That family. Caro, who always claimed to be exasperated by the ramblers that appeared at the door, but who then insisted they stop for tea and who had, in fact, already baked something, in anticipation of their arrival. Chris, who lived in plaid shirts with worn collars, and who seemed genuinely interested in everything we had to say. Beautiful, hesitant Michael, who, for someone so unbelievably clever, was the only person in the house who didn’t seem to have clocked that Robyn and I were sleeping together. Robyn’s parents never said anything, but I just knew they knew. It was nice, not having to explain, to just feel accepted. There wasn’t a chance I’d be telling my own mum and dad.

They were both so kind. Not only had Chris spent an entire afternoon teaching me how to throw a pot, and later how to glaze and fire it raku-style, but the night before I left he gave me a gift from his pottery too. It was a tall, round pitcher with an elegant curving handle and a deep green glaze, the color of the Atlantic, he said. It was by far the most beautiful thing I’d ever been given in my entire life.

“Make sure you use it,” Chris said to me. “Put flowers in it or water for the table, anything, I don’t mind. Just promise me you’ll actually use it. Art’s meant to have a purpose.”

“He’s a potter,” Caro said; “he makes functional objects. He would say that.”

The sky on my last night with the Bee family was dark and clear, so after the firing we just sat outside in deck chairs. I’d never seen such amazing stars in my entire life.

“No light pollution here,” Caro said, as Michael pointed out the three stars of the Summer Triangle, Deneb, Vega and Altair. Later, we just sat in silence and watched the slow turning of the sky. Yap, their tiny terrier, was curled into a soft comma in the middle of my lap. I buried my hands under his warm little body.

“But where is everybody?” Chris said, in a strangely emphatic voice, widening his eyes.

Michael laughed, then looked at my blank face. “He’s quoting the origin of the Fermi Paradox.”

“The what?”

“The Fermi Paradox, after Enrico Fermi. That’s what he said about the problem with aliens, allegedly.”

“Sorry—aliens?”

“Okay, so the theory goes, given we know the universe is infinite, then that means there’s an infinite number of possibilities for the existence of extraterrestrial civilizations, so, logically, a bunch of them must be way older and more advanced than ours, right? Right. So the question is, why haven’t any of them made contact? You’d think at least a few of them would have shown up by now. That’s the crux of it. In a nutshell, the Fermi Paradox basically states that there’s a contradiction there somewhere. The question is, where the hell are all the buggers?”

We lapsed back into silence. I looked up into the luminous sky and its infinite spaces, its infinite possibilities, its infinite hiding places.

Laika, I thought, where are you?

9 Lamb Willa

My mother had said she would drive down to collect me, but I told her I’d be okay on the train. The truth is, I wanted some time to myself, to process things. To think. By the time I arrived home, something in my life felt changed. The taxi slowed to a crawl as we went up the gravel drive and came to a stop halfway round the grass circle. I paid, tipping the driver as generously as my funds would allow, and he hefted each of my bags up the curved flight of stone steps, placing them just outside the solid oak doors. I let myself in. Then I stood just inside the front door. I don’t think I’d ever really thought about the cavernous spaces of my parents’ home before. The hallway alone was vast, a home to my father’s collection of antique Chinese artifacts. Midway down, placed in the exact center of a dark mahogany table—where no visitor could miss it—was the jewel of his collection: a huge mirrored black urn from the Qing Dynasty. A gold dragon with furious eyes snaked over its surface, a snarl on its strange, almost-human face. My mother once told me in a quiet aside that she thought the piece was grotesque, but my father cherished the thing. He’d been given it by his golf club as a show of appreciation, after he’d helped to fund their new club house. On either side of the hall, smaller, decorated porcelain vases and elaborate carved jade sculptures were arranged on polished half-moon tables between parallel sets of double doors, all of which opened on to other big rooms. A wide, carpeted staircase led to the upstairs.

I took off my shoes, dumped my bags and took out the raku pot from its layers of wrapping. Holding it in both hands, I walked barefoot through the empty hall, cool Carrara marble under my hot feet, my damp toes making prints on the tiles that just as quickly evaporated, fading into nothing. Well, that’s what you’d think, but actually they don’t. It turns out a partial print can be found months, even years later, if it’s on the right surface. Each naked footstep says I was here. Nothing ever totally disappears. There will always be a trace.

