Eric sits by the bed in the evenings, his head lowered, saying nothing. A tide of blame swells silently between them: he should have made a solid gate with no gap at the bottom; he ought to have drained the pond and diverted the spring. She shouldn’t have held a party midweek or gotten drunk. The swell rises higher, but if she accuses him he’ll accuse her back. They can’t afford that now, not yet.

Martin tiptoes in when no one is about and places something down on the bedside table that makes a tiny metallic noise. She turns to look; her ring, her lost ruby ring.

“I found this in our bed at home, after our last afternoon together,” he whispers. “Sorry. It must have got swept up in my clothes after all. I brought it over to give it back the night of the party, but I couldn’t get you on your own; then, well, with everything that happened I clean forgot.” He shakes his head. “You must have been so worried. I’m sorry.”

She’d forgotten all about the ring; it had been lost, she remembers now, she’d been so anxious, panicked even. That worry seems part of a distant dream that’s faded to nothing. She stares up at him silently; he could be a stranger. If she feels anything for him now, it’s to wonder how she could have felt so much and then nothing at all.

Sorrel comes into the room later and climbs onto the bed. Eve holds her daughter very close; the warm little body is comforting.

“I’m scared.”

“Don’t be, darling. We’ve made everything safe now.”

“Ash couldn’t breathe.” She is sobbing.

“I know.”

“He couldn’t take a breath. He was trying to . . .”

“Don’t think about it, sweetheart.” Eve touches Sorrel’s wet cheek. “Think about the happy times. We had so many lovely times with him.” She gasps between her words as if surfacing for air, but Sorrel cries harder; she tries to talk through her tears but then Izzy is there. It’s a Sunday, she’s been here since the morning.

“Let your mummy sleep.” She holds out her hand. “We need you for the game, Sorrel.”

“Game?” Eve echoes dully.

“In the woods, fresh air. Come on, Sorrel.”

“Go on, darling, it’ll help you feel better,” Eve tells her.

Sorrel clings to her but Izzy is smiling and holding out her hand and they both leave. When they have gone, Eve gets up and leans her head against the glass. Her eyes go to the donkeys’ field like a tongue to a painful tooth. Igor has rerouted the spring and filled in the pond; the fresh soil has a brown crust like a new scar. Everything in the landscape is dull brown: tan branches, brick-colored earth, and heavy beige clouds. Leaves lie on the ground in sodden russet layers. The children shun the little house that Eric made, preferring the wood as their playground. She can see them from the bedroom window, running in and out of the leafless trees. Sorrel’s red anorak shows up against the dark trunks. She lags behind and falls over often; she is probably crying right now. Her daughter’s pain feels deep but inaccessible, like an ache in your abdomen that keeps you awake but you can’t quite locate.