After a while I opened my eyes, and immediately closed them again when I saw a familiar face hovering over me. Then I opened them again. Not that familiar. It was Foggington-Smythe.

‘Good old Perry,’ I croaked.

‘Good,’ said good old Perry. ‘You know me. You’d better lie still, though; that was quite a crack on the head.’

‘She’s not got concussion.’ John was sitting on the deck next to me. He was rubbing his wrist and scowling like a gargoyle on a cathedral. ‘I think I broke my arm,’ he went on bitterly.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘You were the one who knocked me down. I should have known.’

‘I think I broke my arm,’ John repeated.

It was like old times, me bruised and prostrate, John whining. ‘God damn it, what’d you do that for?’ I demanded. I sat up and then grabbed the back of my head. ‘Ow.’

Perry put a manly arm around my shoulders and squeezed. ‘Ow,’ I said again.

‘I’ll carry you to the infirmary,’ Perry aunounced.

‘No, you won’t. I don’t have a concussion.’ I indicated John, who was still nursing his arm. ‘Carry him. I’ll take his feet. We can drop him, heavily, several times along the way.’

The corner of John’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing. I saw Mary, pressed up against the rail, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide and horrified. I saw the spattered dirt and fragments of pottery and the broken remains of the jasmine that had been in the pot. It had hit the deck in the exact spot where I would have been standing if someone hadn’t knocked me out of the way.

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘Vicky, don’t be angry with him.’ Mary knelt beside me and put her arm around me, from the other side. A pretty tableau we must have made. ‘It was my fault, I saw the flowerpot tottering on the edge and cried out. John acted instinctively, as any gentleman would.’

I glowered at John. His eyelids fell, but not in time to hide the fury that had darkened his eyes to sapphire. I wasn’t moved to apologize; at that point I wouldn’t have given him credit for good intentions if the testimonial had come from the pope. ‘Oh, right,’ I snarled. ‘Thanks a lot. My head hurts worse than it would have done if that little bitty pot had landed on it and I’ve got a bruise on my bum the size of a soup tureen.’

‘It might have hurt you badly, Vicky,’ Mary insisted.

I staggered to my feet, assisted by Perry. ‘Worse than this? Oh, well. I guess I’ll live. Excuse me. I’ve got to shower and change and find out who tried to brain me.’

‘You aren’t implying that it was deliberate, I hope,’ Perry exclaimed.

‘An unfortunate accident,’ said John. ‘Or a warning.’

‘Warning?’ Perry repeated, staring.

‘To enjoy life to the full while one can,’ John said sententiously. ‘“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.” This is a world fraught with peril; one never knows when the axe will fall. Life is at best – ’