When the performance was over, Ruby went off to introduce the next act and Imelda made her way to the bar where Jeanie had found her friend. They were talking to a striking-looking man with chiselled cheekbones, lips that were almost too full and a deep scar on his chin. His eyes were the blue of a winter sky on a fine day. He was holding a pint of cider, and on the back of his hand was another scar – older, like a puckered silver spider. As Imelda approached, he held her in his steady gaze and smiled. A smile that would break hearts wherever he went and stirred emotions in Imelda that she would much rather have left to languish in peace. She ordered a whiskey and soda.

‘This one’s on me, if you’ll allow it.’

The man passed some coins across the bar before she had a chance to answer. He offered her his hand. On his middle finger was a large silver ring in the form of a skull.

‘I’m Cillian Byrne. Soon to be an employee here at Larkins along with the lovely Jeanie. She’s been telling me you have the gift. That’s a rare thing when it’s genuine.’

Imelda wasn’t sure if he was baiting her or not. She took his hand. It was rough and warm, and his grip was strong.

‘Will you do me the honour of a reading sometime?’ he asked her.

‘It would be my pleasure.’ Imelda loved a challenge.

Vivienne was evidently growing tired of being ignored. She placed an immaculately manicured hand on Cillian’s arm and coyly waved her empty glass.

‘A lady can get very thirsty around here,’ she purred.

Cillian took her glass.

‘Same again?’

‘Yes please, darling.’

‘Jeanie – what about you?’

‘Can I have a Coke please?’

Vivienne turned to Imelda. ‘Cillian rides the Wall of Death on his motorcycle. Doesn’t that sound thrilling?’

Imelda wasn’t surprised. Whatever he thought about her gift, it told her that his was for danger. He had a wild energy about him that pulled her in even though she knew it would be safer to keep her distance.

‘He certainly seems like a man it would be interesting to get to know,’ she replied.

Vivienne glanced across at Cillian who was chatting to Jeanie and the barman, and then leaned in closer to Imelda.

‘Well, don’t go getting ideas into your head about that,’ she warned, fixing Imelda with an icy glare. ‘He’s spoken for. And just remember, gypsy lady, I’m a paying guest here – you’re just staff.’