Someone is there, in the house with Rav and the children. My skin prickles and I automatically look up at the windows on the top floor. There is a soft light glowing in the hallway, as if one of the bedroom lights has been left on and a shadow moves across it, gliding quickly. I slide out of the car, closing the door as quietly as I can. Walking up to the front door, I change my mind and swerve off to the left, taking the path that leads along the side of the house. I unlatch the gate, wincing as it creaks and step into the shadows, my eyes on the kitchen window. The lights are on and Rav now stands at the old-fashioned Aga-style range, stirring something in a copper saucepan. He says something, his lips moving but the sound muted through the glass of the windowpane, his brow furrowing. He stops stirring, turning his back to me as he faces whoever he is speaking to. I inch along the side of the house to get a better view, stumbling over the beginning of the border at the edge of the house. Scents of jasmine and chamomile rise on the mild night air, and raising my hand to cover my mouth I think I can smell the fresh, apricot scent of the oleander bush. For a moment I don’t know if it’s on my skin or in the air. I move to the back door, peering in through the window to see who is making Rav frown like that. She sits at the kitchen table, my baby on her lap. He lies in the crook of one arm, her other hand cupping his tiny head. His mouth opens in a muted wail, and her hand reaches for the bottle of milk on the table, silencing him as she gently places the teat in his mouth. Naomi, sitting at my table, talking to Rav, feeding my baby. Tears prick my eyes. They look like a family. A real family, with a mum who is happy and well rested, not fretting about people watching the house and witch’s curses. This is what she wants, I think, the thought suddenly clear in my mind, only I’m not sure if I’m talking about Naomi, myself or Agnes. I can hear their voices now I am close enough and I catch the end of what Rav is saying, his face still carrying that shadow of anger.

‘… more than just “not quite right”! I’ve been reading up on it.’

‘The article I sent you?’ Naomi’s voice, quieter as she sits further from the door.

‘Yes, the article. Postpartum psychosis. I feel like … like this is what it could lead to, you know that?’

‘I know that …’ Her voice fades and I have to strain to hear her. ‘… Keep the children safe.’