Bianca felt a sense of relief.

Finally, she thought, dimpling to herself.

Finally. Her Masters were winging their way home, she told herself that morning as she fed her toddler, watching indulgently as he banged a spoon on the table of his high chair and made loud sounds to attract his mother’s attention whenever he felt she was vaguely distracted. His small chin and plump cheeks were covered with cereal and he looked adorable.

Bianca bent down to kiss him. Cian looked like her, as Sylvie had commented the day before, the brown eyes with the curling lashes, the pouty mouth.

“The spittin’ image of you, honey,” the older woman...