‘No,’ she said, ‘that’s not— I’ve had a strange day. And the puppet …’ It was hard not to look at the alligator, but she made herself look at Federico, his sad, sloping eyes, averted, of course.

‘He’s giving up on himself, you know. Of course you know. You can sense it. Him and his Mama, for ever. When she’s gone there won’t be nothing left. It is cruel, though,’ the alligator said, ‘to change your mind today. You have invite him for dinner – or do you forget?’

She had forgotten.

‘No,’ she said, ‘of course not. I just have to finish making up your room. Would you give me a minute?’

In the utility room, she gathered the warm sheets from the dryer and held them to her chest. Upstairs, she made Federico’s bed. Then she went to Tessa’s room, to let her out. She was relieved to find the cupboard door still closed. It meant Tessa had not been teasing, had not withheld from her the means of escape. She twisted the handle, and the door released. Tessa was still lying on her back, still gazing up at the wreath of lights, but there was something sitting on her stomach. Joan’s heart gave a single massive thump. Tessa turned to look at her. The thing turned too.

‘Leave me alone,’ it said, in Tessa’s deepest voice.

Joan fell backwards away from the cupboard. Somehow she scrambled across the hall towards her own room, shut the door, even locked it – they had a tiny key in the lock they never used, though once upon a time they had turned it if they ever made love – and ran to the far side of the bed, her side, where she sat on the floor, already feeling silly for how she’d reacted. There would be an explanation. Tessa would’ve found some old toy that Claire had missed. Maybe she’d found Suzanne – though it hadn’t been Suzanne. No pink, no white. Joan had seen a dark colour, brownish perhaps, or greenish, like the mould in the bottom of the cups. And a smell. Had there been a smell? Had Tessa been keeping something horrible in there? Why did Joan have to think about this? It was ridiculous, it was unfair, it was nearly Christmas. She ought to be putting the last cards on the mantelpiece and getting the lamb in the oven.

The house had fallen quiet. She would just stay here. Maybe she needed to lie down for a minute. It was not like Joan to lie down in the day, she thought it weak and slovenly, but the circumstances, really, were extraordinary, enough to slip her shoes off and settle on the bed, among the pale decorative cushions that Henry grumbled about having to remove and stack on the love-seat every night.