The house felt strangely silent after the constant ruckus of Robyn’s home, where there was always music playing, dogs barking, Mrs. Bee talking, chickens fussing, visitors scraping chairs on the flagstone floor. I went through the house, looking for someone, anyone. Everywhere smelt of furniture polish and air freshener. The lounge was empty. There was no one in the study. I went into the kitchen, then stopped. My father was standing with his back to me, oblivious to my presence, and for a moment I looked at him the same way I’d looked at strangers through the window of the train. I saw him open the freezer and tip a couple of ice cubes into a cut-glass tumbler already half filled with a honey-colored liqueur. Then he turned, raising the glass to his mouth and stopped when his eyes met mine.

“I didn’t know you were back.”

“I’ve only just arrived.” I stood for a beat. The pot felt heavy in my hands. “I’ve got something for you. For you and Mum.” I smiled and walked forward, holding the pot toward him. After a moment he put his glass on the kitchen island and took it from my hands into his.

“What is it?”

“It’s a pot.” I said, “It’s raku. You can put it in the middle of the table.”

My father glanced momentarily at the glass kitchen table, where peach-colored silk flowers and imitation sticks of hazel spilled out of a tall vase, then back at me.

“Your mother usually deals with that sort of thing.”

“I made it,” I said. “Robyn’s dad taught me. He’s a potter.”

“Christ, how do they afford the fees?”

“Robyn’s on a full scholarship.”

My father examined the pot, flipping it upside down to look at the underside. “That’s the intended look, is it? Rough.” He put it on the table. “Very good, Willa. Your mother’s digging or something, somewhere down the garden.”

I walked on to the terrace and hollered Hello and a voice shouted back I’m here. And then my mother was running toward me, opening her arms. I stepped into them and she held me for a long moment, her hands thick with peaty soil.

“I was in the greenhouse,” she said. “I didn’t hear the car.” When she drew back there were tears in her eyes. “Wonderful thing,” she said, “sweet, sweet girl. Come and tell me all about it.” Then she kissed my hair and together we walked back inside the house. I gave her the pot and, tears coming again to her eyes, she said it was the most beautiful thing she’d seen in her entire life.

***

We ate that evening around the long cherrywood table in the dining room. My parents sat together on one side, I sat opposite my father on the other. Unbalanced by our odd number, Laika’s absence felt like an invisible presence. My mother sat stiff and upright in her chair. Between the three of us sat a dish of the palest veal, served in a milky cream sauce.

Watching my father carefully, I said, “I can’t eat that.”

His face went very still. He picked his napkin out of his lap and, with a look of total absorption, folded it in half, then half again, until it made a neat, exact oblong. He placed it next to his plate. He met my eyes.

“I’m veggie now. I should have said.”

“When did this come about?”

“A while back.” Seconds ago.

“Is this some fancy idea you’ve picked up at the pottery?”

“No.”

My father tapped the napkin with his fingertips.

“And what, exactly,” he said, “are you trying to achieve?” I kept my eyes on his. A long moment seemed to pass. Eventually my father gave me a chilly smile. “Well, then,” he said, “you’d better make the most of the vegetables.”

***

My father dictated the meals we ate. He took charge of the grocery order himself, which he had delivered straight to the house. We had foie gras, oysters, lobster, suckling pig, fillet steak. My mother never knew what was coming; she just made meals out of whatever arrived. My father also took care of all the household bills. For anything else we needed, he gave her cash. My mother didn’t even have a bank account.

Laika couldn’t bear the idea of eating anything with a face. The truth is, she’d been stashing meat in a bag in her pocket for years, then taking it down the garden to give to the foxes. I knew it. My mother knew it. My father did not.

At least, he didn’t until the day he did, on a hot Sunday the previous June. My father was carving at the head of the table, putting strips of limp meat on our plates. Each wet slice oozed pink transparent juice. He liked his meat barely cooked, so we all had it rare.

I saw Laika looking at her glistening plate with disgust. She was trying to place her veg on the very edge, away from the fatty meat. My father watched her too, a slow look of comprehension dawning over his face. Mealtimes were often taken in silence: my father always said if ever he felt a sudden need to listen to women yakking, he would happily visit the typing pool at work. But he made the odd exception.

“Nice little spring lamb this one, right, Laika? Fresh as a daisy. Only yesterday, there she was, jumping around with all the other nice little lambs, when some ugly sod whips her off to a slaughterhouse and mashes up her brain with a bolt. And here she is on our plates.”

Laika didn’t look at him. She pushed up some peas with her fork. It was almost impossible to keep them from slipping back into the blood.

My father’s tone changed. “What in God’s name, Laika? You’re not a child.”

Laika’s eyes narrowed. She looked at her plate.