‘Do you believe that a man turned water into wine?’ she replied. ‘That he spat in the eyes of the blind to cure them? That he could walk on the surface of the sea?’

I paused. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, which was a startling admission.

‘I do,’ Margaritte replied. ‘I know it’s possible.’

In the light of day, I believed that the creases on my palm signified nothing more than the way I clenched my fist. The outcome of the cards was as arbitrary as the roll of a dice. I was convinced by the messages only in the moment they were delivered, fleetingly. Once the reading was over, after Margaritte had knocked on the deck to rid it of me, walked three times round the room anti-clockwise and opened up the curtains, I returned to the idea that it was all silly, childish, harmless.

But, the Knight of Cups …

‘Ha!’ I managed in response to her prediction. I tried for lightness. ‘Well, if the sky falls in!’

Margaritte tapped out a thoughtful rhythm on the shoulder of the Knight’s horse with a crooked finger, her nail thick and painted. I didn’t want to look at him, that warrior in his winged helmet, golden chalice in hand. He was false hope.

‘What are you saying – that I’m about to fall in love with Saul Cooper?’ I gave a short laugh. ‘Because he’s the only one left and he’s old! Almost forty!’

Margaritte did not smile.

‘He’s come to us reversed,’ she said, nodding sagely. This card was upside-down beside the others. ‘He’s a charming fraud sometimes, our Knight of Cups. A man who can’t separate truth from the lies he tells himself.’

I waited for more.

She shook her head, shook away her doubt. ‘But he’s between two cards of good fortune so my instinct is to trust him.’ At last, she smiled. ‘Let’s see who the August ship brings in, shall we?’

So, I became optimistic, buoyant, despite all efforts not to be. I thought idly of making a visit to the Customs House. Not to ask Saul Cooper for his hand in marriage – the mere idea of him, those small, ferrety features, his particular aroma of fishermen’s mints and unwashed armpits – but I would go to him and request a look at August’s incoming passenger list.

Again, my nerve deserted me. Or rather, rationality won out. Saul would take huge delight in my enquiry. He’d wear that thin-lipped smirk, the one that suggested he had material on you, pictures, things he would share on men’s nights at the Anchor without hesitation – because it was said that he was the keeper of a stash of magazines, the odd VHS from the mainland, things that men liked to look at, boys, those who were willing to risk God’s wrath.