He’s at the door, eyeing her quizzically through the fogging glass, as if trying to place her. Sylvia has seen this expression before, at the train station last month. She’d been smug—the scene so perfect it was better than she’d fantasized. She stood under the four-faced clock in camel’s hair and lipstick, framed by the florid Victory Arch, queenly in her braided crown. Ted was late. A haggard, ragged black coat walking right past her. Truly hadn’t known her at first and told her so. His craggy features muddied, unfamiliar, searching her face while trying to appear as if not.

Now she’d like him to stop—he’s making her uneasy. She’s grown deeply weary of surprises, even her own. She wants to keep this uncomplicated: just a transaction, the start of a simple economy. They both know why he’s here. He’ll come for the children every week; she’ll hand them over, bathed and shod. Ted ducks his head, steps into the dark corridor and out of her way as she reaches behind him, pulling the door tight, sliding the lock in its groove.

“The children are in the flat, upstairs,” she tells him. “They’re dressed, but just starting their breakfast.”

Keep it simple. This part, at least, she’s determined to control. No messy entanglements. She’s the gatekeeper; at least for the foreseeable future, he’ll stand at her doorstep for a neat exchange. Here, Sylvia thinks, is where they really begin to practice a new language, one of efficacy and avoidance, a replacement for their old, shattered familiarity. Perhaps she should have dressed—she’s barefoot, still in her robe, her hair in a tangle down her back. She’d thought about it earlier, sitting on the nursery floor, her feet cold, watching Frieda conjure galoshes and oddments out of the laundry basket, Nicholas jabbering in the toy pile behind. But the morning had expanded so generously around her, spreading itself into the corners of the rooms. It felt clean, as after rain. She hadn’t wanted to move. She hadn’t wanted to disturb it at all. She’d just let it open, unhurried. She’ll bathe and dress when Ted’s taken the children for their outing. He’s leaning now awkwardly backward to let her by—knocking the pram, which creaks on its springs—as she turns to lead him up the staircase.