“Look mummy! There are houses under the water!”

Larry is standing by the edge of the river, pointing. The water is perfectly still. The sunlight is dancing with the leaves and the sheen of the river, sending ripples of shadow and light across Larry’s skin as he bends towards the riverbank.

“Can we go in the houses? Can we knock their doors?”

It’s like a dream. A dream inside an Escher painting, or Alice through the Looking Glass.

“It’s reflections,” I say, thinking this will break the spell.

“I know,” he says, chuckling, “but can we still knock their doors?”