“You should join them,” Eric tells her. “You’ll find everything you need . . . Christ.” He begins pulling off his shirt as he sprints toward the shallow end, his shoulders moving as though there were animals beneath the skin. He dives into the pool, pushes aside Poppy, and pulls Sorrel from the center of the ring of children. A child, not a ball. Sorrel’s face is streaming. Eric carries her out of the pool to Eve, who kneels to embrace her daughter. Martin kneels too; his mouth is turned down, he’s shaking his head, looking helpless. Eric strides back to the shallow end, Grace follows, her mind blank with fury. He jumps in and hauls Poppy toward the steps by her arm.

“Let me go. It was a game,” she shouts. “I had a turn so Sorrel wanted one.”

“Out, Charley,” Grace raps. “Blake, out. You will both apologize.” They climb from the pool. Eve and Sorrel have vanished, along with Martin. Poppy wriggles free from Eric’s grasp and disappears swiftly through the trees.

“Don’t worry.” Melissa indicates Paul who is sitting by the edge of the pool talking to Izzy, now floating in the shallow end. “He’ll find out exactly what happened.”

“You spoiled the game.” Blake wrenches his hand from Grace’s. “Sorrel was enjoying it. We were taking it in turns. Jesus.”

“Don’t swear.”

“You do, all the time.”

“Who thought this game up?”

He shrugs.

Grace turns to Charley, who is shivering by the edge of the pool.

“We all did, I think.” She looks unhappy. “Sorry. We didn’t mean to scare Sorrel; it was my go next.”

“Go to your rooms.” Grace keeps her voice calm with effort. “We’ll talk when you’ve had a chance to think what it must have been like for Sorrel, who is only little, much littler than the rest of you.”

Blake and Charley glance at each other as they walk off; when they reach the trees they start running. She hears a spurt of laughter; it sounds like Blake’s.

“I’m sorry.” Eric is behind her, water streaming off his shoulders.

“Hardly your fault.” She looks at the disappearing figures of her children. They have changed in the few days since she saw them. They seem unfamiliar, sun-tanned, of course, a little thinner, but something else, hard to put her finger on, as if their loyalties have shifted and they are going by a different set of rules.

“Our pool.” His brown eyes are clear as if rinsed by the water. “Our fault.”

Paul walks past them. “We’ll continue our little chat at the house.” He sounds confident, relaxed even. Perhaps Izzy told him that the other children organized the game, that it had nothing to do with her. “See you all later.” One large hand rests heavily on his daughter’s neck. The heat of that palm must prickle uncomfortably against her skin, but her head is bent, it’s difficult to see her expression. Melissa follows them, turning to raise her hands in a gesture of helplessness. What can we do—she seems to be asking—with such naughty children? Grace feels light-headed and enormously tired.