The bride looked every inch a princess in her fairy-tale dress as she glided down the aisle on the arm of her proud and distinguished father. Imelda stared blankly at the television screen, registering only moving images rather than the wedding of the Queen’s only daughter to Captain Mark Phillips. There would be no wedding for Imelda now. No dress, no flowers, no fairy tale. No groom. On the day that Cillian should have returned, Imelda wore her dread, heavy and cold, like wet clothing. She didn’t go to the booth or Larkins, but instead waited with Grisha in the vardo for the sky to fall. Her fingers pitter-pattered against the moon and stars on the chain around her neck – a fretful, capricious rhythm like the beat of a failing heart – marking time until the moment that she knew what she knew. Until the premonition was petrified into irrefutable truth by indisputable facts. Her mother brought her food that she didn’t eat, and tea, which she drank. With vodka. But Shunty-Mae made no attempt to reassure or console her. She knew better than to raise false hopes. Only Alexei tried to make believe that all might still be well.

‘He’s been held up, that’s all. He’ll be back soon enough and then you can scold him to your heart’s content.’ But then Alexei didn’t possess the gift that could sometimes be an affliction. The weekend passed with no word. Alexei suggested that they try to call the pub from where Cillian had phoned. Imelda ignored him, Shunty-Mae shushed him but Alexei tried anyway. The phone was out of order.