‘Yes, but I can’t explain it.’

‘The side lengths of each tray are in a proportion to each other which accords with the golden ratio; that is, the long side is one point six one eight times the length of the short side.’

‘Where on earth did you find this?’

‘Ha!’ He was delighted by my amazement. ‘One doesn’t go to a merchant to find a collector’s cabinet with compartments arranged in a Fibonacci sequence. I had it made, to a precise set of specifications. There is a convict artisan in Newcastle named William Temple, who shares my fascination for the ratio. To be honest with you I think he is more occultist than cabinet maker. The inlays are rosewood, but that is only an aesthetic flourish. The timber itself, you will be interested to know, is red cedar, Toona ciliata, from the coastal forests of our colony.’

Cedar, the timber that the Hindoo traded. More coincidences: I had lost the thread of his explanation. I felt tired now, less enamoured of all this clever talk. But he was not done.

‘Red cedar has insect repellent properties, you see. Which means I can put dried specimens in there without fear of infestation. That will become more important once we focus our efforts on birds and marine plants.’ He cast a quick look at the slow dance of the floating objects. ‘I do not wish to have all of my soft specimens in fluid.’

I yawned, and failed to conceal it.

‘Of course’—a flash of chagrin—‘how rude of me. You must be exhausted. Please, Miss Grayling, allow me to walk you to your cabin.’

As he spoke, he rapidly closed the various compartments he had shown me. When the two leaves of the lid were brought together, I saw that the top surface was vividly painted with countless fishes: a large shark across the top, followed by a schnapper, a dory, salmon and skate and many other smaller fishes that may have been painted from life, or equally, figments of my tired mind.

So the moment passed, and I would spend the night alone in my cabin.

But not asleep. The dance between us, our unspoken pas de deux, had not been brought to a stop by his agency or mine. He was angling, it seemed to me. Coiling around me like one of his spirals, and he was unhurried about that.