Catherine put a spoonful of sweetcorn on Honor’s plate and a dollop of mash. She had dished up Edward’s dinner first, but he hadn’t waited for either of them and was shovelling forkfuls into his mouth. When she caught his eye, he mumbled something about being hungry and poured her a glass of sparkling water as a peace offering. She served herself last. The beef’s red wine sauce was too thin and it bled into the potato, turning it a watery pink.

She put down her knife and fork, appetite gone.

What she had begun to call the Bus Ticket Issue filled up all the worry-space in her head. Based on the evidence, it would appear her twelve-year-old daughter had not been to school that morning.

Uncomfortable questions jostled for attention. Where had she been? With whom? What was so urgent it couldn’t wait until the weekend? And why was she being so secretive?

Truancy was a rite of passage for some, Catherine understood that. But Honor was still young – too young – and had lied with convincing ease.

Much as she hated to admit it, her daughter was pulling away from her and she needed to handle this situation with care. Not to alienate her, never that, but to encourage her to open up and confide her truths, as she’d done so willingly in the past. If she raised the mystery of the bus ticket now, over dinner, Edward would want to analyse and discuss it, as he had done when she had first told him about the fire and her family. Given the elastic-thin state of his patience at the moment, he would probably shout, but Catherine knew that approach wouldn’t work with their daughter. Honor would storm off and clam up.

Perhaps she should sleep on it. If the school was closed again tomorrow, they’d have a proper chance to talk it through while Edward was in London. Yes, that was the best course of action. Feeling better, she took a sip of water and tried out a tentative smile on her husband.

‘How was your day, love?’

He grunted and speared a mushroom. ‘Same old.’

Catherine waited for him to continue, but it was clear his contribution to the dinner-table conversation was over. Edward was an excellent mimic. He often made them laugh with stories of office politics and the petty bureaucracies of government regulators. But he’d barely said a word since getting home. She wondered if something had happened at work.

Outside, the snow was still falling. It gave the night a textured feel, like the air was rippling. They ate in silence until Honor poked at her casserole and said, ‘I’m full, Mum.’

‘But you’ve hardly touched your dinner.’

The girl shrugged. ‘I don’t want any more.’

‘Honor, you need to eat—’

‘Don’t fuss. If she says she’s had enough, leave her be.’