‘If you can’t read my cards, can you at least explain to me how they work?’

Imelda stood and went to the dresser. From one of the shelves she took a small velvet bag containing her oldest and favourite pack of tarot cards. She cleared a space on the table and spread the cards out in front of her.

‘The cards must always be laid on cloth, not wood,’ she said, as Billie picked up several of the major Arcana to inspect their exquisite illustrations. ‘Each card has many different meanings depending on its context in relation to the question asked, and its position in the spread.’

Billie shook her head. ‘It sounds very complicated.’

Imelda picked up the cards and shuffled them. It was a reflex, as natural to her as breathing. They slid through her fingers and reassembled themselves as a pack as easily as a waterfall cascading into a pool.

‘You have to read the cards as a language,’ she explained, ‘and each spread tells a story.’

Billie sipped her vodka. ‘And can anyone learn to read them?’

‘Anyone can learn the meanings of each card, and the purpose and configuration of different spreads, but not everyone is able to interpret the stories that they tell. It’s a gift that not everyone possesses, and it takes many years of practice and experience to perfect.’

‘Did your mother teach you?’

‘My mother and my grandmother. And my grandmother and her mother taught my mother. It’s been passed on this way from generation to generation for many years.

‘And who will you pass it on to?’

Imelda sighed. She had broken the chain. ‘I tried to teach my niece – my eldest brother’s only daughter – but she had no patience. No love for the language. But perhaps one day her daughter will want to learn.’ Her great niece was her only hope.

‘Did you never want children of your own?’

It was a loaded question and Imelda thought carefully before answering.

‘This life – my life – has been wonderful. It’s been full, rich and sometimes astonishing. I’ve had the privilege of helping so many people, but often what I do, and how much it takes from me, leaves little time or energy for anything else. I’ve had relationships, romances, flirtations, even grand passions. But I’ve never been able to commit to marriage, and perhaps that made me afraid of what sort of mother I might be.’

‘Maybe you just never met the right man.’

Oh, I did, thought Imelda, but she kept it to herself.

‘And what about you, Billie?’

‘Ha! I tried marriage once. But in the end, I didn’t like it much. Perhaps I chose the wrong husband. But kids? I’ve never felt strongly one way or the other. I’ve never heard that clock that everyone talks about ticking. So maybe motherhood wasn’t meant for me.’