So this was Tom. He was wearing long board shorts and a cap that he pulled off so he could rub the top of his head hard. His hair was the same color as Olivia’s—so blond it was almost white. Nick had that color hair when he was a child. Tom’s limbs were skinny and tanned and strong. He was like a miniature surfie teenager. Good Lord. He had Roger’s nose. It was definitely Roger’s nose. It made her want to laugh. Roger’s nose in this vibrant little boy’s face. She wanted to hug him, but she wasn’t sure if that was appropriate.

Instead, she said, “Yeah, let me see the photo, Nick.”

Nick and Tom stared at her. Her tone must have been wrong. Too flippant?

Tom said, “You sound a bit funny, Mum. Did you get stitches at the hospital for your head? I asked Auntie Libby if it was a brain tumor and she said it definitely was not. I did a lie-detector test on her.”

“It definitely was not a brain tumor,” said Alice. “I just fell over.”

“I’m starved to death,” sighed Tom.

“I’m making hamburgers for dinner.”

“No, I mean, I’m starved right now.”

“Oh.”

A girl walked up onto the veranda. She dropped a wet towel on the veranda, put her hands on her hips, and said, “Did you say you’re making hamburgers for dinner?”

“Yes,” said Alice.

Madison. The Sultana. The two blue lines on all those pregnancy tests. The flashing heartbeat on the screen. The mysterious invisible presence listening to Nick’s voice through the toilet roll.

Madison had very fair, almost translucent skin. There was a patch of angry red sunburn on her neck with white fingerprints as if someone had given up on putting on the sunscreen too soon. She had lank, dark brown hair that was falling in her eyes and beautiful strong white teeth. Her eyes were the same shape as Nick’s but a darker, unusual color, and her eyebrows were someone’s—Elisabeth’s as a child! They were subtly raised at the corners, like Mr. Spock. She wasn’t adorable like Olivia and Tom. Her body was chunky. Her lower lip jutted out sulkily. But one day, thought Alice, one day I think you might be striking, my darling Sultana.

“You promised,” the Sultana said to Alice. Her eyes were murderous. She was formidable. She filled Alice with awe.

“I promised what?”

“That you would buy the ingredients so I could make lasagna tonight. I knew you wouldn’t do it. Why do you pretend you’re going to do something when you know that you’re not.” She punctuated the last sentence with rhythmic stamps of her foot.

Nick said, “Don’t be so rude, Madison. Your mother had an accident. She had to spend the night at the hospital.”

Alice wanted to laugh at Nick’s stern dad voice. Madison lifted her chin. Her eyes blazed. She stormed into the house, slamming the screen door behind her.

“Don’t slam the door!” called out Nick. “And come back and pick up your towel.”

Silence. She didn’t return.

Nick sucked in his lower lip and his nostrils flared. Alice had never seen him pull a face like that. He said, “Go inside, Tom. I want to speak to your mother. Will you take Madison’s towel inside, too?”

Tom was standing at the front wall of the house, tracing the brickwork with his fingertips. He said, “Dad, how many bricks do you reckon there are in this whole house?”

“Tom.”

Tom sighed theatrically, picked up Madison’s towel, and went inside.

Alice took a deep breath. She couldn’t imagine living with those three children twenty-four hours a day. She’d never imagined them actually talking. They fizzed and crackled with energy. Their personalities were right there on the surface without that protective sheen of adulthood.

“The Sultana,” began Alice, but words eluded her. Madison could not be put into words.

“I beg your pardon?” said Nick.

“The Sultana. I could never have imagined her growing up to be like that. She’s so . . . I don’t know.”

“Sultana?” He didn’t know what she was talking about.

“You remember—when I was pregnant with Madison, we used to call her the Sultana.”

He frowned. “I don’t remember that. Anyway, I wanted to see if we could work out this thing with Christmas Day.”

“Oh, that.” She thought of all those nasty e-mails and got a bad taste in her mouth. “Why are we even talking about Christmas now? It’s May!”

He stared at her as if she were crazy.

“I beg your pardon? You’re the one obsessed with your precious spreadsheet. You said you wanted everything in black-and-white for the whole year ahead. Every birthday. Every concert. You said that was best for the kids.”

“Did I?” Did she even know how to do a spreadsheet?

“Yes!”

“Right. Well. Whatever you want. You can have them on Christmas Day.”

“Whatever I want,” he repeated suspiciously, almost nervously. “Is there something I’m missing here?”

“Nope. Hey—how was Portugal?”

“It was fine, thank you,” he said formally.

She had to clench her fingernails into her hands to stop herself leaning forward and laying her face against his chest. She wanted to say, “Talk in your normal voice.”

“I’d better go,” he said.

“What?” She nearly grabbed for him in a panic. “No. You can’t go. You have to stay for dinner.”