A little boy ran past, scattering breadcrumbs. Soon he was surrounded by an attentive, pecking flock of Temple doves. Jolaine heard the child’s sudden shout of delight as he spotted the bustle about the stalls in the forecourt. Chandlers were setting out trays of scented lotos candles; there were rainbow streamers, dragonfly paper kites, and the traditional striped lotos bonbons, their curved sugar petals flavoured with strawberry, lemon and spearmint.

All in readiness for the Day of the Dead.

‘Dame Tradescar?’

Jolaine looked up, shading her eyes against the morning sun, to try to make out who was addressing her. A young man stood before her, soberly attired, with a plain, pug-like face, rather endearingly ugly.

‘Do I know you, sieur?’

‘I don’t believe we have ever been introduced.’ The young man held out his hand. ‘Theophil Philemot. Of the University of Can Tabrien.’

Jolaine’s manners deserted her. She stared with hostility at the outstretched hand.

‘How did you know to find me here, hm? Did you follow me?’

Dr Philemot slowly let his hand drop; his face had flushed bright red.

‘It must be quite a wrench to relinquish the collection to another curator after so many years, Dame Tradescar. I must say I’d never have guessed you were eighty-one! Taking the waters must keep one youthful –’

‘Relinquish the collection?’ Jolaine interrupted. ‘Maybe I’m a little hard of hearing at my very great age – but did I hear you say I had relinquished the collection?’

‘Why else would I be here?’ Dr Philemot seemed flustered. ‘I was appointed – I understood – as you had retired –’

‘Retired?’

‘See for yourself. My letter of appointment.’ Dr Philemot rummaged in his pockets and brought out a letter which he put into Jolaine’s hands.

‘My dear young man, there has been a mistake. A clerical error. I have most definitely not retired, as you can see. I –’ Jolaine was seized with a sudden apprehension. She grabbed the canvas bag and started off across the Temple forecourt. Dr Philemot followed, moderating his lanky stride to Jolaine’s hobbling pace.

She was puffing for breath by the time she reached the Guildhall steps; halfway up, she could see that she was too late. The blinds were up and her sign had been removed. She fished out her key to unlock the door – and saw the shiny new lock and the pile of sawdust beneath, left by the Guildhall locksmith.

‘Ingrates!’ she cried, hurrying around to the back door. It too sported a new lock. Jolaine sank down on to the doorstep, defeated.

‘I deeply regret –’ began Dr Philemot, and then subsided as she flashed him a look that would have withered a braver man. ‘I will personally ensure that all your possessions are safely packaged up and taken to your lodgings.’

‘My life’s work,’ muttered Jolaine, not listening. ‘Fifty-five years of service to the city – and they throw me out into the gutter like a beggar!’