Eve slips on the ring. It feels heavy on her finger, a little loose. She descends to the kitchen, holding tight to the banister, feeling her way as if in darkness. She hesitates at the kitchen door; Martin is chopping herbs. There is music, something jazzy. She’s not up to this after all, but Martin looks up as she turns to go.

“Ah, so you’ve come downstairs at last.” He reaches to switch off the radio and it’s too late to escape; he smiles, but seen across the kitchen, he looks smaller than he used to be, obscurely disappointing.

“I thought we’d get ahead with supper,” he says cheerfully. “The kids are outside; Melly’s gone to fetch them in. It’s mild now but they say it’s all set to change. The wind’s in the north, a big freeze is coming, snow maybe. Unusual for the time of year. Storm Adelina is approaching. God knows where they find these names.” He’s talking fast, as if scared of silence. Eve looks out the window to the sky, where gray clouds have massed; if the predicted weather had happened three weeks back, the pond might have frozen over. Ash would have fallen on ice. He’d be playing on the floor now, with a scab on his forehead. She might have worried there would be a scar when he grew up. A little white scar, the kind of thing a girlfriend would notice; he’d smile and tell her the story, about how he’d followed the dog outside on a cold morning when he was little . . .

“It’s good to see you up and about.” Martin puts a cup of tea in front of her. “I wish to God there were words to make it easier, I feel so helpless.”

She sips the bitter tea; he’s forgotten she takes milk. What does she care about how he feels? Words aren’t important after all. They wouldn’t have saved Ash’s life; they won’t bring him back. It’s hard to believe she once set so much store by words, especially his. She can’t finish the tea and gets up. Martin steps forward to hold her, she endures the embrace, too exhausted to move away. When the children thud up the veranda steps she raises her head in time to see Izzy come in and stop short, a flicker of contempt on that smooth young face. Eve pulls away before the other children stream in. Poppy follows close on Izzy’s heels, Blake, and then Charley; Sorrel comes last holding Noah close to her chest. He’s much too big to be carried now, she is staggering under his weight. The children kick off boots and shed coats, scattering a shower of little stones that clatter to the floor. They walk silently across the kitchen and disappear. Melissa follows the children in and shuts the door. By then Martin is back chopping herbs. Melissa takes the dustpan and brush from under the sink and sweeps the floor clean.

“I thought I’d make a pudding for supper,” she says brightly, straightening. “The children will be hungry.”