‘The Roc e Mare marina,’ he explained. ‘An old, aborted project that has been taken back out of its cardboard box. It took me years to be able to buy that land. It will provide thirty permanent jobs once the work is finished. Three times that in the summer.’

Cervone stroked Valentine’s cheek.

‘This isn’t an empty promise, there’ll be a job for you. You deserve it, you’re an exile too. And not just any old exile. You’re the heiress.’ He came close to her ear, almost whispering. ‘And I promise, this time your great-grandfather won’t say anything about it.’

Valentine tried to move away, but he held her back with a slight pressure on her shoulder.

‘Everyone here is afraid of Cassanu. Even today. He’s the boss.’

At last he let her go, then blew on his hands and wiggled his fingers as if scattering magic dust before continuing.

‘Everyone here is afraid of Cassanu Idrissi. Everyone but me. Because let me tell you something: I’ve cast a spell on your Papé. My will is his command.’

~

The viscous line of eye-liner had almost disappeared down the plughole, leaving only the faintest trace, like the trail left by a slug. Clotilde tried to get a grip on herself. Supporting herself on the rim of the basin, she could see Orsu’s reflection in the mirror as he worked behind her. After cleaning the toilets further away, he resumed his ritual.

Dropping the dirty mop-head into the foaming water and taking out the one that had been soaking there for several minutes. Squeezing it out with his one good hand and pressing it between his knees. Fixing it on to the mop handle.

Clotilde closed her eyes.

The image hadn’t gone away. It was there, very familiar: a bucket, a mop, a wet floor.

Except that it wasn’t the shower block of the campsite, it was the kitchen of the house in Tourny, in Normandy, where Clotilde had spent the first fifteen years of her life.

Except that it wasn’t Orsu who was leaning on his mop-handle, it was her mother.

Palma had taught them her technique as if it were an old family secret. She’d taught her son Nicolas, her husband, even though he wasn’t very concerned with household tasks, and her daughter, Clotilde. Her.

Using two mop-heads to clean, always leaving one to soak while you were making the other one dirty. And then swapping them, to avoid having to squeeze the mop until the black liquid turned pale grey. An old technique inherited from who knows where which had become a family habit, the natural way of doing things, almost a ritual.

Orsu knew that ritual; he practised it. Clotilde opened her eyes and forced herself to think rationally.