‘Seems we do,’ the other said. ‘Mind if I fall into step?’

‘Not at all,’ said Moody. ‘I shall be glad of the company. Walter Moody is my name. Walter.’

‘Paddy Ryan,’ said the other. ‘You got a Scottish tongue on you, Walter Moody.’

‘I cannot deny it,’ said Moody.

‘Never had any trouble with a Scot.’

‘And I have never quarrelled with an Irishman.’

‘That makes one of you,’ said Paddy Ryan, with a grin. ‘But it’s the truth: I never had any trouble with a Scot.’

‘I’m very glad of it.’

They walked on in silence for a time.

‘I guess we’re both a long way away from home,’ said Paddy Ryan presently.

‘I’m a long way from where I was born,’ said Moody, squinting across the breakers to the open sea.

‘Well,’ said Paddy Ryan, ‘if home can’t be where you come from, then home is what you make of where you go.’

‘That is a good motto,’ Moody said.

Paddy Ryan nodded, seeming pleased. ‘Are you fixing to stay in this country, then, Walter? After you’ve dug yourself a patch, and made yourself a pile?’

‘I expect my luck will decide that question for me.’

‘Would you call it lucky to stay, or lucky to go?’

‘I’d call it lucky to choose,’ said Moody—surprising himself, for that was not the answer he would have given, three months prior.

Paddy Ryan looked at him sidelong. ‘How about we share our stories? Make the road a little shorter that way.’

‘Our stories? Do you mean our histories?’

‘Ay—or the stories you’ve heard, or whatever you like.’

‘All right,’ said Moody, a little stiffly. ‘Do you want to go first, or shall I?’

‘You go first,’ said Paddy Ryan. ‘Give us a tale, and spin it out, so we forget about our feet, and we don’t notice that we’re walking.’

Moody was silent for a time, wondering how to begin. ‘I am trying to decide between the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,’ he said presently. ‘I am afraid my history is such that I can’t manage both at once.’

‘Hi—no need for the truth at all,’ said Paddy Ryan. ‘Who said anything about the truth? You’re a free man in this country, Walter Moody. You tell me any old rubbish you like, and if you string it out until we reach the junction at Kumara, then I shall count it as a very fine tale.’

SUN & MOON IN CONJUNCTION (NEW MOON)

In which Mrs. Wells makes two very interesting discoveries.

When Lydia Wells returned to the House of Many Wishes a little after seven o’clock, she was informed by the maid that Anna Wetherell had received a caller in her absence: Mr. Crosbie Wells, who had returned unexpectedly after many months of absence in the Otago highlands. Mr. Wells had an appointment of some kind upon George-street that evening, the maid reported, but he had left with the assurance that he would return the next morning, in the hope of securing an interview with his wife.

Mrs. Wells received this news thoughtfully. ‘How long did you say he stayed, Lucy?’

‘Two hours, ma’am.’

‘From when until when?’

‘Three until five.’

‘And Miss Wetherell …?’

‘I haven’t disturbed her,’ said Lucy. ‘She hasn’t rung the bell since he left, and I didn’t trouble them when he was here.’

‘Good girl,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘Now, if Crosbie does come back tomorrow, and if, for whatever reason, I am not here, you show him to Miss Wetherell’s room as before.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And you’d better put in an order at the wine and spirit merchant first thing to-morrow. A mixed crate should do us fine.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Here’s a pie for our supper. See that it’s heated through, and then send it up. We’ll eat at eight, I think.’

‘Very good, ma’am.’

Lydia Wells arranged her almanacs and star charts in her arms, peered critically into the glass hanging in the hall, and then ascended the stairs to Anna’s room, where she knocked briskly, and opened the door without waiting for an answer.

‘Is it not better—to be fed, and dry, and clean?’ she said, in lieu of a greeting.

Anna had been sitting in the window box. She leaped up when Mrs. Wells strode into the room, blushing deeply, and said, ‘Very much better, ma’am. You are much too kind.’

‘There is no such thing as too much kindness,’ declared Mrs. Wells, depositing her books upon the table next to the settee. She glanced quickly at the sideboard, making a mental tally of the bottles, and then turned back to Anna, and smiled. ‘What fun we shall have this evening! I am going to draw your chart.’

Anna nodded. Her face was still very red.

‘I draw a chart each time I make a new acquaintance,’ Mrs. Wells went on. ‘We shall have a glorious good time, finding out what is in store for you. And I have brought home a pie for our supper: the best that can be had in all Dunedin. Isn’t that fine?’

‘Very fine,’ said Anna, dropping her gaze to the floor.

Mrs. Wells seemed not to notice her discomfort. ‘Now,’ she said, sitting down at the settee, and drawing the largest book towards her. ‘What is the date of your birthday, my dear?’

Anna told her.

Mrs. Wells drew back; she placed her hand over her heart. ‘No!’ she said.

‘What?’

‘How terribly odd!’

‘What’s odd?’ said Anna, looking frightened.

‘You have the same birthday as a young man I just …’ Lydia Wells trailed off, and then said, suddenly, ‘How old are you, Miss Wetherell?’

‘One-and-twenty.’

‘One-and-twenty! And you were born in Sydney?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Right in town?’

‘Yes.’

Lydia Wells’s expression was marvellous. ‘You don’t happen to know the precise hour of your birth, do you?’

‘I believe I was born at night,’ said Anna, blushing again. ‘That’s the way my mother tells it. But I don’t know the precise hour.’

‘It is astonishing,’ cried Mrs. Wells. ‘I am astonished! The exact same birthday! Perhaps even beneath the very same sky!’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Anna.

In a hushed tone of conspiracy, Lydia Wells explained. She spent her afternoons at a hotel upon George-street, where she gave astral predictions for a small fee. Her customers, for the most part, were young men about to make their fortunes on the goldfield. That afternoon—while Anna was enjoying her bath—she had given a reading to just such a man. The querent (so she described him) was also one-and-twenty, and had also been born in Sydney, upon the very same day as Anna!

Anna could not make sense of Mrs. Wells’s exhilaration. ‘What does it mean?’ she said.

‘What does it mean?’ Lydia Wells’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘It means that you may share a destiny, Miss Wetherell, with another soul!’

‘Oh,’ Anna said.

‘You may have an astral soul-mate, whose path through life perfectly mirrors your own!’

Anna was not as impressed by this as Mrs. Wells might have hoped. ‘Oh,’ she said again.

‘The phenomenon is very rare,’ said Mrs. Wells.

‘But I had a cousin with the same birthday as me,’ Anna said, ‘and we can’t have shared a destiny, because he died.’

‘It is not enough to share a day,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘You must be born at the exact same minute—and at the exact same latitude and longitude: that is, under the exact same sky. Only then will your charts be identical. Even twins, you see, are born some minutes apart, and in the interim the skies have shifted a little, and the patterns have changed.’

‘I don’t know the exact minute I was born,’ Anna said, frowning.

‘Nor did he,’ said Mrs. Wells, ‘but I shall lay my money upon the fact that your charts are identical—for we know already that the two of you have something in common.’

‘What?’

‘Me,’ said Mrs. Wells, triumphantly. ‘On the twenty-seventh of April, 1865, you both arrived in Dunedin, and you both had your natal charts drawn by Mrs. Crosbie Wells!’

Anna brought her hand up to her throat. ‘What?’ she whispered. ‘Mrs.—what?’