It’s not until later, much later, after Rav has come home (late, again) and sleeps soundly, snoring as usual, that I see Tara left something behind. While changing the baby I notice a scrap of fabric, peeping out from under the changing station. I lay the baby, clean and fed, back in the cot and then, wide awake, I tiptoe towards the changing mat, careful not to disturb the rest of the household. Reaching down I pull at the scrap, holding it up in the thin light that comes from an almost cloud-covered moon. The blue blanket. The one I have seen in my dream, my vision. There is a loose edge, the satin ribbon coming away from the knitted part, and I run my fingers over the stitching, my heart cold.

Chapter Twenty

Creeping downstairs, I silently take the bones and the pearls from where I have hidden them in the drawer and take the blanket with me, not wanting to leave it in the same room as the baby. Rav carries on snoring, and I peep in on Mina as I pass her bedroom. The nightlight casts a warm glow over the room, her tiny, dark head just visible on the pillow, her duvet tucked in close around her.

The living room is all in darkness and I reach for the switch on the lamp, chasing away the shadows that lurk in the corners, filling the room with a dim light. Goosebumps rise on my arms, the night air chilly, and I want to laugh. In any other circumstances I would wrap the blanket in my hands around my shoulders, or drape it over my lap, but instead I lay it on the coffee table, my heart pounding hard in my chest. I can hear my breathing, fast and loud in my ears and I draw in a deep breath and hold it, trying to calm my racing pulse.

When I first saw the blanket draped over a sleeping Rufus as Tara stopped me in the doorway to the preschool that first morning, I thought it was just a coincidence. Lots of babies have blue blankets – there are so many ones in a similar style to the blanket that sits in a heap in front of me now. But when I picked it up from where it had fallen beside the changing station, I noticed the fraying edge, where the satin strip had come away. In my dream, my vision, whatever it is, the same strip of frayed satin lies across the bed, the image burned into my mind. What does this mean? I reach out and finger the soft, silky edging, the bobbled, worn knitted main section of the blanket. This blanket isn’t new, bought especially for baby Rufus. It is old, worn, well loved. How could this be the blanket I saw in my dream?