Irene stabs the fork a little too forcefully and winces at the shrill scrape cutlery.

“Here let me help.” Wendy leans over and cuts out a neat square of lasagne before plopping it onto Irene’s plate. “Did you have a bad day at work?” Her knife gleams in the candlelight and Irene’s grip tightens on her fork.

“It was just a regular day at the office. Spent most of it doing boring admin stuff. The usual things sweetheart.” Irene smiles and uses her fork carefully prods her lasagne into chewable portions. “How was the library?”

“Same old, same old. Emailed everyone with overdue books. Got yelled at by people who didn’t want to pay the fine. Boring librarian stuff.” Wendy puts the knife down.

“You haven’t been down into the basement for a while. Aren’t you afraid you’ll get rusty?” Irene relaxes her grip.

“I come from a family of archers. I learnt to shoot before I leart to talk. No chance of me getting rusty at all.”

Irene swallows her mouthful and raises and eyebrow. “Your entire family shoots?” That is an unusual hobby. And slightly worrying.

“It’s a tradition, babe. Great-great-great-great-grandad or someone shot a tiger or a wolf something and saved great-great-great-great-grandma’s life and it’s pretty much been a rite of passage for all the Sons since. At least that’s what my parents tell me.”

“That’s some tradition.”

“Tell me about it. Oh, how did you know by the way?”

“Know what?”