She slept heavily, and with open hands, as only a baby can.

Lily rolled the dough on a marble slate. As she swung the rolling pin, her body swayed and her skirt billowed around her legs — like a dance by the worktop.

It was summer and warm, and she was bare-legged. She set the pastry in a pie dish, poked it with a fork and trimmed the edges. Then she put a roast chicken on the chopping board. Poor little thing, she thought, and tore its thighs off. She liked the cracking sound the cartilage made when tearing from the bone. Light and tender, the meat let go easily, and she succumbed to the temptation to stick a piece in her mouth. It’s good, she thought, it has just enough seasoning, and it’s lean too. She filled the pie dish and sprinkled on Cheddar cheese. Then she checked the time. She didn’t worry about Margrete. If the child sneezed she would know it immediately. If she coughed or hiccuped, or began to cry, she would know. Because there was a bond between them, a bond as thick as a mooring line. Even the slightest tug would reach her like a vibration.

Margrete’s in my head, she thought, in my blood and in my fingers.

Margrete’s in my heart.

If anyone were to harm her, I would know. Or so she thought. She went about her business calmly. But at the back of the house, someone crept out of the dense forest and in one bound reached the pram. He pushed the crocheted blanket to the side, and Lily didn’t feel anything at all.

The quiche began to turn golden.

The cheese had melted, and bubbled like lava. She glanced out the window and saw Karsten as he pulled into the driveway in his red Honda SUV. The table was set, the china old and dignified; in each glass a white napkin opened like a fan.