The following morning Imelda woke up with a thick head and a skittish heart. She felt for the chain around her neck and as she caught the moon and stars in her fingers, she smiled. It had been an extraordinary birthday, and she permitted herself the luxury of a few moments’ lie-in to rerun yesterday’s events in her head. Her twin brothers, Paul and Peter, had remembered to send her a card from New York where together they ran an Irish bar. Her eldest brother, Mark, had bought her a lava lamp for her bedroom, and Damian, the only brother who had joined their father’s business, had bought her perfume that smelled of old ladies, but was in a very pretty bottle. She had been touched and genuinely surprised by the kindness of her friends and colleagues at Larkins. The thought of Cillian on the doorstep bearing gifts and grinning with infuriating nonchalance made her stomach flip. And the fact that her mother had invited him was both astonishing and suspicious. She had questions to ask Shunty-Mae about that, but they would have to wait until this evening or else she would be late for work. She also had some questions for Cillian. She believed his story about having to fix the bike but what had Vivienne been doing there? She seemed to be intent on creating the impression that she and Cillian were a couple – something that Cillian had already denied. But if he genuinely wasn’t interested in her, why did he tolerate her proprietorial attentions and her ridiculous femme fatale demeanour? Imelda had wanted to ask him last night, preferably before she had allowed him over the threshold, but Shunty-Mae had interrupted them.

And then there was the vardo. Imelda couldn’t quite believe that it was actually hers. She knew how precious it was to Shunty-Mae; not simply as an object, but as a Romany reliquary for all the memories of her travelling life. It was a priceless gift.