Lucy watched her father examine the contents of every cupboard in the kitchen, his bowl and favourite spoon – not too rounded, not too pointy – ready on the napkin beside it. He'd started on the knee-high cupboard next to the fridge, emptying it of corn flakes and wheaty bricks and Frosted Tadpoles while each breath got shorter and huffier. He'd tried the cupboard next to it, the eye level cupboards and the pantry.
She spooned the last of her porridge down and sat back, the spoon clattering against the stoneware bowl and briefly drowning the Justine Briber show on Radio Two. "Jasfoup ate the last bowl of you chocolate rice." She smiled smugly at the demon, who let out a heavy sigh.
"It's true. I couldn't resist them. I'm sorry."
"You might have mentioned it before I turned the kitchen inside out." Harold opened the packet of Frosted Tadpoles and filled his bowl.
Jasfoup leaned over and whispered to Lucy. "I ate the last bowl but you ate the other twenty, didn't you?"
Lucy smiled. She was, everybody agreed, the very picture of five year old innocence.