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her bottom lip, settling there and sending a trill of disgust through her. She did not know how long she had been pinioned like this on the edge of sleep, when she heard her younger son’s voice.
    ‘Wake up, Alice.’
    She answered from beneath the sheet, which the little one began to tug: ‘Call me Mummy.’
    ‘Alice,’ Dan’s voice whined again. ‘Wake up, Mummy.’
    ‘The fish’s gone,’ Samuel said. She heard the sadness in his voice and sat up. He was standing by the window, holding the glass of water in his hand. He had dressed himself.
    She climbed out of bed, pulling the sheet around her. As she rose, the little one tugged hard, uncovering her breasts.
    ‘Bosoms,’ he said.
    ‘Let go, Dan,’ she said, retrieving the sheet. She crossed the room and stood behind Samuel, laying her hands on his bony shoulders.
    ‘Look. He’s gone,’ he said, peering into the glass. ‘Has he gone to heaven?’
    ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He probably has.’
    She could see the fine blond hairs forming a perfect spiral on the back of his neck.
    ‘Look,’ he said, holding the glass up to the light coming through the curtains. ‘He’s completely gone.’
    ‘Has it got wings?’ Dan asked her, tugging on the sheet again.
    ‘Probably,’ Alice said, drawing the curtains.
    They had a view over the square. It was empty but for a freckled dog lying directly below, panting on the hot, white pavement. She was disappointed to see that the moss-stained fountain in the centre was dry.
    ‘I don’t want to go to heaven,’ Dan said.
    ‘Why not, little one?’
    She turned round. Dan was lying on the floor with his feet on her bed.
    ‘I don’t want wings. I don’t want wings; they’ll hurt.’
    ‘You can’t fly if you don’t have wings,’ Samuel said. He was leaning out of the window and slowly emptying the glass of water on to the street below. The dog, who was getting spattered, was blinking tolerantly, apparently too hot to move.
    ‘Don’t do that, Samuel,’ she said, taking the glass from him.
    ‘You can,’ Dan said. ‘Peter Pan doesn’t have wings. Nor does Robin Hood.’
    ‘Robin Hood can’t fly,’ Samuel said.
    ‘He can.’
    ‘Mummy. Can Robin Hood fly?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘See?’ Samuel said.
    Alice put the glass down and went to pick up Dan’s clothes from the floor. As she straightened up she felt dizzy and sat down again on her bed.
    ‘I don’t want to be an angel,’ Dan whined.
    Alice stood up, stepped over Dan and offered him her hand. He let her pull him up and then went limp.
    ‘Oh Dan, please. Let’s get ready and go up to the big house.’ She told herself to watch the high note in her voice.
    ‘I don’t like it there.’
    ‘You’re scared,’ Sam said.
    Dan looked up to retaliate.
    ‘Sam!’ he shrieked. ‘Not the goggles. It’s my turn.’
    ‘They’re mine,’ Sam said calmly.
    ‘Make him take them off, Mummy!’
    But Sam walked past his brother and made for the door. ‘It’s my turn!’
    ‘Stay in the square, Sam!’ she called.
    He slammed the door.
    ‘Push,’ she told Dan. ‘Please.’
    She was trying to feed his limp foot into his sandal. He was blowing bubbles with his spit.
    ‘Shall we go and have breakfast now?’ she asked him.
    ‘I haven’t played.’
    She touched his forehead. He was still hot.
    ‘You can play for five minutes in the square with Sam. I’ll call you when it’s time.’
    They held hands on the way downstairs. On the half-landing a little girl was lolling against the banisters. She stared at Dan as he came towards her. She could not have been more than five but she had dark eyes with heavy lids that gave her a precociously weary look. She wore earrings and a little medallion on a chain around her neck that she passed back and forth across her lips while she stared. A man’s voice echoed in the hall: ‘Ophélie!’
    The little girl suddenly stood straight and ran, like a punctilious ballerina, down the stairs in front of them, across the hall,