‘So you’re the psychic.’ Sophie took a few shrimp from her mother and dipped them in sauce.

‘My name’s Jeanne.’

‘Like Jeanne D’Arc.’ Sophie laughed. ‘Joan of Arc.’ It wasn’t an altogether pleasant sound. ‘Better watch it. You know what happened to her.’

Tall and slender, Sophie carried herself well, though with a slight slouch. Her hair was dirty blonde and shoulder length. She was, in fact, quite attractive. Still, there was something about Sophie. Something that made Jeanne back away slightly.

Monsieur Béliveau arrived just then with blueberry tarts from Sarah’s Boulangerie.

Candles were lit around the country kitchen and bottles of wine were opened.

The house smelled of lamb roasting in garlic and rosemary, of new potatoes, and creamed leeks and something else.

‘For God’s sake, canned peas?’ Clara looked in the pot Gabri and Olivier had brought.

‘We took them out of the can,’ said Olivier. ‘What’s your problem?’

‘Look at them. They’re disgusting.’

‘I would take that as a personal insult, if I were you,’ Gabri said to Monsieur Béliveau, who’d wandered over carrying a glass of wine and a piece of creamy Brie on a baguette. ‘We got them at his shop.’

‘Madame,’ the grocer said somberly. ‘Those are the finest canned peas money can buy. Le Sieur. In fact, I believe that is how they grow, right in the can. It is only the military-industrial complex that has developed the ridiculous hybrid. Peas in a pod. As though anyone would believe that. Disgusting.’ Monsieur Béliveau said this with such sincerity Clara would almost have believed him, if it hadn’t been for the sparkle in his eye.

Soon their plates were piled high with roasted lamb, mint sauce, and vegetables. Fresh-baked rolls steamed in baskets scattered down the table, along with butter and cheeses. The table groaned under the happy weight, as did the guests. Myrna’s massive bouquet sat in the center of the table, its arms of budding branches reaching for the ceiling. Apple boughs, pussy willows, forsythia with the gentlest of yellow blooms just showing, peony tulips of vibrant pink, were planted in the earth.

‘And,’ said Myrna, waving her napkin like a magician, ‘voilà.’ She reached into the bouquet and produced a chocolate egg. ‘Enough for all of us.’

‘Rebirth,’ said Clara.

‘But there needs to be a death first,’ said Sophie, looking around with feigned innocence. ‘Doesn’t there?’

She sat between Madeleine and Monsieur Béliveau, taking the chair just as the grocer had reached for it. Sophie picked up the chocolate egg then placed it in front of her.

‘Birth, death, rebirth,’ she said wisely, as though she’d brought them a new thought, all the way from Queens University.

There was something mesmerizing about Sophie Smyth, thought Clara. Always had been. Sophie would come home from university sometimes blonde, sometimes a brilliant redhead, sometimes plump, sometimes slim, sometimes pierced, sometimes without ornamentation. You never knew what you’d find. But one thing seemed constant, thought Clara, watching the girl with the egg in front of her. She always got what she wanted. But what does she want? Clara wondered, and knew it was probably more than an Easter egg.

An hour later Peter, Ruth and Olivier watched their friends and lovers plod into the night, invisible except for their flashlights, each person a bobbing torch. At first they clumped together but as Peter watched the little orbs of light separated, became strung out, each person alone, trudging toward the dark house on the hill that seemed to be waiting for them.

Don’t be such a wuss, he told himself. It’s just a stupid house. What could possibly happen?

But Peter Morrow knew famous last words when he heard them.

Clara hadn’t felt like this since she was a kid and would deliberately scare herself stupid by watching The Exorcist or going on the gargantuan roller coaster at La Ronde, slobbering and shrieking and once even wetting herself.

It was exhilarating and terrifying and mystifying at the same time. As the house got closer Clara had the oddest feeling it was approaching them rather than the other way round. She couldn’t quite remember why they were doing this.

She heard shuffling behind her and voices. Fortunately she remembered Madeleine and Odile were back there, the stragglers. Clara was also happy to remember in horror films it was always the stragglers who got it first. But, if they got it, she’d be the last. She speeded up. Then slowed down, battling between wanting to survive and wanting to hear what the two women were saying to each other. After what she’d overheard while hiding Easter eggs she’d assumed Odile didn’t like Mad. So what could they be talking about?