On her unchanging walk Villana passed through the abbey, and by the holy well. She climbed through woodland to emerge at the foot of a grassy hillock, and then climbed on, to its summit and the ring of slender stones on the burial ground that pre-dated by centuries the achievement of the monks. From here she could see the sea again, the grey shadow of Carriglas, and in the greater distance the clutter of the town. After she had stood for a moment she picked some sea-pinks. They grew differently on the island, deeper in colour than she had ever seen them elsewhere, and seeming to go well with the black rock of its promontories and the stunted little oaks of its windswept cliffs. On maps she had seen that the island was shaped like a snail, curling in the grey-green water, at its heart this grave where kings were laid. She sat on the grass with her back against one of the standing stones, and felt in the pocket of her dress for her cigarettes and lighter. Smoking, she gave herself up to the warmth of the sun on her skin and the shimmer of the distant water. The sky was cloudless; there was no wind.

The nursery-schoolroom was to become her married bedroom. The butterflies had been swept up from the floor, the windows thrown open, the curtains taken down and washed. Her regiment of dolls remained because Finnamore had protested that it was a shame to see them go, but the table where she had once sat over her lessons, close to the fire, had been taken from the room. A bed had been set up between the fireplace and the windows; wardrobe, dressing-table, wash-stand and a chest of drawers had been carried in.

Other rooms were being made ready for the guests who would stay at Carriglas for the wedding. It was ages since so many visitors’ rooms had been prepared. Once upon a time, before her own time, the Viceroy had spent ten days of August at Carriglas, a tradition that had passed from one Viceroy to the next. Less eminent visitors had stayed for months.