I looked, and saw the palms and the delicate fingertips. And yes, I did see.

‘They are much smaller, of course, to fit the size of this sculpture, but I have compared them to the Cristo’s hands, and I am convinced they are identical. I will show you the photographic evidence later, but for me, there is no doubt. Especially as it is the very gardens where Izabela told Loen she met Laurent for the last time here in Paris.’

I looked up at Izabela and wondered how she would feel if she could see how she’d been once again immortalised; no longer the innocent virgin as in the first sculpture, but subtly, sensuously, by a man who had truly loved her. And a father who, through the hands of fate, had also been able to know and love the daughter they had conceived together.

Floriano placed an arm around my shoulder as we eventually walked away. ‘Maia, we are not saying goodbye here like Bel and Laurent once had to. And you must never believe we will. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, then we can leave Paris. And one day,’ he whispered into my ear, ‘I will write a beautiful book as my tribute to you.’

I watched Floriano’s face as we sped across Lake Geneva towards my home. Even though it felt to me as though I had been away for many months, in reality, it was only three weeks. The lake was busy with tiny craft, their sails fluttering in the breeze like angels’ wings. The day was still very warm, even though it was past six in the evening, and the sun hung clear and golden above us in a cloudless blue sky. As I saw the familiar wall of trees in the distance, I felt as though I had lived another lifetime since I’d left Atlantis.

Christian steered the boat in to the pier, secured it and then helped us both out. I saw Floriano reach for our luggage, and Christian stop him. ‘No, monsieur. I’ll bring those up to the house for you later.’

‘Meu Deus!’ he commented as we walked across the lawns. ‘You truly are a princess returning to your castle,’ he teased me.

Up at the main house I introduced Floriano to Marina, who did her best to hide her surprise at the fact my guest was a ‘he’ not a ‘she’. Then I took him on a tour of the house and gardens, and through his eyes I saw the beauty of my home anew.

As the sun began to dip below the mountains on the other side of the lake, we took a glass of white wine for me and a beer for Floriano and I led him down to Pa Salt’s secret garden by the water’s edge. It was a riot of July colour, each plant and flower at the peak of its beauty. It reminded me today of a famous garden I’d seen once somewhere in the south of England when I had visited it with Jenny and her parents: everything laid out so perfectly, its intricate parterres lined by immaculately clipped box hedges.