On the basket’s cramped floor, Catherine struggled to deliver her child. Her leg shot out involuntarily as the pain hit. The stroke was a lucky one, catching her husband on the shin and snapping him out of his near panic.

‘What can I do, Catherine?’ he asked, keeping his voice steady, his tone light, as though giving birth in a falling balloon was the most natural thing in the world.

‘Hold me steady,’ replied Catherine through gritted teeth. ‘And give me your weight to push against.’

Declan did as he was told, calling over his shoulder to Vigny.

‘Steady. Keep her steady, man.’

‘Talk to the Almighty,’ retorted Vigny. ‘He is sending the gusts of wind, not I.’

They were in reasonably good order. The envelope was damaged, but holding her integrity. The Broekharts huddled on the floor, engrossed in the business of bringing life to the world.

They would have made it. Vigny was already imagining the first sip of the champagne he planned to order the moment his feet touched solid ground, when the air was split with a brace of gunshots. Both bullets pierced the balloon, and this time their effect was more severe. One passed straight through as its predecessor had, but the second clipped a seam, sending a rip racing to the crown of the balloon. Air and gas screamed from the distressed dirigible like a company of banshees.

Vigny pitched forward into the basket, bouncing off Declan Broekhart’s broad back. They were in God’s hands now. With the envelope so grievously ruptured, the Frenchman could not claim a single degree of control over the balloon’s path. They dropped rapidly, the deflating envelope flapping above them.

Catherine and Declan ignored their own fates, concentrating on their child’s.

‘I see the baby,’ said Declan, shouting into the wind. ‘Almost there, my darling.’