The door opens; Martin kicks off his boots and comes in, blowing on his fingers. “I’ve been in the barns and outhouses with the police.” His teeth are chattering. “We’ve searched the garages and the shed, nothing.”

She fills mugs with soup for the children, leaving them on the coffee table in front of them with a plate of buttered toast. As Blake stretches for a mug, his sleeve slips back, revealing a wound on his wrist, a round red mark, wet-looking and surprisingly deep.

“What’s that?” She takes his arm.

He snatches it back and shakes his sleeve down.

“How did it happen?”

“Science.”

“Can I see?”

“S’okay.” He holds his wrist to his chest; the other children stare at her.

“It needs cleaning.”

He shakes his head.

She rejoins Martin. “Blake’s got what looks like a nasty burn on his wrist. He says it’s from science; it might need treatment. Charley’s got a mark on her forehead too. We ought to speak to our kids on their own, away from the group, and find out exactly what’s been happening.”

“I’ll take a look.” He moves a little closer to her. “I’m sorry, Gracie. I made a mistake.”

She steps back, rage beginning to rise again. A mistake? Like a mistake in math that you erase so it looks as good as new; except that it doesn’t. If you look closely the surface of the paper is roughened; closer still, the tiny fibers have been torn apart.

“It started in the summer,” he continues. “Just a few times. My work was going badly; you couldn’t bear to let me touch you.”

“So it’s my fault?”

“Of course not. Eve was lonely, I let myself be flattered.”

“Ah, I see. It’s Eve fault.”

“Eve and I are done, Gracie.”

“You really think it’s that easy?”

“I don’t know what to say. It should never have happened; I know that. I’m sorry.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Grace says under her breath, glancing at the sofa. “We’ll talk about this later.”

The door bangs open again. Eve comes in followed by Eric. Snow rims their hair and eyelashes and they are covered in mud as though they recently emerged from the ground. They walk through the kitchen without a word.

“Izzy isn’t here.” Poppy sounds alarmed. “She was next to me a minute ago.”

“Where’s Noah?” Charley looks around.

Martin puts his soup down. “Let’s not panic now, I expect she’s taken him for walk. Any minute—”

“It’s snowing, Dad,” Charley interrupts. She sounds patient, as though explaining something to a child. “Noah’s too young to be out in the snow for long.”

At that moment Izzy walks through the door from the garden, Noah following.

“The dog needed to go out.” She kicks off her shoes. “He’s been stuck inside all day.”

They’d all forgotten about Noah until now. Izzy walks barefoot across the room and folds herself gracefully on the sofa; she puts an arm around Poppy, who has started to cry.