On Good Friday, I let the dogs out to run around the perimeter of the property before I called them back into their kennel. I thought I might bring them indoors later to cheer the ladies, though Ofelia might not approve on a holy day. She hadn’t yet emerged from her room, though that wasn’t unusual. I was in the kitchen, setting out the hot cross buns I’d baked the day before. Aside from a light midday meal, these were what we would eat that day. We’d had nothing but tea so far. Sveva was on the veranda, drawing. I didn’t think her mother would approve. We were supposed to be engaged in dreary activities on Good Friday, though the sweetness of the buns seemed a bit too cheerful, the warmth in the kitchen not dire enough. I heard the front door open, Sveva’s steps in the hall. She came into
