Back at the chalet, most of its occupants cast peculiar glances at her. That may have been because she was late for breakfast, or it may have been to do with the sleepy look she turned on Lindy when asked what she wanted on her toast. Lindy knew that look, and although she refrained from saying anything, she had her theories.
Aoife struggled to concentrate on eating her breakfast. Her thoughts kept straying. It would be better when she had told them all. But she wanted Vinzent to be there when she told them. And she didn’t want the children to be upset.
Her worries were short-lived. She should not focus on something as trivial as that. Trivialities and frivolities. There were other things with which to occupy her mind, surely, and she should just get on and think of them.
She could scarcely taste the jammy toast as she swallowed bite after bite, slice after slice. Her mind was turning over furiously, and so was her stomach, but at the same time both were completely empty – all but her heart, which was as full as the moon, so smooth and round and fair.
Only Daniel remembered that Aoife didn’t like plum jam, and especially not on toast, and he kept shooting inquiring glances at her throughout the meal, though he gleaned no certain knowledge from her behaviour. Aoife paid him no attention as she laid her toast down on the plate to sip her fruit juice. She replaced the glass on the table and looked down at her toast as if she had never seen such a queer phenomenon before in her life.
Unconsciously Aoife lifted her finger to stroke the place on her cheek where Vinzent had last kissed her. It was still tingling.