Early morning. Laura crunched across the gravel at the front of the house. To her left lay the orchard, to her right the avenue, curving away through the trees towards the road. Purple mist lingered on the grass and droplets hung from shrubs whose names she could not seem to learn. From every tree some bird sang. May Day. In four hours, her sister would be married.

Soon, she would be expected inside to fuss with hats and flowers but for now the day was hers. Wash your face in the dew, she remembered from school, it’s good for the complexion. After another sleepless night, she could use all the help she could get. With a glance over her shoulder, she stooped and ran her palms over the wetness. She trembled a little. Should have worn a fleece. She patted her face more vigorously than necessary. If it were not for damn Florian, she would be radiant.

The marquee nestled among the apple trees, its awning tinged pink with fallen blossoms. She had watched while the crew erected it the day before from her vantage point behind the rose bushes where she was pretending to read; it was a well-rehearsed choreography of poles and ropes which filled the orchard with unfamiliar clanks and bangs and agreeable bursts of a language she did not recognise. They were almost finished by the time her mother was able to get away from a last-minute seating crisis to supervise. There followed generous gesticulations and the frequent rising trill of her mother’s laughter before she bustled back indoors and the crew began to disassemble and reassemble the entire structure a foot closer to the house.

As soon as Laura stepped inside the marquee, the texture of her breath changed. One moment she was in the orchard, the next she was in this great white womb, a hushed universe of infinite possibility. That it had been created by the mere separation of so many cubic metres of air from the everyday world with fabric as flimsy as the lining of an egg seemed close to miraculous. It filled her with an overwhelming urge to dance. Fifth position, fourth, second, the muscle memory trained into her body when she was small was still there. She caught herself humming as she pointed and stepped: Offenbach’s Barcarolle.