They sat naked outside on the steps of the vardo, wrapped in a blanket and blissfully exhausted. The night was balmy and still, and Grisha lay a few feet in front of them cooling his belly on the grass.

‘Imelda.’ Cillian trailed his finger lazily along the gold chain that he had hung around her neck and then let his hand slip lower, caressing her soft, warm flesh. ‘Your name suits you.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because you’ve a rare talent for melding.’

Imelda laughed and pinched his thigh. ‘Is that what you call it?’

‘I’d say you and I were pretty well melded now, wouldn’t you?’

She kissed him in reply and then apologised as he winced.

‘We’ll have to stop kissing if your lip’s ever going to heal.’

‘Never!’ he replied, kissing her back, but very gently. ‘Let’s go inside. I need to lie down. I was battered and bruised enough from last night, but now you’ve finished me off completely. Not that I’m complaining,’ he added with a slow smile.

As they lay staring at the painted patterns on the ceiling of the vardo, thoughts of the world outside their enchanted cocoon began to trespass.

‘What are you going to do about Vivienne?’ Imelda finally asked.

Cillian rolled over to face her and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

‘I have to go away.’

Imelda frowned. ‘Isn’t that a bit drastic?’

‘No, I mean I have to go away for a few days. When I get back, I’ll speak to her.’

‘Where are you going?’ Imelda didn’t want him to leave her for a few hours, let alone a few days.

‘I’ve a funeral to go to back home. I got a telegram yesterday.’

‘On top of everything else! I’m sorry. Was it someone close?’

Cillian laughed. ‘No need to be sorry. It was my great-granny Fionnuala who popped her clogs. She was ninety-seven years young, drank poitín from her own still, smoked a pipe and lived off black pudding and colcannon. She’d a grand life and died, happy as Larry, playing poker with a couple of her gentleman friends.’

‘When are you going?’

Cillian checked his watch. It was past midnight. ‘Tomorrow. Marty wasn’t happy but he could hardly say no to a funeral. I’ll be back Friday at the latest. You could come with me – meet the family!’

Imelda was tempted. Fionnuala’s funeral sounded like it might be fun if it were any reflection of the woman herself. ‘Maybe not this time. But one day – definitely. I’d love to see Roaringwater Bay and that white beacon of yours.’

‘We’ll go to Baltimore for our honeymoon then!’

‘You haven’t even asked me to marry you yet,’ Imelda joked.

‘I don’t reckon I’ll have much choice if your dad finds me in here!’