns and runs down a path, leaving wet footprints that disappear in the heat. She vanishes between the olive trees.

“Anyone would think we were robbers,” Paul says, breaking the silence, “come to plunder.” They walk through the gate into a paved space roofed with trees. To the left a straightedged building towers above them; a white awning like a sail is stretched over a table and chairs on a patio, behind which a doorway leads into darkness. In front of the house is a browning lawn. Rows of olive trees extend as far as she can see; there’s a table covered in papers in their shade, a clothesline hung with towels and, farther back, stone buildings roofed with tiles. Eric appears from around the side of the building.