When the copper bowl was placed on the stove, she asked them to hold out the hand they favoured. Both offered their left. The old lady dipped a spoon into the melted candlewax, let it cool for a second, and then poured the contents first into Zeno’s palm, and then into Phyllis’s. Zeno looked at Phyllis, Phyllis looked at her palm, and Manushie looked at the proceedings, blinked and closed his eyes.

As the wax solidified it curled up at the edges, taking the shape of a shell. The dukkerina took one of the lit candles and set it directly in front of her. From her skirts she pulled a device like a pair of chopsticks, joined at one end, which she used to lift the wax matrix from Phyllis’s hand. She then repeated the procedure with Zeno’s.

“My, my,” she clucked, as she placed the imprints together and lifted them to the flame.

After a time she moved the candle so that Zeno and Phyllis could see the doubled outline for themselves. Neither of them knew what to look for, yet could not miss the fact that the lines of both impressions appeared to complement and complete each other; the map of their destinies could be read as one.

“Please take each other’s ghost palm and roll it into a ball while I talk to you.”

She poured more liquid from the teapot into their cups. Phyllis did not know what it was, but it smelled of lavender and was pre-sweetened with honey. Zeno later told her it was a herb called Echinacea mixed with lavender flowers. As Phyllis rubbed Zeno’s wax, it slipped between her hands and fell onto the table. The dukkerina picked it up and returned it to her. While Zeno moulded Phyllis’s imprint into a ball, it crackled as though giving off sparks.

Both listened as the old lady began to explain. “This is a fine, strange thing we have here, very . . .” She paused, trying to find the right word in a language which she probably didn’t speak too well. “. . . rare—of the first water.” She moved her glance to Phyllis. “Have you heard of the twin soul, docha?” she asked, peering into Phyllis’s eyes, which were inky in the candlelight. Phyllis immediately turned to Zeno. “I did not ask him,” the dukkerina continued.

The theme of Isolde’s ‘Love Death’ floated into Phyllis’s head, but it did not occur to her that the music was a response to the question.