We sat together on the bench under the gorgeous, fragrant rose arbour overlooking the water – the spot where so many times in the past I’d found my father deep in contemplation – and toasted each other.

‘Here’s to your last night in Europe,’ I said, with a slight catch in my voice. ‘And to the success of your book. As it’s already number six on the bestseller list in its first week in France, it might go to number one.’

‘You never know.’ Floriano shrugged casually, although I knew he’d been overwhelmed by the positive reaction from the French media and the bookshops. ‘And of course, it’s all due to the wonderful translation. What is that?’ he asked me, pointing to the centre of the terrace.

‘It’s called an armillary sphere. I think I told you that it appeared in the garden soon after Pa Salt died. It has all of our names engraved on a band and a set of coordinates for each sister. And an inscription written in Greek,’ I explained.

Floriano stood up and wandered over to inspect it. ‘Here you are.’ He indicated one of the bands. ‘And what does your inscription read?’

‘Never let fear decide your destiny.’ I gave him an ironic smile.

‘I think your father knew you well,’ he said, turning his attention back to the armillary sphere. ‘And what about this band? There’s nothing on it.’

‘No. Pa named us all after The Seven Sisters stars, but even though we all expected one more to arrive, she didn’t. So there have only ever been six of us. And now,’ I mused sadly, ‘there’ll never be a seventh.’

‘It’s a beautiful parting gift to give his daughters. Your father sounds as if he was an interesting man,’ Floriano said, sitting down again next to me.

‘He was, even though since his death I’ve realised we girls knew so little about him. He was an enigma,’ I shrugged. ‘And admittedly, I keep asking myself what he was doing in Brazil when I was born. And why it was me he chose.’

‘That’s a little like asking why a soul chooses its parents, or why it was you who was chosen to translate my book, which is where it all began for us. Life is random, Maia, a lottery.’

‘Maybe it is, but do you believe in fate?’ I asked him.

‘A month ago, I’d almost certainly have said no. But I’ll let you into a little secret,’ he said, taking my hand. ‘Just before I met you, it was the anniversary of my wife’s death and I was feeling very low. Remember, like you, I’d been alone for a long time. I remember standing on the edge of my roof terrace, and gazing up at the Cristo and the stars above it. I called out to Andrea and asked her to send someone to me who would give me a reason to go on. A day later, my publisher passed on your email, asking me to take care of you while you were in Rio. So yes, Maia, I believe you were sent to me. And I to you.’ He squeezed my hand, then in the way he always did when a moment had become too serious, lightened the mood by saying, ‘Although having seen the way you live, I’m not expecting you back at my tiny apartment any time soon.’